hungryraven-blog

[hungryraven-blog]

Pictures, Pictures...

I came out of the store with these delicious cookies when I went shopping with my husband, daughter, and mother-in-law. We began heading to the car to go home when my mother-in-law informed us she was staying behind.  Some friends had called and said they were there. She wanted to meet up with them. So, we left and drove her car home. Parking on our street, we gathered all of our goodies along with my purse and daughter.

Walking to our building, we went over what we bought. We had become separated in the store and consequently checked out separately. So, we didn’t see what each other bought.

“I saw some German pickles. They might have been gurken.  The label said something like “beghurken” on it. I wasn’t sure.”

“Did you get them?” He stopped and looked me right in the eye.

“I wanted to ask you.” I saw his disappointment. “Say, what’d you buy? This bag is ridiculously heavy.”

“Nothing. Why didn’t you buy the pickles?” came the reply.

“I was not sure if they were dill or sweet. What’d you do?” I held up the heavy bag. I knew something was up.  “Out with it.”

“Oh, nothing. I bought some fish, gum, a non-stick pan, and-”

“A what?! You bought another non-stick pan?” I mean, really. How many non-stick pans do you need? How many can we store? If they keep losing their non-stickiness, why keep buying them?!

“The white one has lost its non-stickiness.”

“When will you learn?” I shook my head. “Well, what color did you get? Did you at least get a nice color?”

“Great! Now, I want pickles. Why didn’t you just get them?”

“Don’t change the subject!” A color debate quickly followed. This dominated the conversation. Thus, the cookies I bought took a backseat.  Coming home so late, I was all about dinner, bath, and bed for the little one. I tried the cookies the next day and I discovered they were absolutely delicious chocolate-chocolate sandwich cookies. The day after that I told our playgroup moms about these cookies I found. I tried describing them. It was rather difficult. The closest description I could think of was “like a big, as big as the top-of-my-coffee-mug big, sandwich cookie like an Oreo (but not an Oreo) with chocolate frosting in the middle”. To say that was a horrible description would be the understatement of the year. I knew it was an inadequate description.

Leaving the playgroup, I have a habit of going to the grocery store. There are two just around the corner from where we meet. It seems like a waste of time to go all of the way there and not go to the store as well.  I couldn’t remember what I needed so I browsed a while. Before checking out with a few odds and ends, I glanced over to the left and spotted the cookies. Without so much as a second thought, I whipped out my phone and snapped a picture:

“No photos!”

I looked up. A security guard was shaking his head. I wrinkled my brow. No picures?  “Why?”

“It’s not allowed.”

Now, that’s just ridiculous, isn’t it? I snap pictures in the grocery store all of the time. I am a foreigner here. Most of the products are not written in English. I rely on pictures on the boxes, my foreign language skills AND my husband’s foreign language skills. There have been so many times I am in the store, I snap a picture and fire it off in a text saying, “Is this it?” or “What’s this?” Sometimes, I will even say, “This is all they have. What do I do?” And sometimes, though it might be a rare occurrence, sometimes I see something and think, “OMG, I have to FaceBook that!”

Like this:

That’s a sting ray! Do you see it? Have you ever seen a sting ray at the grocery store? I thought it was impressive enough to take a picture. Don’t you?

So, for the life of me, I couldn’t understand why I was being told I couldn’t take a picture. I pressed on, “Why?”

The clerk at the register joined in. His head tilted slightly back, as if since he could not directly roll his eyes at me, he would roll his head instead. Clearly, he had been through this before and was irritated. He pointed at the door and said, “There’s a sign. It’s not allowed.”

The security guard nodded, approvingly. “Yes, it’s not allowed.”

I stood my ground. “I still don’t understand. I am taking a picture of these cookies because I like them. I have told my friends about them. When I show them the picture, they will know which ones to buy. I am helping the store’s sales.”

The security guard just shrugged. I looked at the clerk behind the register. He stared back at me. Well, that was just idiotic. I mean, wasn’t I marketing for them? I was flustered and forgot for a moment what I had been doing before the no-picture-taking nonsense. I turned back to the cookie shelf and chewed my cheek. Not wanting to appear like a jerk, I quickly decided to buy more of those cookies and get out of there.  

As I pushed our stroller home, I continued to think about this picture taking nonsense. I sent a text to the hubs, “I just got in trouble for taking a picture in the store! LOL”

I mean, really, what purpose does it serve to prohibit customers like this? Are they afraid of competition? Puhlease! Anyone can walk into the store and see the same products with their prices anytime. They send me their own product photos with prices and stick it under my door all of the time, for Pete’s sake!

The weather hardly registered on my mind as I mulled all of this over. It had been overcast and raining when we left three hours earlier this morning. Sometime during our playdate, the rain had stopped. But, oh, it became forefront on my mind when we walked down our street and came over the hill.

A very large tree had fallen across the street, effectively blocking our route. I just stopped thinking about alternatives. This is really the only way I could walk home with the stroller. Going back the way we came and around meant walking farther and lifting the stroller up and down a flight of stairs. Going the other way around meant walking through the forest preserve by the lake. That would definitely be a long walk of at least an hour or so.

I let out a long puff of air.  I saw people walking through the branches and wondered if the stroller would be able to go through as well. Still unsure, I took a picture of the scene to send to my husband:

I decided pushing through the branches and struggling over the twigs was worth a try. I pushed on forward.

A young guy stepped out in front of me and beckoned me over to the side. I glanced at him and was going to keep going toward the trunk when I realized he was pointing to the left. I did a double take and saw him reassuring another older woman, “Yes there is room. It’ll be fine.”

He beckoned me again.  Before I could open my mouth to say a word, the woman opened a door. They owned and lived in the adjacent villa. They were going to open the door on the stone wall fence to their yard. I could push my stroller into their yard, go around and come out the other side of the tree!

“Oh wow! Oh thank you!” I was lucky the owners were home. It was the middle of the day. They easily could have all been at work. As we walked quickly through their yard, I saw the tree coming over the side of the wall. They were lucky the stone wall was there. Damage was minimal.

On the other side, spectators were gawking and talking about how to fix this.  A man was on the phone, most likely trying to notify the municipality.  Someone was going to have to come and clear the debris away.

I took this picture: 

I was definitely going to tell the hubs about this. I felt so lucky to have met that guy who invited me into his yard. At the same time, I felt horrible about the mess he had to deal with right in front of his villa. I wanted to be sure my husband knew so that he knew what he would encounter coming home. Then, I thought better of it. It was maybe 1:00pm. He would come home around 5pm or 6pm. Eh, surely they would most likely have everything cleared away by then.

“I scared!” exclaimed my daughter.

“Chainsaw! That’s just the sound of a chainsaw. They are fixing the road with the tree,” I soothed her.  

Then, another thought struck me: the car! My mother-in-law’s car!

Panicked, I quickly dialed his phone number. Come on, come on. It had to be his lunch hour. He was not in a meeting. Pick up! After several rings, he finally picked up. He had barely answered when I hurriedly asked, “Hon, where’s your mom’s car?”

“The car?” He paused in thought. “Um, on our street.”

“Is it still there? Didn’t your mom come to get it?” I knew we parked it on our street. Hope against hope, could it really still be there? I glanced back down the street at the ginormous entanglement of branches. It couldn’t still be there, could it?

“What do you mean?”

“Well, didn’t she have to go to work or something? Didn’t she come and get it?” I held my breath.

“Not that I know of. Why? What’s going on?”

“Hon, where exactly did we park the other night?”  

“On our street,” he replied slowly. Duh.

 “Where? In front of that villa that had that annoying, loud weeklong wedding?”

“Um, I think so.” My heart dropped. “No, wait. Wasn’t it a bit further up?”

“Further as in towards our building”, I looked at the mess of leaves, “Or, towards the end of our street, by your work?”

“No, closer to the end of the street. On the downwards slope of the hill.”

I blew out a breath. Not only had the tree missed any passersby but it had also missed our car. Judging by the way it fell on the stone wall, there was virtually no damage at all.  Remembering the recent storm in Washington, IL, I know not everyone is so lucky with storms and the damage they cause.

This time, for us and our neighbors, thank God!

#tree #blockingroad #fallentree #storm #debris #cookies #shopping #groceryshopping #pictures #takingpictures #texting #photography #Thank God #thank #grateful

[hungryraven-blog]

Clean Up or Clean Out!

"His eyes were soft and warm. Mine were like a deer in headlights. I was caught. There was no way around it."

Moving to a third world country wasn’t all bad. It had its perks. One of these perks was having your house - or apartment as it were – cleaned for you. Labor was cheap. It wasn’t long before I found out for just $10 I could have our apartment cleaned. For $10, who wouldn’t have someone come and clean their apartment?

My husband, that’s who.

When friends and family members started recommending cleaning ladies, I took them seriously. I told them we wanted her to come. I asked for the phone numbers. Yes, please! Send them my way!

The weeks and months wore on. I did not receive the promised phone numbers and began wondering. Of course, this is when I was told.  Unfortunately, after that coffee or dinner or whatever else brought us to that family member or friend that day, my dear husband would discreetly call them back and say we were not interested.

What could I do? All of the contacts I had during those early days were through my husband. I had no choice. He said we could clean our own place ourselves. Easy for him to say when I did most of the heavy lifting, as usual. So, it was not like my life changed all that much. We simply carried on as we always had.

The first year I was in the country it was my job to pimp out the new private hospital. And I did. I went to parties and businesses. I met lots of people. My favorite people I met were Joe* and Laura*. I met Laura while giving a tour of the hospital to a group of internationals. I met Joe at a party Laura took to me to some months later, a whole other story in itself.

Laura and I spent a lot of time together because we were doing similar work. As a Fullbright, she was promoting her idea on how to improve the world and I was pimping out the hospital. We tag-teamed networking and worked rooms together. If we were not at a dinner or a party somewhere, we were back at Joe’s sitting around his private, in-ground Melrose Place-style pool, kicking back, comparing notes, and plotting how to better the world.

The second year, the hospital collapsed and I began working for an NGO. Laura and Joe were both gone, their terms over. It was okay. I really did not have the time or energy I did before. I was working as the HR Officer for five countries. I worked like mad. My boss had a funny saying: “Talk at work and work at home.” It might not make sense to an outsider, but to me and my co-workers, it made perfect sense. We were overworked. We didn’t have time to deal with each other all day long and get our work done. Both were required and non-negotiable.  Thus, we ended up doing our work after hours when everyone went home.  I was tired as all get out. Working 12 hour plus days was exhausting.

And then, I found myself pregnant.  Coming home to a house to run and I was dead on my feet.

It came to a head one day when I came home to a pile of trash in the kitchen. I had read somewhere that I was not supposed to lift heavy objects in my condition. Here, taking out the trash meant carrying it down the elevator 9 stories and walking about a block or block and a half before dumping it in the neighborhood dumpster.

This was unacceptable. Call it hormones, whatever. It made me mad.  I was simply not going to put up with it. I was not going to do it one more time. Uh-uh.

It piled up. It stank. It stayed. I was not going to take it out. My husband didn’t want us to get a cleaning lady. Fine. But, I was not going to take the trash out. I was taking a stand.

It got gross.

I did not give in.

This time, I had a plan. The trash had to go out. And it was going out. Remember all of those contacts I acquired last year? I was about to put them to use. I made some calls. I was going to get a cleaning lady.

Working for an NGO and the HR Officer to boot, I followed the labor code. We worked Monday through Friday. Overtime was optional, depending on how one looked at it. We may have worked like dogs during the week but we were at home, sleeping in our beds come Saturday morning. My husband, on the other hand, worked in the private sector which meant he worked on Saturdays. Sure, he was expected to work only half the day, but for some odd reason, this meant he worked from 8:30am until 2pm. Don’t ask. I mean, two hours more and it’s a full day, right? Anyway, that was the deal.

I found a lady through someone who worked at one of the embassies. I asked her to come on Saturdays, arriving at 9am and finishing by 2pm. My husband would never know.  It took a couple of ladies and a couple of tries before I found the right one, someone honest, thorough, and above all, prompt. I found her when I was four months pregnant, in March.

Everything went swimmingly. He went to work. The place got cleaned. He came home, none the wiser.

One Saturday, in May, I woke up to him sighing in disgust over and over.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

“I have nothing to wear!” He complained.  I surveyed our wall of closets and rolled my eyes. He was such a girl sometimes.

“What are you talking about?” He had tons of clothes, but not a thing to wear? Ha!  As if!

“Everything is all wrinkled. Look at this. I can’t wear this! Or this…” He held up a pale blue shirt for me to see. Indeed, there were a few wrinkles. For a split second, I wondered why he hung them up if they needed to be ironed. I sighed. Then I remembered it was Saturday.

“Why don’t you take all of the clothes you have which need to be ironed and put them over there on the trunk? I will be sure to have them ironed for you today.” I was not lying. Not my fault if he misunderstood me, right?

“Really, hon?”

“Of course.” I smiled smugly to myself. Lydia would iron them first thing.

“Thanks, hon!” Excited, he pulled shirts left and right off hangers. Seriously, why hang up wrinkled clothes? Perhaps I should be thankful they were not lying on the bedroom floor. I said nothing.

I checked my watch. Soon she would be here. Better put the coffee on. I threw back the covers and got up.

He left for work before I knew it. I readied myself and the apartment for its weekly wash down. The doorbell rang and I opened it for Lydia. Although it had been a couple of months, she still did not have a key.  

I began instructing her how her normal routine was to be interrupted by the shirts needing ironing. Knowing that ironing is usually extra, I told her that she could skip some of her other routine stuff if she wanted to compensate. I did already pay her extra for coming on a Saturday. I felt it a horrible thing to ask someone to work on a Saturday, but I felt didn’t have a choice. So, I always paid her a generous premium. Happy about being able to skip out on whatever other chores she chose, she began ironing without complaint. I had just become comfortable with her rhythm of bringing clothes from our bed to the ironing board in the bathroom, and back to the bedroom when I heard the key in the front door.

My heart stopped. The only other person who had a key was my husband. Uh-oh.

The moment he opened the door our eyes met. His eyes were soft and warm. Mine were like a deer in headlights. I was caught. There was no way around it. His face slowly changed to perplexity.

Without a chance to utter a word, Lydia came out of the bedroom. She was humming to herself and looking at one of his shirts in her hands. Seeing him, she smiled and greeted him. He smoothed away his surprise and greeted her with a smile.

Uh-oh. My heart pounded in my throat. How much trouble was I in?

I searched his face. It gave away nothing. He searched mine. We stood staring at each other a moment. What was he thinking? Quick! What could I say? How can I make this okay again? The muscles in his jaw tightened. We both wanted to say something but I couldn’t bring myself to utter a single word. My mouth had gone dry and I could see his lips tighten to a thin line. He glanced into the bathroom.  

Turning my way again, he said quickly, “Forgot my phone.” He reached over on the kitchen table and grabbed it. Then, just like that, he was gone.

Dumbfounded, I sat down on the couch. Were my nice, clean apartment days over? Would I have to give up Lydia? I couldn’t breathe. Stubbornly, I didn’t want to give her up. She was helping me. What was it to him? He didn’t want to take out the garbage any more than I did. Lydia seemed the best answer.

But, I deceived him. The realization crashed over me in a single wave. Oh, no! What had I done?

I pulled out my phone and went out onto one of our balconies. I should call him and apologize. I really should.

But, I hesitated.

What was I up against?  How angry was he going to be? He didn’t want to say a word. Was he going to stop speaking to me? No, that was childish, not his style. He really had no reason to be angry. In fact, he should thank me. Yes, thank me. I found a solution, one that worked for both of us. He should be happy.

But, he didn’t know. I frowned.

I was wrong. Yes, I was very wrong. I shook my head and looked down at my phone. I should apologize. Then, I remembered the look in his eyes as he left.  I would wait. Better to wait and let him calm down a bit.

I waited an hour. Then, I called him.

Then, I dialed Laura, who was back visiting for the summer. She said she was at Joe’s and immediately invited me to come over. Walking in the door, I couldn’t even sit down before I told her.

“Laura, he caught me!”

“What?” She looked up at me in surprise.

“I got caught with the cleaning lady this morning!”

Our good friend Derek was there, lounging in a lawn chair. He spit out his beer.

“Laura! You never told me she was a lesbian?!” He had an incredulous look on his face.

We looked at each other and it took a moment for us to burst out laughing. Laura finally caught her breath and shook her head at dear, sweet Derek.

“No, dear. She’s not.” We laughed again at the thought. When we caught our breaths, we told him the story.

“So, what’d he say? What happened?” Laura wanted to know. I looked around. There were people there I didn’t know. Oh Lord. Nothing like having your business hanging out like dirty laundry.  I told her the conversation went like this:

“Hello?”

  “Look, before you hang up, I am sorry I didn’t tell you.” There was no way I was apologizing for having a cleaning lady. He should have let me have her when I asked.

“Me too.” He was sorry?

“You didn’t leave me much of a choice.” What was I supposed to do? He had to know I was desperate. And desperate times called for desperate measures.

“It’s obvious you need her.” You’re darn tootin’.

“I do.” I told him quietly.

“Well, what can I say?”

“Look, I am really sorry.” I really was. But, I wasn’t giving her up. “She only comes on Saturdays. I am really tired. I cannot do everything and you’re busy working. I am just sorry I couldn’t tell you.”

“Me too.” I could breathe again.

“I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Ok, talk to you later.”

“Bye hon.”

“Bye.”

Phew. I had come clean. It wasn’t so bad. Maybe he realized his part in this. I wanted to jump for joy. I had gone behind his back, deceived him. Yet, at the end of the day, I was still married. And I got to keep Lydia.

Thank God.

*Names have been changed.

#cleaning #flashfic #flash fiction #flashfiction #apartment #thirdworldcountry #cleaninglady #cleanup #marriage #maritalwoes #di #disagree #deceive

[hungryraven-blog]

Ollie

"I held my mother’s hand as we walked down the hall toward Ollie’s room."

It was dark outside.  I can’t remember if I was eating dinner in the kitchen or asleep in my room.  But, I remember it was dark outside.  It was April and I was five.  So, I lean toward being asleep when my mother came to me and told me, “Honey, Ollie is sick.”

“Really?”  I was uncertain.  She hadn’t seemed sick when I saw her.  When was the last time I saw her?

“Yes.”

“She will be ok?”

“No, honey.  She is not going to get better.”  She was gentle while breaking the news.

“Can I see her?”

After a pause of uncertainty, the answer came.  “Sure”.

We went to the nursing home where my mother worked.  She worked the 3-11 shift and I often joined her.  It was years later that I realized I was only there every day Monday through Friday for an hour and a half.  My older brother was in school.  My dad worked from 8 until 4:30pm.  It was a way for my parents to watch over me and not pay for daycare.  I played in the dining room and talked to the elderly.  The residents loved having a small child around.  I thought they were pretty fun, too.  Everyone benefited from this arrangement.

Only as an adult do I realize her name was Olivia Ericson.  I always knew her simply as Ollie.  Ollie was an elderly woman who lived at the nursing home.  She was especially entertaining and I loved to be around her.  She was wheelchair-bound and loved to read.  She often read to me.  There were stacks of magazines and books in the common room.  She would tell me to fetch something to read and she would read it to me.  More often than not, she read Reader’s Digest to me. 

She was just as brutally honest with me as my questions for her were.  Of course, I have no idea everything I asked.  She had no teeth and I remember she thought someone had stolen them.  As a child, this was quite curious.  I had not lost my own teeth yet.  It was quite disturbing to think I might someday go to sleep at night and wake up without teeth because someone snuck into my bathroom and stole them.  Of course, I also wondered why a person would keep their teeth in the bathroom instead of their mouth.  Ollie was very upset about her missing teeth.  I did not want to upset her further and stopped asking.  Instead, I silently wondered and eventually forgot all about her mouthful of nothing. 

Years later, while I worked in a nursing home and helped a resident with Alzheimer’s remember her nightly routine to sleep, it dawned on me that Ollie’s teeth were actually dentures.  It was quite possible someone misplaced her dentures or mistakenly gave them to another resident or perhaps another resident suffering from Dementia took them on accident.  It makes me smile to think of the mystery of Ollie’s missing teeth.

The drive over was uneventful.  I held my mother’s hand as we walked down the hall toward Ollie’s room.  This is one of the few memories I have of her room. I almost never went to her room.  More often than not, we hung out in the common room, the dining/family room.  I knew where it was though. 

I tugged on my mother’s arm.  I was anxious to get there.  I was not crying.  I knew my friend was sick.  I knew this would be the last time I saw her alive.  I knew I was going to say goodbye forever.  I was not crying.  I was not experienced enough with death in my short five years to be sad.  I was nervous.  How would she look?  Would she be in pain?  Would she sit up? What would she say? What would I say?

“Can we read Reader’s Digest, Mommy?”  I looked up at her.

“No sweetheart.” Her eyes glistened.  “I told you, she is sleeping.  She can’t talk.  There are machines and tubes.”

My feet clunked over white tiles. The hallway seemed to go on forever.  It was brightly lit and looked like any hospital hallway. I can still smell that strange old person smell that hardly ever registers with five year olds.  When we finally reached her room, a crowd spilled out through the doorway and into the hall, some leaning on that strange rail that ran along the walls for those in wheelchairs.

I stopped abruptly and was slightly upset.  Who were all of these people?  Some were in uniform and some not in uniform.  Many I had never seen before.  As I began to recognize more and more as other CNAs and workers with whom I had seen around, I gained confidence.  I scanned faces and began to make my way into the room.

Everyone disappeared when I saw Ollie.  I sucked in a breath at seeing my friend.  She was lying in her bed.  She didn’t move.  Her eyes were closed.  I moved closer and peered over the railing.

“Ollie…?”  I found my voice and called out to her.  She did not move.  I heard a loud sucking sound and looked for it.  There was an accordion in a big clear tube moving up and down.  Up. And down. I noticed the sucking sound came from there. Oh.

My mom knelt down next to me, saying, “Remember, I told you there were machines.  They are helping her, making her feel better.”

I tore my eyes away from the accordion and glanced around at the machines.  Some beeping, some had writing.  There were tubes, lots of tubes.  The tubes led back to Ollie.

“Ollie?” I tried again.  This time when she didn’t answer I reached through the railing and grabbed her hand.  “Ollie, it’s me.”

When she didn’t answer, I barely heard my mother say, “She’s sleeping, sweetheart.  She just doesn’t feel good.”

I ignored her.  I looked up at the railing.  It felt like a barrier, holding me back.  My eyes traced the plastic from where it started to where I saw it ended halfway down the bed.  Without a word, instinct driving me, I kicked off my shoes and swung myself up on the bed.  As I climbed up near her, I heard a collective gasp.  I ignored them.  It felt purely natural.  What was the big deal?

There.  My head rested on her shoulder.  I heard the breath come in and out.  I stared at her mouth, watching it.  I felt her chest rise and fall.  Rise and fall.  Rise.  And fall.  She was here.  I nestled in the crook of her shoulder and felt her here with me.  Thump, thump.  I could feel her heart.  She was here. 

I lifted my head for a moment and took a good look at her.  She had tubes running in and out.  Her mouth was open and a whooshing sound came with each breath.  Her eyes were closed.  It was hard to tell.  There was a slight expression.  She looked peaceful, not sick. 

I put my head down and thought about this.  I wanted to stay there with her.  When I thought about it, she felt peaceful.  I had no idea what the adults were doing.  I was vaguely aware of Mr. Ericson.  I sighed.  Mom had said she was sick.  She didn’t feel sick.  She didn’t look sick, not to me.  She was pale.  That was nothing new.  She was always pale.  Except for the tubes and her lying there so still, I would have thought she could have turned her head at any moment, opened her eyes and asked me to fetch her a magazine to read.  But, she did not move.

I looked at her again.  Yep, she was in the exact same position.  She knew I was there.  I knew she was there.  That was enough.  I put my head back down.  I closed my eyes and breathed her in.  I knew she would never open her eyes again. 

It was OK though.  She looked OK with it.  It seemed right.

I sat up and whispered, “Goodbye, Ollie.”

I scooted back down and off the bed.  My mother picked me up and I wrapped myself around her. 

“Are you ready?” 

I nodded. I lay my head on top of her shoulder.

“Sweetheart,” She swung me around.  “This is Mr. Ericson.  He is Ollie’s son. He has heard about you and wanted to meet you.”

I looked at him, an old guy in a brown suit.  His eyes were full of tears. I didn't know what to say.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Ericson,” I said as best I could.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you.  My mommy – Ollie – has talked so much about you!  Thank you so much for being her special little friend.”  It did not look like he meant it though.  He looked…broken somehow. I wrinkled my nose at him. I looked at my own mom and figured I might feel the same if I were him. This was awkward.

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Ericson,” I told him again.  I felt tired suddenly.  I lay my head back on my mother’s chest.  Maybe it was really past my bedtime.  I am not sure.

“I should get her home.  I’ll talk to you later.  Thank you.”  She murmured above my head.

“Yeah, yeah,” he agreed and waved at us.  His eyes filled and tears spilled down his face.

I noticed my mom also began to cry as she walked down the hall.  This was wrong.  Why was she crying?  She should not cry.  Oh no! 

“It’s OK, Mommy.”  I tried to console her.  “Sometimes, it’s just your time.  She has to go now.”

She stopped walking.  “What? What did you say?”

It wasn’t a big deal.  I repeated myself.  “Don’t cry.  It’s OK.  It’s just her time.”

She looked at me very seriously.  “Say that again.”

I leaned back in her arms to look her in the eye.  I shrugged.  What was the big deal?  Was I in trouble?  This was the truth.  I was not lying.  Ollie was sick. She was going to die.  Life happens.  Death happens.  It was OK.  Yes, this felt right.  I took a deep breath and told her the truth. 

“It’s just her time, Mommy.  She has to go.”  I told her matter-of-factly.  It was no big deal.

Except it was. 

She spun around and strode over to Mr. Ericson.  “Tell him what you just told me.”

I looked into his big, sad eyes.  “Don’t cry.  It’s just her time. It’s OK.”

He stared at me.  I swallowed hard.  I thought this over again.  It felt right.  No, I wasn’t wrong.  She was going and I wasn’t sad.

“You’re right.”  His voice was thick, nearly choking with emotion.

My mom lay a hand on his arm, tears flowing.  Her voice broke.  “I just wanted you to hear that.  Goodnight.”

Hearing that, I brightened.  “Goodnight, Mr. Ericson!”

He chuckled and waved.  “Goodnight.”

I saw him once more at the funeral.  He wore a lighter brown suit that time.  He looked down at me.  I didn’t like it.  I spent my time over at the casket, curious at how a body looked after death.  That wasn’t my friend.  My friend was already gone.  I took a little death announcement card from a table which stated her name and date of death.  I also received a thank you card in the mail from Mr. Ericson.  Though I am sure he meant well, it felt odd and almost insulting to have someone thank me for a friendship I chose to have.  I kept both cards.  I still have them.

I don’t remember crying about Ollie’s absence when I was five.  At least, when I think about her departure from this world, I have a peaceful feeling.  The feeling is an all-is-right-with-the-world kind of feeling.  Did I miss her?  Of course.  I still do from time to time.  I just know this is how things are supposed to be.  When I was growing up, it might sound silly but I liked to think she was still around, watching like a guardian angel or something.  Was she?  Is she?  I have no idea.  It’s one of those secret questions I have for God.  And her.

I have since had other deaths throughout my life.  As an adult, looking back on Ollie’s death through her son’s eyes, it must have meant a great deal to Mr. Ericson to have someone who had been there every day, someone who loved his mother, be so sure and so at peace.  He got his message and I am glad.  Thank God.

#short story #shortstory #fiction #flashfic #flashfiction #flash fiction #death #firstdeath #deathstory #writing #reading #read #reader #books #novels #stories #freestory #freeshort #readers #reads #reader's digest #elderly #oldwoman #nursinghome #resident #die #dying #lifesupport #friend #friendship

[hungryraven-blog]

The Right Dose

"I checked the difference online. It was more than three times the recommended dosage. Oh God. What did I do?"

When I had my baby girl, I did what any normal new mother does these days.  I asked questions and listened to doctors, nurses, and lactation consultations. I started reading. I signed up for BabyCenter.com and Parents.com. I breastfed which gave me time to read while I nursed.  I browsed the internet. Of course, I also received advice from people who don’t have kids who after all of my reading really seemed out of touch.

Somewhere in the chaotic beginning of my daughter’s life, I joined a mom’s forum. I am pretty sure that somewhere close to the due date, a friend sent me the invite on Facebook. As you can see, I am pretty comfortable in the online world. I accepted and took a look around. The forum had at that time just 300 members. There were questions posted and real moms answered. Sure, I could read techniques online, but what if those didn’t work? I thought. The questions posed were customized for the particular situation facing that mom. For new moms, this was extremely helpful.

For me, facing crossing the Atlantic into unchartered waters, this mom’s forum was a gold mine!

I think my first post went something like: How old is too young to take a baby on an airplane? The answers I received told me anytime is fine for a baby, but the restriction which airlines place on infants travel to being 7 days old has more to do with the mom and her health and safety than anything else. I was told to nurse during take-off and landing, pack well, and we’d be fine. I took the advice and our flight went great. I was content.

The problems in the beginning were more about breastfeeding, sleep and schedules. I was what you would call a “lurker” rather a “reg”. Meaning, I read more than I contributed.  As time went on, I read more, I read the articles posted and became more knowledgeable. As I gained knowledge, I gained confidence.

The forum is a pretty positive environment, as far as forums go. I’ve been on others and there always seems to be a troll or ten. Moms tend to face so much judgment, it seems. Oh, you breastfeed? Oh, you sleep with your baby? Taking care of an infant is almost worse than religion with its do’s and don’t’s. Oh, your baby takes a pacifier? Oh, your baby doesn’t watch TV does, he? Oh, you put your baby in a playpen? Living abroad, I can tell you this prejudicial commentary is completely and utterly universal. Luckily, my mom’s forum knows this and there’s an overwhelming pressure from moms in the group not to judge or put pressure on anyone. Instead, it’s more like here’s the advice; do what you want.

As time wore on, the problems I faced changed. Living outside of the USA, I was somewhat insecure with the experts around me. I read more and researched more than the average mom. When you know better, you do better, according to Oprah.

I found myself unprepared one day. My daughter fell ill as babies and kids do from time to time. My sister-in-law had visited some months before. She had brought some kind of cough syrup, just in case. Now, I am the kind of person that does not readily take over-the-counter medications for a cold while my husband drowns in them at the first sign of a sniffle. As a mom, it is hard to watch your little one suffer. I thanked her and kept the bottle in my back pocket, just in case.   

When she had a hard time sleeping because she was congested, I thought it was time to bring it out. I looked the bottle over and read the label. I searched the name online. I knew that all over-the-counter stuff was pretty much frowned upon for children under two. Our pediatrician said the side effects were sometimes worse than the virus itself and besides, infant airways are still developing. Above all, any medication given to an infant should be done with extreme caution. So, I was being cautious.

After reading that the stuff really was not cough syrup, but more along the line of some homeopathic home remedy, I decided to try it. This mama was tired of the sleepless nights and wanted to sleep herself.

After putting my daughter down in her crib, I walked out syringe, in hand. My husband was in the family room reading the label and looking at the spoon.

“Hon, how much did you give her?” he asked me.

“A spoonful.” I shrugged and looked at him curiously.

“With this spoon?”

“Yeah, why?”

“That’s a tablespoon.”

My eyes grew wide. A tablespoon? I was only supposed to give her half a teaspoon. How much difference is there between the two? I wondered. My heart began to pound. In my selfishness, what did I just do?

“Oh no! What do I do?” He just shrugged.

“There isn’t anything you can do, I think.” He did not seem worried! Traitor!

Nonsense! I was not about to sit back and do nothing while I potentially poisoned the baby! I checked the difference online. It was more than three times the recommended dosage. Oh God. What did I do? The doctor’s office was closed. What kind of help is there? Do I call an ambulance?

My mind was racing. I told myself to calm down. There’s always overdose information on the bottle, right? Well, not this one, apparently. I went to the drug’s website. Nada.

I took a deep breath and reported my findings.

“She’s fine, I am sure.” My husband remained unaffected. This is our one and only baby girl. Didn’t he care at all?

I looked at her through our video baby monitor. My precious little girl was sleeping. How would I know if she was fine? Of course she was sleeping! Isn’t that what you do when you take Nyquil? And if you take too much of Nyquil, wouldn’t you sleep anyway?

Where could I turn? I picked up the bottle again. Someone somewhere at some point in time had to have been here, done this before. Misdosing and overdosing is a common mistake, isn’t it? Suddenly, I knew who to ask. I just happened to have more than 1000 moms at my disposal to ask. The forum had grown.  

Below is the actual transcript of my conversation with a mom I will call Taryn here.  

Me:         Moms help! My LO is not feeling great. My SIL bought and brought us this a while ago (just in case): http://www.kids0-9.ca/coughcold_night.html I just gave this to my LO. According to the package, children ages 0-6 should get 1/2 teaspoon. My husband just put away the spoon and asked about dosage. He says I just gave her 1/2 tablespoon. Now, I'm worried. I used a syringe and it was 5mL. What did I just do? Is she gonna be ok?

Taryn:    Those are do not look like 'medicine' those look like supplements. Your best bet i to call poison control and they will tell you or talk you through what to do.

August 2 at 8:35pm

  Wait, Poison Control?! Slap to the forehead! Why didn’t I think of that?! Oh, wait! Crap!

  Me:         I'm in Europe though.

August 2 at 8:35pm

  Taryn:    How old is she?

August 2 at 8:36pm

Me:         2 next week

August 2 at 8:36pm

  Taryn:    I am an adult ICU Nurse and the belladonna concerns me a bit. Want me to try and call poison control here?

August 2 at 8:37pm

A nurse? An adult ICU Nurse?! Did I read that right? It was a game changing moment and my heart soared. She might know and be able to help! Yay! We are saved! What the heck is belladonna? Is it something dangerous like that effedrin? Oh Lord, what did I do? Please call!

Me:     Can you please??!!

August 2 at 8:38pm

  Taryn:    Do you have a dr office you can call too? I think it would be safest but I will call here.

August 2 at 8:38pm

I held my breath and waited. A minute ticked by. Nothing. I wondered if she really was calling. Another minute went by. Did she have to look the number up? Should I look it up for her? But, I didn’t know where she lived. Is there one ultimate Poison Control center and just one number like the universal 9-1-1? Or are there local centers with local numbers?

Another minute had gone by. I took a deep breath. Was she on hold?

Maybe I should have tried the doctor here. I decided to send a text even though it was well past office hours. As I hit send, I saw her message:  

Taryn:    Ok, it's all good!

August 2 at 8:42pm

  Taryn:    Talked to them and its homeopathic so it's ok. I even read the ingredient list and she's not worried AT ALL!

August 2 at 8:43pm

  I could not breathe, let alone respond while she gave me the news. I double-checked the bottle, picking it up and turning it over in my hands. It is homeopathic, isn’t it? Homeopathic means safe?

  Taryn:    I double checked with her about the belladonna and she said its fine . It's not the 'drug' that hospitals use and it won't hurt her even of she drank the bottle.

August 2 at 8:44pm

  Taryn:    Hope that helps you feel better.

August 2 at 8:46pm

  Taryn:    And 1/2 tablespoon is 1 1/2 teaspoons so it wasn't a huge amount you have her.

August 2 at 8:47pm

  Me:   Thank God! Good to know!! Thank you so much!!

August 2 at 8:48pm

  Me:   I sent a message to her doctor but haven't heard back yet.

August 2 at 8:48pm

  Taryn:    Welcome, I'd want someone to do it for me if they could :0)

August 2 at 8:48pm

  Taryn:    I just read your post again-You said you gave her 5 ml from a syringe. 5 ml is a teaspoon, so you only have her 2.5ml too much. That's even less than 1/2 tablespoon.

August 2 at 8:55pm

  Me: Oh, I didn't even know that! 5 mL is the dose   for her Tylenol and I actually was thinking about how the doses were the same. Um, NO! That's good to know. Thank you so much for calling PC! Can't tell you how relieved I am.

August 2 at 9:02pm

  Taryn:    No problem. Glad I could help.

August 2 at 9:05pm

Breathing a sigh of relief seems so inadequate to describe how I felt.  I wanted to jump up off the couch and cheer. 

In my panic, I did not even consider poison control, not that there is a local one (that I know of) for me to call anyway. Still, I am grateful for the clarity that other mom had. Those four minutes while she called poison control were excruciatingly long.  

How lucky was it I had the mom forum to turn to? What were the chances of an ICU nurse being online at just that moment? She was there at just the right moment. What started out as a wrong dose, ended up as the right dose of friends for me! As an added bonus, I looked at my phone later and discovered that the doctor never responded because the text never actually went through. It failed somehow. I was saved from that embarrassing phone call from the doctor and having to explain what happened.  

So, the traitorous husband was right. My baby was fine. In the end, that’s all that matters. She was going to be ok. Thank God.

#baby #overdoes #mistake #moms forum #research #medical emergency #safe #safety #cough syrup #poison control #poisoned #poisoning #dosage #wrong dosage #two year old #story #short #flash fiction

[hungryraven-blog]

How did you get that there?

"She screamed the whole time. I wanted to throw up the whole time."

“Do you want a book?”  I looked at the little boy curiously.  Joshua’s question took me by surprised.

“He means a book he makes. He would like to paint you a story.” His mom explained.

“Oh, we want one!” Another mom exclaimed as she walked out the door holding her 20 month old daughter, Emma.

“We want one, too.” I immediately agreed and gestured to my daughter and myself.  My eyes never left Joshua.  He was fidgeting and shifting from one foot to the other. I wondered if our answer had been too quick. “But, what will it be like?”

“I will make it. It will be four pages long!”

“Hmmm…You will paint it?” I faked disbelief.

“Oh yeah! And it will be four pages long!”

“Wow! That’s a lot!” The length meant something to him. I missed that somehow. “So, what do you paint? Dinosaurs?”

“No, no.” He glanced at my two year old daughter. It was quick, but I caught it. “Bunnies.”

“Whoa! Bunnies! We love bunnies!” He brightened. “Ok, can you please, please make us one then?”

“Yes!” He turned to run. “Gotta go!”

“Wait – Josh?”  I looked around. Everyone from our play date was gone. Where did everyone go?

“Yeah?” He called while running away.

“I think your mom went that way.  And tell her I said g’bye, ok?”  He nodded as he ran off in the direction I pointed. I smiled thinking how happy he was to paint a whole book and for someone else.

I checked my watch before I pushed our stroller out into the bright sunlight.  It was 12:30pm. Did I have time? I am always tempted to go to the store after our playdates.  It’s only a couple of blocks away from where we moms meet. Just a few more blocks and I would not have to make this trip again later. What did I mean, “Do I have time?” Judging from the sunlight streaming through the trees that lined the streets there was still a bright blue sky overhead with little chance of rain.  Sure, it was lunchtime.  My own stomach rumbled but there was no way my daughter was hungry.  It was impossible.  The little monster had begged for food from everyone as if she did not just eat grapes in her stroller on the way there, as if I did not bring snacks for her, as if I never feed her at all.  Oh, she ate.  She ate grapes, crackers, blueberry coffee cake, garlic crackers, cookies, and puffed chips. Did I mention she ate crackers?     

What was I worried about?  Did I have anything to buy?  A quick mental check of our kitchen told me we could use some meat for dinner and bread for sandwiches when we got back.  I was still a little apprehensive. I shrugged it off and promised to no one in particular I would hurry.  I headed for the store.  

As we entered the produce section at the entrance, I asked, ”sweetheart, how about some yogurt? Want some yogurt?”

“No!”  I put on my best apologetic smile and looked around. “Apples?  Apples, Mommy?”

“You sure? No yogurt? It’s the strawberry one.” She shook her head violently. “Cherry?”

“No!” She was shaking her head.

I thought she liked yogurt. I was puzzled and grabbed some anyway. I’ll eat them if she does not.  Move on. While we strolled away from the yogurt, I told her, “When we get home, I will make you some apples. Ok?”

 “Ok, Mommy.” Well, that was easy.

I was surprised at the meat counter when there was no ground beef in sight. That was strange. There is always ground beef there. The man behind the counter was waiting for me to make a selection for him to weigh out for me. With no ground beef, there went meatloaf and tacos. In my mind’s eye, I saw our two steaks at home. Would they be enough? How old were they? Just grab another. That was when I spied a pre-made package of two steaks. Only $3. Yeah, I’ll take it!

I walked over to the bread, grabbed a loaf and went to pay.  No one was in line. The lady did not ask me for my convenience discount card as usual. I only noticed when I pulled out money to pay. She quickly scanned it for me and handed it back.

Our stroll home was a quick and uneventful one.  My daughter ran off to play the moment I took her out of her stroller.  She easily found her two dinosaurs she was playing with this morning.  If Joshua only knew how much she loved them since catching a clip of them in Jurassic Park when I was flipping through channels just days before.  I smiled wondering again about his book with painted pictures.  Let his mother worry about that mess.

I cut up her apples, as promised, and brought them to her in the adjacent family room. 

“C’mere! I brought you your apples.”  I told her.

“Dinosaurs!” She held up her T-Rex and Velociraptor I bought at Target for $1 each, a wonderful investment for a two year old!

That’s when I noticed it, that pungent, nasty, stomach-turning odor. What is that? I took a closer look at her and noticed something yellow on her shirt. Uh-oh.

“What’s on your shirt? C’mere.” I motioned her to come closer to me.  I sniffed her shirt. That’s what you do, right? You see some weird substance on your kid’s shirt and it smells from five feet away, but you still need to stick your nose in it, just to be sure, right?

Oh. M. Gee. My stomach sank and then turned. I was right. And I was going to throw up. I had just stuck my nose uncomfortably close to diarrhea! How did you get that there?!

“How did diarrhea get on your shirt?” I asked as if she knew. She just stood there while I recoiled.

I had to clean this up. I had to clean this up. I had to clean this up. Ugh. 

As the awareness finally sank in, I knew I had to confirm what was in her pants. At least I hoped it was in her pants. Oh no! What if it wasn’t in her diaper?? No, it had to be there! It had to be!

“C’mon. Let’s go.” I quickly grabbed her up, not leaving any room for argument.

I set her down on her bassinet-turned-changing-table. She began to cry and I began to soothe her, explaining how she can’t sit in a nasty diaper for long before getting oww-ies.  Yeah, right.  As if that would work. The second I moved her little shorts, yellow, foamy nasty stuff began to drip.

I gagged. Yes, I am a mom. We moms gag, too. We just suck it up and carry on. What else can we do? But, we still gag.  Diarrhea still grosses us out.

I grabbed a wipe to wipe down her legs.  I then realized - too late, of course - what a mistake it was to do this in her room, on a changing table. I had a hard time getting her shorts off.  I knew she needed to be hosed down.

Delicately, I went to pick her up. I had considered for a fleeting moment to pick her up using one arm and one leg to minimize any splash-age on me, but A) she would attempt to cling to me and B) our bathroom is a little far and it might hurt. Her upper torso was clean.  So, off we went into the bathroom with me holding her Three-Men-And-A-Baby style – upright, but as far away from me as possible.

And I had to hose her down.  We have a handheld shower head.  For me, it’s quite simple. For her, it’s pure hell. She’s a normal two year old in that sense. She’s not too fond of the shower. In fact, she hates it. She screamed the whole time. I wanted to throw up the whole time. I wondered what were those little yellow chunks? She hasn’t eaten corn lately?!

It was about then, in that moment of pure chaos and muck that a thought occurred to me: the stroller.  While I can hose my toddler down, albeit against her will, I will have a much harder cleaning the stroller.  The cover does not come off.

How would I ever clean it? The smell would last for…ever. Gag.

Shower head in hand, another thought occurred to me.  The stroller is just fine. Yes, this happened as soon as we arrived home. I knew it as soon as I thought it.

Then, I knew. It clicked.

Josh suddenly having to go.  Looking at my watch and seeing it read 12:30pm. The quick trip to the store.  Not wanting yogurt. The meat already packaged so I didn’t wait for meat to be prepared. Not waiting the extra 30 seconds at the checkout counter for me to dig through my purse for the card. The hurry to get home.

It was all for this. It was so I could shower off her so easily. And I did not have to worry about the stroller.  It remained clean.

Thank God.

#short story #free short story #thank god #life #toddler #mess #clean #sick #play date #stroller #grocery shopping #hurry #thank God #flashfic #fiction #fridayflash #nestofstories #writing #blog #book blog

[hungryraven-blog]

Thanksgiving Blowout

"We stood back and surveyed our tools. I was shivering in my heels and black peacoat. He was still in that high school I’m-too-cool-to-be-warm phase. He was barely wearing a winter coat."

I should have known better.  When my family discussed travelling to Ohio to have Thanksgiving at Aunt Betty’s, I was totally in.  My Aunt Betty is an amazing cook.  She makes mouth-watering pie – cherry pie, apple pie, pumpkin pie.  They are all wonderfully decadent.  It doesn’t end there.  There are baked beans, green bean casserole, homemade buttered noodles, mashed potatoes.  We’re not talking escargot, Coquilles St. Jaques or even crème brulee here. It’s down home cooking that just tastes better than the average home-cooked meal.  Everything she makes tastes delicious.  She walks into a kitchen and seems to make magic.  Maybe there is an Aunt Betty in every family.  I’ll concede someone similar, but no one exactly like her.  She’s definitely one-of-a-kind. 

Logistically, we have to be in Ohio by noon Thursday.  Aunt Betty is my grandmother’s sister.  The older generation has the Thanksgiving turkey dinner at 1pm with turkey sandwiches for supper later.  While I was growing up, we had a big breakfast brunch my mom cooked and then we’d go over to my uncle’s family’s around 3pm or 4pm. Hors d’oeuvres are served around 4-5pm with the actual dinner closer to 7pm.  I always wondered what those evening turkey sandwiches would be like.  It’s not like I didn’t eat turkey sandwiches the next day. I did. I just wondered about this fancy-schmancy sit-down turkey dinner at 1pm, the afternoon watching football paired with turkey sandwiches when you get good and hungry again, if you did at all. 

Now, my family lives in Chicago, the suburbs of Chicago.  It’s about a 7-hour drive to Aunt Betty’s.  This particular Thanksgiving I lived downtown.  You can’t travel anywhere at any time of day in a large city without taking traffic into account.  Everyone was planning to leave late Wednesday afternoon, “to beat traffic”.  Now you can’t live in a city and not know when rush hour begins.  I was particularly well-versed because I commuted for a whole year before stopping that nonsense.  Rush hour in Chicago back then began promptly around 3:00pm and magically let up at 7:00pm. 

Now, add in Thanksgiving, the most travelled day in the whole year.  Yeah, late Wednesday afternoon was not going to cut it for me.  My married older brother was not going to travel then either.  His reasoning had nothing to do with traffic.  He was married and it had something to do with splitting the holiday between in-laws.  

I decided I’d drive to Ohiomyself.  I didn’t want to go by myself.  I wasn’t afraid of road trips at all.  No, I’d driven plenty all by myself. The thing was with so many travellers, I didn’t have to go alone.  So, I opted for company.  As it worked out, my little brother was free to ride with me. 

When would we leave?  I talked it over with him.  I hated the idea of leaving Wednesday night because I’d miss the pre-Thanksgiving party.  Every year everyone spends Thanksgiving with their family.  I had a group of friends in the city that had this tradition where they would hold a Thanksgiving get-together the day before Thanksgiving.  The night before would not be a sit-down turkey dinner or anything.  No, there would just be good food, great company, and plenty of beer.  I loved everything about it - except for the part that it was held in Indiana.  No one likes leaving the city once you live in the city. 

We decided we would leave after work and after most of the traffic had left.  So, around 8pm or 9pm.  I remember being on 94S with the music going with tiny flakes coming down.  November in Chicago is cold.  Hello!  Rush hour was still going on.  It was taking three hours to get out of the city at that time.  For some, it took longer.  We were crawling along at a pretty good clip.  It was still stop and go but it could have been worse.

I heard it first.  That floovb - floovb sound that says a tire just popped and is going flat.  I barely felt that rugged oscillation.  The wheel definitely didn’t pull in any direction. 

I wasn’t worried.  I pulled over to the side of the road.  We were close to the Indiana-Illinois border.  It was well-lit.  Cars were not moving fast.  We got out and looked.  Sure enough, one of my tires was flat.  The driver’s side rear tire was flat.

We climbed back in the car and I pulled out my cell phone and called Roadside Assistance.  Snapping my phone shut, I looked at my brother.  “45 minutes.” 

We waited inside.  I had shut off the car.  It was getting cold.  45 minutes came and went.

“Where are they?”  I asked the air.

“Well, what do you wanna do?  It’s getting late.  We can’t stay here forever.”  I knew he was right.  What were we going to do?

“Do you know how to change a tire?” I asked.

“Do you?”  He didn’t even blink.  Seeing my face fall, he sighed.  Do you have anything to change it with?

“Do I have anything to change it with, he asks” I mocked.  I was prepared for anything.  I had jumper cables I had no idea how to hook anywhere.  I had a first aid kit and an emergency car kit.  I had no idea what were in these kits but I had them.  About the only real useful thing in my trunk was a shovel.  Yes, I kept a shovel in my trunk.  Chicago winters are harsh and snow is removed once a week, if that.  If you want to park your car, you have to shovel your spot.  It’s how it works.  Then, because you worked so hard on your spot, you put a lawn chair in it when you leave.  Only people who are suicidal remove those.  It’s the city.  Who knows who placed that lawn chair there in the first place, right?  It doesn’t have to be an innocent-looking person like me.  It might be a gang banger or maybe it is me and I pack heat.  I don’t know. Is it possible?  Do I look dangerous?  Probably not.

I open my trunk and we look for tire-changing tools.  I am pretty sure I know what those are.  The jack, the tire iron, spare dingy tire.  I have the stuff.  We lay it out on the pavement.  The pavement had a thin layer of snow covering it.  My brother’s fingers were pink.  I reached back into the car and pulled out my pair of gloves for him. 

We stood back and surveyed our tools.  I was shivering in my heels and black peacoat.  He was still in that high school I’m-too-cool-to-be-warm phase.  He was barely wearing a winter coat.  We figured out the steps of getting it done.  I looked at my watch.  That tow truck should have been there by then and could have shown up at any time.

They didn’t. 

He had a hard time getting the lug nuts loosened.  They were pretty tight.  We discussed my routine maintenance and whether or not the lugnuts were put on mechanically or manually.  I had no idea.  I vowed to make sure in the future.  They were always going to be put back on manually.  Oh yes.

There were a couple of cars that stopped though to offer their help.  That was nice.  We waved them on.  The donut on, we climbed back in the car.  Yes, I stood out in the cold and watched him.  My dad said you always stay and watch to keep the guy company while he works for you.  It’s just good manners. 

Back in the car, we were back on the road in no time.  With a donut.  I didn’t bother calling Roadside.  They didn’t bother to call me to check up on me either.  I figured we were even.

We were on our way.  To Ohio.  With a donut?  This just wasn’t going to do.  We could only go 50 mph at best.  I knew we can’t drive that far on a donut.  We decided to make a stop at my friends’ party inIndiana, see what advice they’d have to offer.

I was upset.  My brother thought it was great.  I introduced him and he went to join the party.  Seize the day.  I didn’t want to ruin things with my mood, so I opted to brood in the kitchen.  My friends parents were in the kitchen.  This was the first time I’d met them.  They were cool as hell.  The dad was in a band.  The mom sat with me and talked things over with me.

We had gone through the phone book and called places looking for a tire.  It was after 10pm and the next day was a holiday.  It was Thanksgiving.  Whole cities shut down (with the exception of pharmacies).  Places were closed.  There was one place that might have had a tire.  It was a Walmart in another town.  I drove over there, but that turned out to be a dead end. 

There at the kitchen table, I sighed.  It was useless.  I didn’t know what to do.  I put my head in my hands. 

A friend came into the kitchen for a snack and casually said, “Well, you’re going to Ohiofor the weekend, right?  You’ll pass through here on your way back to the city, right?” I nodded.  “Why don’t you just take my tire?”

I was confused. 

“Yeah, take the tire off her car and put your donut in its place!  Then, when you come back in a couple of days, you just switch them back.  You get to Ohio and you can delay fixing the tire a little.” 

It was genius.  I lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!  You don’t even know if you can.  Like, if the tire will even fit.  What kind of cars do you have?”  My friend’s mother brought a moment of responsibility and sobriety to us all. 

“She’s right.” I told them.  I wasn’t about to lose all hope though.  “But, how can we find out?”

In a flash, we went to our cars and pulled out the manuals.  Back in the kitchen we were flipping though them, poring over them.  That’s when I saw it.  It said in my car’s manual the donut which came with the car should not be driven at a speed more than 50 mph but could be driven for 2000 miles!

We all started laughing in relief.  We didn’t have to change any more tires that night.  After doing a brief calculation, I got up and helped myself to some of the food.  I was going to enjoy this pre-Thanksgiving party for a couple of hours.  I’d have just enough time to enjoy the party, sleep for an hour or two, and then drive straight through, making it just in time for our Thanksgiving dinner the next day.

We didn’t miss anything in Ohioand we didn’t miss anything in Indianaeither.  Dinner was fantastic.  There was some grumbling about my grandmother not bringing a pumpkin pie (which was a surprise to most of us since we all assumed Aunt Betty was baking the pies).  The sandwiches were divine.  The tire?  Fixed first thing Friday morning in Ohio.  Turns out they have mechanics inOhio, too.  I had a lot to be thankful for that Thanksgiving.

I have since vowed to never travel on a holiday ever again.  The day before or the day after is fine.  I don’t want to ever chance closed services again.  I shudder to think what might have happened if I hadn’t asked my brother to come along.  Would I have been able to change a tire? In the cold? In heels?  Would I have even thought of looking in my car manual if I hadn’t had my friends to help me think things through? 

Thank God I didn’t have to find out.  I am so grateful to my little brother and my friends that night. 

#hungry raven #hungry #raven #tire #change #brotehr #brother #thanks #Thank You #Thank God #grateful #thanksgiving #thanksgiving day #traffic #rush hour #car #driving #flat tire #flat

[hungryraven-blog]

Taking out the Trash

"My baby would love the baby kitten, but probably more like the Abominable Snowman stroking the kitten, hugging, squeezing, loving the kitten and calling it George."

In my house, we have to take out the trash every single day. It’s awful. I know. It’s hard to believe we produce that much garbage. We live in a high rise that was built without trash in mind. There is no trash shoot.

The trash goes in the neighborhood dumpster. This is located in front of our building and a little down the street. Yes, it’s in the middle of the street. Dumpsters are not put in alleys in this city here. There are no alleys. So, walking down the street, the occasional dumpster is a common sight. Many times my husband asks to cross the street because a dumpster is coming up. He has a weak stomach. (I know. Having a child must be like one of life’s greatest practical jokes on him.)

Taking out the trash is always a struggle in our house. I simply cannot do it. I am home all day, it’s true, but I have my daughter. Logistically, juggling the baby and trash just sounds like a recipe for disaster. Ideally, my husband would just take it out in the morning on his way to work. Unfortunately, he’s always late and work is in the opposite direction as “our” dumpster.

Our best bet is in the evening. Either he takes it out as soon as he gets home or if he’s forgotten (or if he’s “forgotten”), then I’ll take it out after I put our daughter to bed.  Tonight was such a night. I wanted to buy ice cream, my own reward to myself. It really wasn’t a big deal. I planned to take out the trash, come back, wash my hands, and then go to the store.

So, there I was, walking in front of our building, a bag of trash in each hand. I was just passing the front steps when I see this girl walking toward me. I couldn’t miss her if I tried.

She’s wearing Converse, which I love, but wore them with bright yellow MC Hammer pants. It’s 8 o’clock at night now. I am not sure exactly how bright those yellow pants are, but they are bright. She’s wearing a cut-off half sweatshirt, cut at her middrift and elbows. She’s also wearing a hat that’s covering bleach blonde hair and pulled so low I can’t see her face. It’s definitely an 80’s style.

My eyes keep going back to those pants. They were quite the statement. I was thinking how she must be one of those dumb, young bimbo types. Her only redeeming quality was that she was stroking a tiny kitten nestled in her arms.

We wordlessly pass each other. I continue on my way to the dumpster. My mind quickly turned to my ice cream. It’s getting late in the season. I am now beginning to run the risk of the convenience stores holding old stock. The question I was chewing on was which convenience store was more likely to have freezer burned ice cream and which one would have a fresher supply. I had just come to my conclusion and selected the store I would visit when I passed the front of our building again. I was on my way back inside to wash hands before heading back out for the ice cream. (No, I was not about to put my hands all over food items when I just touched garbage. Ick!)

Bounding down the front steps to our building was that cute little kitten that 80’s clad girl was holding not aNew Yorkminute ago. Immediately, I scanned the area for those yellow pants. Not only was she not around, but there was not another human being around either.

You have got to be kidding me! She left that kitten on the front steps to a high rise? How was that little baby going to fend for itself? How old was it? Was it old enough to be on its own? It looked adorable bouncing down those stairs, so obviously inexperienced.

A flash of her at home with my own cat briefly passed through my mind. Molly would have her for breakfast. My baby would love the baby kitten, but probably be more like the Abominable Snowman stroking the kitten, hugging, squeezing, loving the kitten and calling it George. No, no, no. I couldn’t do that to this poor, delicate creature.

Maybe my mother-in-law would take her in. We had talked about giving her a kitten for her birthday for one of her recent birthdays. It had been a joke. How much of a joke was it? Would she turn this kitten away?

I sighed. I was thinking of homes for this kitten? Why? Oh why? Why was this little kitten left on a doorstep at all? Oh. I had this vision of this kitten as part of a litter. This baby had a mother until quite recently. My stomach clenched. Had this fashion girl dumped the kitten because she couldn’t find any suitable homes herself? Oh my God. It’s the cat version of leaving babies in dumpsters. She left her out on someone’s doorstep like a piece of trash. I was taking out my trash. And so was she.

I was horrified.

I looked around again. Where was this yellow-pant-wearing monster? I was all wild-eyed and just fuming. I still didn’t see anyone. She should just keep the kitten until she finds a home like every other normal, decent human being, not just release the kitten into the wild.

Idiot. Of course. She really is the dumb blonde bimbo I thought she was at first glance.

Suddenly, there she was. In all her glory. She was exiting our building’s front entrance. I swear I saw her swish her long, blonde hair out like a Vidal Sassoon commercial.  She was laughing and tugging on some guy’s arm. I didn’t pay attention to what they were saying. I was too busy trying to pick my jaw up off the floor. And wishing for my sunglasses. I’d swear she had sunshine coming out from behind her somewhere like a heroine in one of those cheesy movies.

“Here, kitty, kitty!” she said, chasing the furball across the walkway. “Oh no! She’s running away! Catch her, please!”

Oh. Thank. God.

#grateful #Thank You #thanks #Thank God #thakn #hungry #hungry raven #hurt #kitten #cat #baby #trash #garbage #ice cream #buy #bought #furball #abandoned #left on doorstep #kitten left on doorstep #oh my god #omg #80's #yellow mc hammer pants #converse

[hungryraven-blog]

Cat Litter Day

"You really want to buy cat litter? In the rain? Yeah, not the best of plans. I'll admit."

It’s time to buy the cat litter. Oh God. I hate buying cat litter. If I were in theUnited States, I wouldn’t mind so much. I would simply grab the kid, throw her in her car seat, get in the car and drive to the store. I’d grab a cart, put her in the cart, go in the store, put the cat litter in the cart, pay for it and leave. Simple.

Unfortunately, that is not how my life is.

I waited. I waited for the perfect opportunity. Somehow, everyday, there was always an excuse to put it off. My daughter needs a nap. Today, we were going to the Botanical Gardens. Today, we have a playdate. Oh, she’s made such a mess at lunch that now she needs a bath.

The days seemed to pass quickly. I know we need to change that cat litter. All cat owners know you can clean out the litter box daily, scooping out untold clumpy nastiness. Still, you have to change the whole box of litter at least once a month, if not more often. It just gets the stink. And it’s got to go.

Ours had a funk. I desperately needed to find a time and just go. Today was the day. No excuses. No turning back. It had to get done. Today.

It was 4pm. Dinner was not ready. That was just too bad. We would eat something when we got back. After many nights, I shamefully know I needed my daughter for this. My daughter woke up from her afternoon nap giggling and pointing at some mysterious nonsense only she understood. I’m on a clock. Dinner’s got to be on the table by 6pm so she can eat and I can put her to bed by 7pm. She may or may not be tired, but Mommy sure is. I’ve got her diaper changed, dressed, plop her in the stroller and we meet her dad at the door. It’s 5pm. I have no idea how time works like this. Perhaps when you have a kid suddenly there’s a time warp that opens up and it just sucks giant blocks of time when you aren’t looking. Who knows?!

He begs me not to go. See? I am not the only one procrastinating here. I stand firm. We have GOT to get this. God knows what level of toxicity those fumes are now. We are buying this cat litter today. It’s Cat Litter Day. I can’t take it anymore!

“But, you know it’s raining outside right?” He had just come home from work. I had not even bothered to look out a window. Wasn’t it still sunny from two hours ago?

“It’s raining?” I needed to be sure what I was up against.

“Yes.” He sounded hopeful.

“Too bad. We’re going.” Nothing was going to stop me. I was unstoppable.

“You really want to buy cat litter? In the rain?”

Yeah, not the best of plans. I’ll admit. Wet cat litter. That image flashed through my mind and I turned it over in my mind. Then, I threw it right out.

Oh. No. Oh. God. I couldn’t take it anymore. We were buying it if it’s the last thing I ever did. I was not going to be deterred. Not today.

Then, he begs me to come with us. Because didn’t you know that buying cat litter is like the greatest thing in the world? After a quick change of clothes, he ducks into the bathroom. I pick up toys. Hey, I will use every second I can get. Finally, we’re off.

As we ride the elevator downstairs, I double check we’re ready. Husband? Check. Toddler in stroller? Check. Money? Check. Keys? Check. Umbrellas? Check. Plastic cover for the stroller? Check. Nothing to risk getting wet in the basket below? Check.

In the lobby, I am suddenly grateful I am not alone. Both of us have the distinguished honor of lifting the stroller from the front door down the six stairs to the ground. I immediately see the ground. Um, it’s dry.

“It was just raining a few minutes ago, I swear!” Says my dear sweet husband, rising his arms up in defense.

“Guess we don’t need to put the cover on the stroller afterall,” I say dryly, rolling my eyes at him.

“I swear!”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.” We rolled along about 20 minutes or so to the store, chatting about the day. This is actually one of the greatest things about not owning a car and walking to the store. The little one is so engrossed with trees and buildings and people, we can actually talk about grown-up things.

Not that work and bills are particularly interesting topics. They’re not. That’s why I asked him, “What if those berries actually did something special when you ate them? Like, say they had magical properties?”

Ok. I need to get out more. I admit it. I need more adult-conversation practice. You gotta admit, though, it beats talking about that email someone wrote about the cost-saving measures involved in purchasing blue pens versus green pens. He was amused.

There are no sidewalk ramps. I’m picking up the stroller at each street we cross to avoid the stroller hitting and dragging its basket below on the curb. All curbs are not constructed at a standard height. Maneuvering through the city streets is a lovely task, akin to a video game. Arriving at the store, we dilly-dallied for all of two minutes. It didn’t take long for us to realize we didn’t need any items. Besides, who wanted to carry anything but cat litter?

Apparently, we do. Someone picked out cans of sauerkraut. (That reminds me: I need to cook that!) He casually put that in our basket at the bottom of the stroller and I made a beeline for the cat litter aisle. We were not carrying any more crap than necessary.

I was disappointed to discover the cat litter were in boxes. What could I do? I figure it’s for the best. The stroller basket is only meant to carry 10 lbs anyway. This is 7kg. I wasn’t sure what the conversion was, but I tell myself it will hold. Whatever it is, it’s less than 10 lbs. We are getting two boxes because I am not making this trek again any day soon.  We pay. One box is below along with the cans of sauerkraut and one is in my hand. I decided to play a little and hand my husband the other box.

“Hold this, will ya?” Well, I can’t carry that box and navigate the stroller through the city, now can I? He is visibly upset but takes it anyway. Then, I reach back and grab a plastic bag.

“What are you doing?” He’s surprised.

“Tying the box.” I showed him what I do when I am by myself. With the plastic grocery bag (something I abhor), I tie the plastic handle of the box to the stroller handlebar. It dangles there and I beam.

“Let’s go.” We wheel out of the store and down its ramp onto the sidewalk. It wasn’t long before a thought occurred to me. We’ve lived here for three years. Our daughter is 13 months old. How did we buy cat litter before? There was no way I would walk several blocks carrying 14 kgs of cat litter. Now, we have her stroller and I use it. For the moment, I am grateful.

This future image flashes through my mind of a day when she will be walking sans buggy and I will have to chase her on these very sidewalks carrying 14 kgs of cat litter. A memory also surfaces of me carrying her in her carrier when she was itty-bitty trying to carry cat litter. I push both out of my mind.

I don’t realize how lucky we were until we turn onto our street. Looking down at the pavement, I saw signs of a fresh rain. We had just missed it. It had rained during that small window of time after we left but before we came back. What if my husband hadn’t needed to stop to change his clothes? What if he hadn’t come home at all? What if I had left without an umbrella?

We would be soaked. Yet, there we were, happily strolling down our street, dry as toast.

Wow. We are so lucky. We bought cat litter without getting rained on. Yeah, it happened those other times too, but this time was close. I am grateful. Thank God.

#raven #everything happens for a reason #grateful #Thank You #thanks #Thank God #stroller #cat #cat litter #lucky #wet litter #rain #sunny #overcast #buy #walk #lift stroller #lift #baby #parents #mommy #daddy #chat #adults #carry #heavy #pounds #kilograms #kgs #kg

[hungryraven-blog]

Tuna Breath

There’s actually a moment when all three of us are seated and eating. At the same time. I can say things like, “How’s your day so far?” and “Do you like your food?”

Mealtimes at our house can be quite chaotic. Cooking for me was always a pain. I would first have to know what I am going to make. We would have to actually own all of the ingredients. Those two things alone are daunting and can seem overwhelming. Add a 13-month old and meals become quite the challenge.

I imagine other households are all spotless, more organized, with well-behaved children. Every time I begin to fix a meal, I start the same way. I think, “I got this”. I admit, this is probably where I should make the change. Sure, there are probably better ways, easier ways of getting food on the table. All of them just feel like I am cheating my daughter somehow.

I could put her in her playpen and have her play there. I could sit her in her little rocking chair and turn on some kid television programming. I could have her in her high chair and let her munch on Cheerios. Sure. These are all good ideas. And some days, I do these things. Some days, I need her to be watching someSesame Street. For my own sanity. Those days, though, I feel like a bad, lazy parent doing these things.

Instead, I watch her on a monitor as she runs from the family room to her room, grabs a toy, runs back to the family room, drops that toy, picks up another, and then runs to her room. Rinse, lather, repeat. If she’s just running between the two rooms (with means she has to run past the kitchen), I always think I can manage. Since she’s still alive and hasn’t seriously injured herself yet, I must be right.

So, of course, it happens that I will see unplugging my phone. Or she’s taken down every book she owns and is about to rip out pages from regular books instead of being fascinated with her own board books. Or she decides she wants to know what the cat food tastes like. Yeah. It happens. That’s why I am watching her. I am singing to her. I am telling her how fascinating her Clifford toy is. I am talking to her about whatever she’s playing with. I am squealing right along with her as she runs back and forth. I am doing whatever I can to occupy her little mind. (What a task that is!) Yes, I am watching her. Watching her and putting together a meal.

Now, admittedly, some days are better than others. Some days, everything runs smoothly. Other days, I just have to shake my head. It’s tough. It’s tough to think, to think about what I am making with a 13-month old clinging to your legs.

I have to cook things she can eat while also making something edible for everyone. Before she was born, my husband and I occasionally had different meals. When she went through the puree stage, I used to make her her own meal. Those days are over. I am not cooking three different meals. No way. Sorry. That’s just too exhausting. I now try to give her what I can of what we’re eating and also keep enough on hand in the fridge that I can quickly supplement her meal with something she can eat whenever needed.

While she eats, I need to put the food away, load dishes into the dishwasher and clean any dishes possible, clean (read: mop) the floor under her highchair (lest she get down and play on the floor with that food because, you know, food is always more appealing the second time you see it, especially on the floor), and time it so that when I go to clean her up and get her back down to play again, she’s not screaming as though I just lit our beloved cat on fire. During this, I need to eat. I learned early on that the only time I can eat is while she’s eating. Any other time and I don’t have time to eat. Besides, when I eat and she’s not, I swear she pretends I am royalty and she’s the Court Taster.

Whenever a meal is over, I feel as though I’ve run a marathon. I just want to collapse.

At lunchtime, since I just have myself to worry about, if I feel like eating the same thing as she’s eating, fine. There are times when I want tuna. (She will not eat seafood until she’s two because of family allergies.)

Today was one of those days.

I was beginning to boil some pasta to add to it. I’m looking in the fridge for something for her when my phone rings. It startles me because it’s so loud and it’s so near. Oh yeah, it’s in my pocket. She had been running around with it minutes earlier. It’s her dad. He’s coming home for lunch.

“Can you fry and egg and cook up some sausage for me?” he asks. He doesn’t have a lot of time so he wants something simple and quick. So, that’s three different meals. Now.

I am happy he’s coming home. I don’t want to discourage him. So, I smile into the phone and say, “Sure!”

I turn around to see our daughter squealing by, amused with an empty Coke bottle. I have to chase her down and extract it. Three meals and a short amount of time, I can’t deal with her running around, too. So, I clean her hands and put her in her highchair. She starts to protest. She’s bored and suddenly realizes how ravenous she is. I have got to quickly find something give her to munch on. I rapidly shred some some lunchmeat and throw it at her.

When my dear husband walks into the door and sees the egg frying in a pan by itself, he can’t understand why the meat isn’t cooking in there, too. I make up something about him not liking the idea of cooking with animal grease and stick the meat in the pan.

Finally, we sit and eat. There’s actually a moment when all three of us are seated and eating. At the same time. I can say things like, “How’s your day so far?” and “Do you like your food?” He asks me what I am eating. It’s not often I eat tuna fish pasta in front of him. It’s like a real meal. With conversation. I feel like an adult. Oh my.

And as quickly as the whirlwind began, it was over. We, the adults, were done eating. I had taken my last bite of tuna fish and pasta. He’s got to run back to work. And that’s when he plants one on me, taking me by complete surprise. He pulls away, smiles, and says his goodbye. With a wave, he’s out the door and gone.

I am still reeling. Did I mention there was onion and pickle in that pasta dish too? Ick.

He wanted to come home for lunch. The place is a mess. The food isn’t gourmet. There’s a needy, little toddler. And he kisses me. Mouthful of tuna and all. And he is still happy on his way out the door.

I am lucky. I am grateful to have someone like that. Thank God!

#Thank God #Thank You #baby #chaos #cook #cooking #food #gourmet #grateful #high chair #highchair #hungry #hungry raven #lunch #meal #mealtime #mealtimes #play #playing #playpen #raven #running #sing #singing #thakn #thanks #toddler #tuna #blog #thank you

[hungryraven-blog]

Bubble Buddies

"She was the one who took me to the hospital. My bubble buddy."

When I first found out I was pregnant, I was terrified of telling my boss. I imagine most soon-to-be mothers feel the same way. Sure, it’s against the law to fire someone on maternity leave, but in the back of your mind, it’s still there. For me, there was added pressure. My boss was going to retire. I was being groomed to take her place. It took me a while to gather up the nerve and let her in on my secret.

When I did, she said, “You will need support”. She hinted that I should talk to another co-worker and casually suggested one. At the time, I had thought this over. She was right. I was going to be a new mom. If that wasn’t intimidating enough, I was living in a foreign country, far from home and friends and family. Far from my own parents. How could I ever get through this alone? I was skeptical about work being the place to air my dirty laundry. My boss had known I was friendly with the business development consultant, Abigail*.  So, her suggestion that I speak with her in particular wasn’t completely a surprise.

I invited Abigail out for coffee. A coffee break outside of the office in the middle of the morning was not unusual. In this country, it’s a cultural norm. Foreigners have a hard time understanding this culture. Over a cup of coffee in a café, much business can be conducted similar to the golf course in theUSA. Yet, the cafes are more accessible, cheaper, require less time away from the office, and don’t require the acquisition of a skill only to feign a lack of that very skill.

There, at a café, close to our office, holding my cup of decaf tea, I leaned over and said, “I’m pregnant.”

She immediately threw her head back, clapped her hands together, and laughed out loud.  Puzzled, I asked, “What?”

“Oh, I am happy for you, congratulations! But, me too!” My eyes widened as I realized we were in the same boat. Quickly, we determined our due dates were 4 days apart and she was having twins. We were so relieved to finally have someone to talk to about our bellies! We discussed the inevitable: telling everyone in the office. What would everyone say? Were they gossiping already? How would we go about telling everyone?

We talked about how nice it was to share this experience with someone; someone who was going through the exact same thing at the exact same time. We talked about buying the baby stuff, where to shop, maternity clothes. We had so much in common all of a sudden.

Soon enough, as time wore on, it became apparent that we were not having the exact same experience. I had the easiest pregnancy imaginable.  I suppose that was quite necessary. Any complication would have sent me over the edge, being so far from home and given the state of healthcare in the current country. Abigail on the other hand, had quite the time. Poor thing would spend two hours every morning praying to the porcelain god. She had to then walk to work. It was a 45-minute hike! She couldn’t stand a car or bus. The motion of either threatened to bring on more fits of puking. Often times, she couldn’t make it to work until 10am.

Walking down the street to lunch, we were fond of saying the five of us were going to lunch. We both popped out quickly, her with her twins and me lookings like I had a basketball stuffed up my shirt. Abigail and I were both pregnant, yes. And we carried very special cargo. We were bubble buddies.

I came to work one day and decided to stop at a convenience store for fruit. Once everyone in the office found out, eating fruit in the morning as a snack was an office concern. We had to eat fruit. For the baby (or babies as in her case). If we didn’t, someone would wait for us to step out of our offices and mysteriously drop off a plate of cut up fruit. I was about six months pregnant when I was on my way to the store that day. I was told my center of gravity had shifted. I thought I was just too big to see my shoes. Whatever it was, I tripped over the curb and fell forward.

She was the one who took me to the hospital. My bubble buddy.

Yesterday, we met for a playdate. Now, in theory, a playdate is a great idea, especially if you are an only child. It’s always a good idea for my little one to get out there and play with other kids. With the twins, one boy and one girl, it’s really special. All three are exactly the same age. Twins are typically born a month early due to crowding issues. All three don’t have the same birthdates. I can’t really say all three are 13 months old now. What I can say is all three had the same due date within four days of each other. The girls were conceived at the same time. The boy was four days earlier.

With her twins and my little girl, it’s almost like an instant party. In theory, it’s great. My little girl can see other kids and interact. They can all play together. They are at the same stage of development. All can walk and babble.

Reality is a different story. Yes, they are all at the same stage. They are interested in the same things. What this means though is they all want to play with the same toys and have no idea how to share. All three are easily distracted and run in different directions.

The redeeming quality is that they are the same age. So, yeah, my little one doesn’t know to share. But, neither do the twins. I had nothing to be ashamed of.

We were all sitting in the grass. I pulled out a small bottle of bubbles. Instantly, I had all three babies’ attention. They stood barely an arm’s length from my face. They were absolutely captivated by those bubbles. The boy was so curious as to how the bubbles were made and the mechanics of it all. The girl was mimicking the sound I was making as I blew the bubbles.

Almost all of them were mesmerized. My little one was more interested in the fact her Mommy was showing bubbles to other babies. She promptly went and stood directly in front of the boy, blocking his view. When that didn’t get rid of the pesky boy, she asked me, in her very own little baby babble, “Zih-boah?!” She wanted to be breastfed.

Abigail and I threw our heads back and laughed. My daughter was jealous. For the first time ever in her life, she was feeling insecure and jealous!

In that moment, I desperately wanted to explain to her that I was her Mommy, not theirs. They were supposed to be her friends, not mine. That the twins’ Mommy was really my friend. Looking into her little eyes, there just was no way I could make her understand.

Then, it hit me. There, sitting in the grass blowing bubbles on that sunny day with those babies. This came from our friendship and a kind of kinship pregnancy. It was a catch-22 almost. We became very good friends because we were pregnant. We were friends because of our kids. Yet our kids would be friends because we were friends first.

I am so grateful for having such a day. Thank God for good friends and meddling bosses!

*Not her real name.

#babies #baby #boss #bubble #bubbles #coffee #fall #friend #fruit #grass #hungry #hungry raven #office #pregnant #raven #walking #babble #babbles #share #toys #sharing #running #run #new mom #playdate #play #date #work #co-worker #kids

[hungryraven-blog]

Fridge (part 2)

"There, in the dark, I could see his silhouette. He was sitting on my bedroom floor rug."

Now, I didn’t know a thing about cats. We three didn’t know what we were in for.

If someone had told me this years ago, I never would have believed it. Me? I am a dog person. I grew up with dogs. I understood dogs. I pitied people who didn’t have the pleasure of a dog. I knew nothing of cats. What I did know was these two had just lost their owner and sense of security. They were changing homes. I figured that had to be pretty traumatic. It would be traumatic for anyone. Let alone an animal that couldn’t be told what had just happened. From then on, I was going to take care of them. I was determined to let this be their last home. I was going to take this new responsibility very seriously. 

I wanted to earn their trust. Sure, we had to rip them from their home. But, this was home now. I wanted it to be their home. By the time I had brought up Molly and all of their things into the apartment, Dopey was nowhere to be seen. The moment we entered the apartment, Molly became very quiet, almost eerily quiet. I set her carrier down on the floor in the spare bedroom. I opened the cage door.

She didn’t move.

It was okay. This was her home now. She was home. And I wanted her to feel at home. I turned off the light and let her be. It was late. I was exhausted. After doing some meaningless things, I settled down to sleep in my own bedroom on the other side of the apartment.

I don’t know what time it was when the creak of the floor woke me up. I opened my eyes and realized he woke me up. There, in the dark, I could see his silhouette. He was sitting on my bedroom floor rug.

“Hi”. I finally found my voice. “Do you want to come and sleep with me?”

He didn’t move. I sat up in bed. He took a step back. I waited a moment and wondered if he was scared. I studied his face. No, he wasn’t scared. His eyes said something though.

“What is it?” I asked. He just sat there.

“Duh, he’s a cat,” I thought. I stood up to reach out to him. He took a couple of steps back. Then, he looked at me. His eyes beckoned.

“Okay”, I thought. I took a step towards him and he took a few more steps back. I looked at him and he looked at me as he now sat next to the door of the bedroom.

“What is it?” I asked him again. He took a few steps and walked away. Yet, I could still see his tail as he sat in the hallway. I followed him.

This continued all the way down the hallway. A few steps at a time, we finally reached the doorway of the spare bedroom. I watched as he went inside and walked right over to the carrier in which I had brought Molly just hours before. He looked at me and looked at the carrier. He made sure I saw him. Then, just like that, he backed away and came back to me by the door. I said, “Okay, what’s going on?” 

So, I walked over to the carrier. In the darkness, I couldn’t see a thing. I flicked on a switch. My instinct had been right. She wasn’t there.

I looked around. Neither of them was in sight. He had left the room completely. Then, it hit me. He wanted me to know. He wanted me to know that she felt safe and she had left to find herself a new hiding spot.

I didn’t see Molly again for three weeks. I was sitting on the couch in the family room watching TV when I saw her peer at me from the hallway leading to the kitchen, bathroom, and my bedroom. I don’t know where she came from or what she had been doing, but there she was.

We looked at each other for a full minute. I said “Hello” and she was gone.

That’s how it was. Dopey told me what I needed to know, in his own way.  I was a dog person.  I didn’t know a lick about cats.  Dopey, on the other hand, was teaching me what I needed to know.  He was hands-down smarter than any dog I’ve ever known. 

#cat #hungry raven #hungry #raven #creak #carrier #hide #afraid #move #grateful #Thank God #Thank You #thakn #thanks #dog #dog-lover #cat-lover #feed #cahnge homes #change homes #tv #traumatic #home #new #new home #three #two cats #cats #dopey #molly

[hungryraven-blog]

Fridge (part 1)

"As I stroked him on my lap, I wondered what would happen to him once the cancer took his owner."

I was 24 years old when he entered my life. Sure, I had met him plenty of times before that day. I knew of him and had seen him moseying around. Nevertheless, it wasn’t until my brother lay him in my arms that fateful day that he actually came into my life. I can remember it as if it were yesterday.

My mother’s second stepmother had just died the week before. Those days blur together in my memory. However, some things are still very clear. We were in the hospital. I had just gone to visit her the night before. I lived in the third largest city in the United States, Chicago. She lived in nearby Oak Park. It was a short drive to her hospital and, still, it was the first time I was there. I didn’t know things would change at work and I would be training those hospitals employees just a short time later. I couldn’t see her that night. She had been taken for an MRI. We were told by the nurse that by the time she would return, it would be past visiting hours. My mom had reassured me that we would come again the next day and we went out to dinner at a local restaurant instead.

The next day didn’t work out as we had hoped. The next morning, I stood over her body lying there. It was cold, motionless, and very yellow. She had died of liver failure as a complication to her non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I was there because my mother was there. I received a call at work from her co-worker, saying my mother had left work abruptly and, oddly enough, had left her wallet on her desk. I knew before I even asked where she went. She had gone to the hospital. I stood by her in that hospital room that morning, more concerned for her than anything else. Still, it was foolish of me to have been surprised to see my mom’s stepmother’s two sons out in the hallway.  I murmured my condolences to them.

I remember I asked them if there was anything we could do. What a loaded question! I remember they said they had a lot of people to call, but they could handle everything. I knew she had been in the hospital for about a week and had two cats at home. I asked them if anyone had been over to her apartment to check on them. He said there had been a neighbor going over there, but they had automatic feeders and such. They should be fine. Then, Vic paused. He looked at me, then at his brother, before he said it. He said, “How would you like to take them?”  

I didn’t pause, really. What flashed through my mind was a sunny Saturday about a month before. I remember my mother and I went over to her house to check on her. My mother did so every chance she could. She went grocery shopping and cleaned the house for her step mom. With two kids at home still and working two jobs, I don’t know how my mother had the time or energy. I had gone over there to have lunch with the two of them. My mom felt the need to pick up things and straighten up the place a little as I sat in the living room with my grandfather’s third wife. She showed me her bandanna she was wearing those days. With my grandfather dead and gone for a few years by then, we were not close.

I was uncomfortably sitting on the living room couch when I saw him the only time I would ever see him there. He came up to her and sat on her lap. She stroked him gently as she talked to me. She called him Fridge because of his size. She didn’t have to tell me she overfed him. He was as spoiled as all her other pets I had known in her life. I asked her about the other pets. She said she had another cat, Molly. Molly was safely hiding in the bedroom, in her spot under the bed. Just then, my mother came into the room as if she had been there all along and declared she didn’t know what Molly looked like. She had never seen her. She was afraid of humans and only came out when no visitors were around.

My mom needed something in the kitchen. So, the two of them left the room. With no one around, Fridge looked to me for affection. As I stroked him on my lap, I wondered what would happen to him once the cancer took his owner.

How could I have known just weeks later her sons would stand before me in the hospital and offer them to me? I did not hesitate. No. I said I would take them. For some reason, I felt it was my responsibility.

The week following her death, we were standing in her apartment; her sons were going through her things. It was chaotic. Looking back, the cats must have been so frightened. I had met my older brother and mother there since I was the city girl. My older brother called out, “Dopey?!” and after 3 years of estrangement, Dopey came right to him. I was surprised. How did he remember my brother after so many years? I don’t know how, but he did. He even remembered my brother’s name for him, Dopey. Not Fridge.

My brother held him close as he whispered something into his ears. He put him down on the carpet stand by the door. He told us we would be able to get him quite easily and not to worry. So, we just left him there as our thoughts turned to Molly. We anticipated she would be hard to take home since Mom didn’t even know what she looked like.

We underestimated Molly.

She was in her spot, safely hidden under the bed. Or so she thought. We shut the door as my brother and I sought her out together. We called her. We tapped the floor. We sweetly beckoned her. Her glowing eyes shown back to us, telling us we were idiots. Plan B kicked in. We picked up the mattresses and took the bed apart. She ran around and around the mattresses, escaping us at every turn. We were exhausted and my brother scratched pretty well by the time we finally caught her and threw her in a carrier. With her in the carrier, I gathered their belongings.

Spoiled was an understatement.

I was lucky. I didn’t have to buy a thing for them in the beginning. They had the usual litter box, feeders and a big water station. They also had scratch posts and toys galore. The only things they didn’t have was a second carrier and their owner.

We loaded up my car with their things. Then, we went back inside for them. I placed Molly (and her carrier) in the front seat and turned to my brother who had followed me outside with Dopey in his arms. He told me to get in the car. I sat in the drivers’ seat as he handed Dopey to me. He said he might try to run, but he didn’t think so. I was to hold onto him really tight. I wondered how I’d ever be able to drive and hold the cat at the same time. I was relieved when Dopey relaxed in my lap on the way home and just sat there. Molly cried the entire time. Attempts at comforting her were totally in vain.

After what seemed like hours, I reached home and successfully parallel-parked into a rare spot right in front of my building. I held onto Dopey as tightly as I could as I clambered out of the car and made my way inside. He didn’t move. He didn’t fight. He didn’t even whimper. I put him on the family room floor and he seemed to understand me when I told him I was going back for Molly. He didn’t have to believe me. Soon, he and the entire neighborhood heard us coming back. “Great,” I thought, “If she doesn’t shut up, she’s going to be homeless!”I looked up at the camera next to our front door and prayed my landlord did not notice me smuggling in a couple of cats.

I was so grateful that night she didn't.  Thank God!

#Thank God #Thank You #apartment #bandanna #believe #blog #building #cancer #cat #couch #death #dopey #drive #family room #fed #fight #fridge #funeral #grateful #hodgekin's lymphoma #hodgkin's lymphoma #hungry #hungry raven #inherit #landlord #molly #neighborhood #parked #raven #thanks

[hungryraven-blog]

The Hungry Raven

#hungry raven #hungry #raven #short #short story #story #grateful #thanks #thank you #thank God #blog #lost

[hungryraven-blog]

Moment of Horror

"In that moment, I wondered what I could do.  I couldn’t take off after the guy.  I had my baby with me.  I couldn’t just grab her and run either."

You think you know what you would do in a given situation.  I am telling you, you do not.  My sister is fond of asking why the stupid blond girl always runs up the stairs in the horror movie when she should be running out the front door.  It’s true.  You see these movies and think, that cannot be possible.  I would never do that.  You don’t know.  Not really.  Not until that moment arrives and you are in that situation to make the decision.

I had my moment. 

I attempt once a day to get my daughter out of the house and into fresh air and sunshine.  Most days, it’s easy.  We typically need something at the store or I have to run an errand of some kind.  Today, I really, really needed to get myself measured.  My brother is getting married next spring.  I am going to stand up.  Although I live far away, my instructions are to be fitted by a local tailor and then phone in the measurements.  That was easy enough.  Of course, the measuring part would be easy once the language problem was solved through hand gestures and erratic waving.  Sometimes my scolding of my daughter’s wanderings was mistaken for some sort of meaning.

After the fitting and lunch, she went for a nap.  Another outing was really not necessary.  Errand completed.  Daughter out?  Check.  When she woke up, though, I was suddenly overcome with an urge to make magic for her in the form of bubbles.  There’s only one place I have in mind.  When she was much younger I took her down to the lakefront, sat on a park bench and blew bubbles.  She was mesmerized.  That day, her look, it was all picture perfect, the picture I have in my mind as well as the picture I took with my phone. 

I dressed her and put her in the stroller, explaining how we were going down to the lake to blow bubbles.  Shoes found and on, I put suntan lotion on her and tried describing what bubbles looked like.  (Yes, I may admit to being slightly neurotic about sunblock but you have not seen my moles.)  Keys in hand, sippy in the cupholder for the muggy forest ride, I almost left without my mobile phone.  It was just a walk, after all.  I could hear my husband chastising me, telling me that “you never know”.  I sighed and grabbed it.  And we were off.

Our building is situated right next to a restaurant.  Past the restaurant is the entrance for a forest preserve.  Within the forest is a rather large man-made lake.  This lake is our destination.  The path we’d take is a wide paved, stone path that winds its way through the forest and around the lake.

I made sure to stop every once in a while and make sure my daughter noticed the trees, leaves, and any wild thing to be seen.  On the way to the lake, the only kind of animal to be seen were birds.  It was a hot, muggy day.  Stopping often also gave me a chance to look into her face and see if she was getting too hot.  So, when I stopped walking once again, she was quite used to it and did not protest.  She was merely curious as to what I wanted to show her.

Quite suddenly, a man was emerging from the forest.  He was hurling himself towards the path at what he believed to be warp speed, judging by his face.  He had been running for some time unless I had misjudged the heat.  His face was red and he was dripping with sweat. 

Normally, I would not bat an eye at such a sight.  The forest preserve is full of athletes looking to exercise or practice their favorite sport.  Closer to the lake, there is actually a gravel path for runners situated next to the paved one.  In addition, there are at least two locations I am aware of which possess various bars used in gymnastics.  People can be seen doing some sort of exercise somewhere in the park seemingly at all times.  In fact, it might actually be eery to be walking there and see no one at all.

It was not the fact that he was running that was odd.  Nor that he was running off the path.  No, it was that he was clad in a white, button-down shirt, black slacks, and black dress shoes.  He hadn’t even bothered to roll up his sleeves.  He was missing his suit coat and briefcase.  Otherwise, I’d say he was dressed for an office meeting.  Yet, here he was, barrelling through a forest.  He was not running to get out of the forest either.  I am not sure where he was running.  Nevertheless I was positive he was not leaving the forest any time soon.  We had come from the entrance.  He was not sprinting in that direction.  The look on his face was…wrong.

Simply, I was looking at a sight I’ve never encountered before.  I had no way to explain it to my daughter even if I could have made sense of it and found my voice in time. 

I watched as he crossed the stone path behind us and then re-entered forest, disappearing once more into the trees.  I was about to continue on our way when a thought crossed my mind.  Perhaps, he was not headed somewhere.  Rather, perhaps someone was chasing him.  I looked where he first appeared.  There were trees arranged on a slight hill just before reaching the path.  That may explain why I had no prior warning of his approach.

I held my breath and waited. 

I paused, expecting someone to jump out and yell, “Stop that thief!”  In that moment, I wondered what I could do.  I couldn’t take off after the guy.  I had my baby with me.  I couldn’t just grab her and run, either.  What about the stroller?  I am going to leave it wide open for anyone to come along and steal to try to catch a thief.  How ironic would that be?

After what seemed like an eternity, no one came through the trees.  I let out my breath and sighed.  No one was going to come panicking through, chasing some man in a suit.  I accepted this.  I turned to move on.  As I began to once again push the stroller, I had another thought.

What if this was a horror movie?  What if someone or something really had been chasing the suit guy?  What if he had been one of those infamous Men In Black?  That would make me…the witness, the innocent bystander, the one who was at the wrong place at the wrong time.  I was the idiot who stuck around to see what makes a normal business man speed through sparsely populated, rugged terrain. 

I so would not survive a horror movie.  I sighed.  I have a kid.  I am not a virgin.  We all know the non-virgins don’t survive in horror movies anyway.  Still, standing there, gaping at someone running from danger is a dead ringer for a Red Shirt.

We had a nice, peaceful walk followed by some seemingly magical bubbles.  On the way back, we did not see any more mysterious men running.  We saw some grazing cows and a couple of bulls though.  I laughed at the cows, thinking, “you never know what you’ll see when you’re in here.”  That stopped me short.  Indeed, my husband was right.  I really never knew just what I would see.  I was suddenly grateful for my cell phone.  I silently thanked God this is real life.  Thank God no monster was there chasing that man.  I am grateful we made it out alive.

#appreciate #birds #bubbles #dress shoes #forest #grateful #horror movie #hot #hungry #hungry raven #man #muggy #raven #reason #running #scary #sister #stroller #suit #thank God #thank you #thanks #thx #tie #trees #walk #weird #blog #story #short story

[hungryraven-blog]

Ouch!

"I wanted to cry.  I put my head down on the handlebar of the stroller.  What was I going to do?" 

I woke up one Tuesday morning and my left arm hurt.  It was a familiar pain.  When I was in high school, I had this pain.  I had taken the garbage out. After throwing it in the can, my wrist began to hurt.  It wasn’t bad.  I thought it would go away.  It took me 24 hours to finally get it checked out.  When I did, it was fractured.  It was embarrassing.  I broke my arm by throwing out the garbage. 

It was time for my daughter’s immunization shots.  She had just turned a year old over the weekend.  Balloons were still all over her bedroom floor.  I’d deal with those some other day, I kept saying. 

Going to the doctor means I need a taxi.  Getting a taxi means we need the car seat as well as the stroller.  Normally, this would not be a big deal.  However, we live in a country which does not have any ADA laws.  Subsequently, our apartment building’s method of access is a series of 6 steps, followed by a short hallway to the elevator.  Going by taxi means I will put my daughter in her car seat, attach the car seat to our stroller, drape the diaper bag over the handlebar and wheel her out of our apartment onto the elevator, down the hallway, and then lift all of those things at once, down over those 6 steps to the sidewalk, where I will walk to hail a taxi.  I could sling the diaper bag over one shoulder and carry my daughter in her car seat to the taxi.  There is that option.  That means I will carry her for quite a ways though.  My arms are usually burning by the time I reach the car. I usually prefer the 10-seconds-of-baby-gear-weightlifting to car-seat-marathon-baby-lifting. 

My daughter’s doctor is our family doctor.  He’s fantastic, really.  While he checked out my daughter, I figured I’d hit two birds with one stone.  I told him about this pain I have in my left wrist.  I explained my history and asked for an x-ray.  He told me my wrist was not broken and it was just over-extended, over-used.  I insisted.  It’s natural given my history.  Being the nice man he is, he obliged me and wrote me a script.  He warned me of using my wrist anyway.  He said I should avoid using it.  The goal was to use it about 30% less.  I ignored this.  It was broken.  I was going to get a cast.  It was going to be fixed and fine.  Whatever he just told me was nonsense.

That was Monday.  Today was Tuesday.  I needed that x-ray now.  I lifted the baby gear over the 6 steps and took a cab to the hospital.  There, I assembled it all and went inside.  (Yes, I took my daughter to my x-ray.  Don’t look at me like that.  I am a stay-at-home mom living in a country with no babysitters.  The x-ray tech insisted she wait outside due to x-ray poisoning worries.  Ohhhh, scary.  A man waiting in the hallway outside agreed with the x-ray tech and assured me “no one will take” my daughter.  Right.  I am supposed to leave my baby unattended?  ‘Cuz that’s not scary.  Yeah, I took her with me. To get x-rays.  She did not have x-ray poisoning because I insisted she stay with the x-ray tech behind the wall with the little window, much to his dismay.  Who cares what he wanted or what’s written in his job description anyway?  My daughter remained safe and no one kidnapped her. That’s MY job, Mr. X-Ray Technician.  There, I said it.)

The x-ray, of course, showed nothing.  I was disappointed.  A fractured wrist would have been a nice, easy explanation with a nice, easy fix.  Now, I just try not to use it and hope for the best.  This was awful.  How am I supposed to not use my wrist?  I mean, I’m a mom.  I have to lift my 22-lb baby all the time.  I lift her into her highchair three times a day.  I lift her up to the sink to wash her hands before meals.  I lift her in and out of the tub at least once a day, sometimes more depending on her state of messiness after eating.  I lift her in and out of her crib for both her naps and when she goes to bed at night.  This doesn’t count all of the lifting I do for her diaper changes.  How am I supposed to do all of that with just one arm?  What about all of the other stuff I do with two hands?  The dishes, chopping up finger food, and grocery shopping?  What if rest doesn’t help?  What if my wrist is going to hurt forever and ever and ever?  This was horrible news.

I pile everything back into the taxi and call the doctor’s office.  I am in luck.  They have a splint I can use.  The splint doesn’t act to heal my arm, the doctor had told me the day before.  Rather, the splint reminds me not to use it.  I am so not thrilled, but thank the doctor brightly anyway.  Trying to minimize my baby gear workout, I ask the cab to stop at the doctor’s on the way home.  Out of the cab, I assemble all of the baby gear and lift all of it over the doctor’s entrance steps, grab the splint, lift the baby gear back down the entrance steps and disassemble it all back into the cab.  Each time I lift anything, I hear the doctor’s voice, chiding me.

At home, I thank the driver and assemble the stroller with the diaper bag.  I lift the car seat out of the car and onto the stroller.  Away we go.  I wheel it up to the steps where I bend over to lift the whole thing again.  I take a moment and sigh.  This was ridiculous.  No wonder my arm hurt.  At the top, I briefly wondered about my right arm and pushed the thought away.

We stroll down the entry hall, making our way to the elevator.  I am about to hit the button to call it when I see there is no light.  My heart sinks.  The elevator is out.  Either that or the power is out.  You’ve got to be kidding, I thought to myself.  There was no way I was going to lift all that crap by myself up nine flights of stairs to our apartment.  I was pretty sure I wasn’t even supposed to lift it up the 6 steps to get here.  I wanted to cry.  I put my head down on the handlebar of the stroller.  What was I going to do?

I looked at my watch.  It was 12:47pm.  My husband would be going to lunch soon.  I took out my phone to call and see if he wanted to have lunch.  I hoped the elevator would be back in working order by the time we were back from lunch.  I was really tired, but what were our other options?

“Hey hon!” I greeted him brightly when he picked up.

“Hey, what’s going on?” he inquired automatically.  It was a little odd for me to call.  I don’t like to bother him while he’s working.  Instead, I let him do the calling.

“Oh, nothing.” I replied, suddenly reluctant to tell him the truth.  I didn’t want to sound like a whiner, complaining about my arm.

“What’s wrong?”  He had heard it in my voice anyway. Crap.  Well, 13 years will do that, I guess. 

“Nothing, nothing” I told him quickly.  I didn’t want to tell him about the elevator situation either.  I didn’t want to make is sound as though I was stuck and desperately needed this lunch to rescue us while we wait for the elevator to be fixed.  It’s not that I didn’t want to seem like a damsel in distress, more like I didn’t want him to feel like that was the only reason we were having lunch and make him feel like second best.  I closed my eyes and prayed he wouldn’t pry further.

“You sure?”

Then, I heard a click.  I opened my eyes and the red ring was lit up around the elevator button.  I sighed a sigh of relief. 

“I just wanted to see how things were on your end.”  I was relieved.  The elevator was back in working order.

“Good, busy,” came his response. 

“I guess that’s good. Right?”  I hit the elevator button.  I could hear the cables moving in the shaft. 

“Can I call you later?” he requested.  I acquiesced and we hung up.  It was good timing.  The elevator arrived and he was none the wiser. 

In the apartment, I busied myself getting lunch ready while my dear daughter waited patiently in her highchair.  She promptly has lunch daily at noon.  We were already late for lunch.  I try my best, but life happens.  I would just put lunch together as quickly as possible.  To save time, she was going to have some leftover Mac N Cheese and veggies I pulled from the fridge.  Just as I put the plate in the microwave, the unthinkable happens.  The power goes out. 

How am I supposed to ask a baby to wait when she’s already at her wits end to eat?  Ignoring her I tried to think.  There are only certain foods she can eat.  I couldn’t open the fridge.  I couldn’t use the microwave or our electric stove.  Cheerios, fruit, I could breastfeed her.  I was brainstorming solutions.  The power did come back after a while.  I staved off her hunger in the meantime.

When she was in finally bathed and down for her afternoon nap, I sat down and finally had the chance to catch my breath.  I pondered over the day and began to feel sorry for myself.  I didn’t grow up like this.  I didn’t have to deal with power outages or things not working when I needed them.  I grew up in a world where you only had to lift things like strollers in and out of your car.  Things were much easier.  I soon realized I was tense.

My daughter had just turned one.  There were balloons all over the floor in her room.  I had an idea.  I couldn’t do anything about electricity or my arm.  But, I could do something about my response and my attitude.  When she woke up, I set her on the floor and she followed me as I went back and forth from her room to my shower.  I put all of the balloons in our shower.  When I was finished, I armed myself with a screwdriver.

I stopped myself.  This is what my day was like.  Who knew what my husband’s day had been like.  He had said he was busy.  Was that a good busy?  Or a putting-out-fires kind of busy? 

I waited.  When he finally came home, I met him at the door and handed him the screwdriver.  He regarded me warily as I led him into our bathroom.  Seeing the balloons, he laughed.  He only popped half of them, leaving half for me.  Those balloons made my day.  It’s the little things.

I am grateful for having electricity and pain-free body parts.  Most of all, I have never been so grateful for being lazy about picking up those balloons!  Thank God!

#arm #baby #balloons #broke #broken #elevator #fracture #hurt #pain #pop #power out #x-ray #x-rays #short story #blog #story #short

[hungryraven-blog]

Good Manners

"Good manners had paid off. Literally. "

We had just moved to a poor country.  The customs were still a little strange.  One custom which took a little getting used to was the idea of tipping.  In North America, we were pretty good tippers.  That is, we generally would tip 20% or so unless something really went wrong.  Even then, we’d tip about 10%.  Now we found ourselves in a country where people generally did not tip and people were generally poor.  It would be easy to save some cash and just pay for whatever it was – food, a cup of coffee, a lift.

We were dealing with the nasty business of unloading our stuff.  Our container had just arrived and was going through customs.  There was a lot of paperwork and red tape.  We estimated it would take all day. 

Seeing that for the moment our things were safe with a trusted local, my husband walked over and asked me to go to a cafe with him for coffee.  There, at the cafe, he told me that the guys working were more concerned with me than the work at hand out of some misplaced chivalry. They were fussing about getting me a chair, getting me out of the sun, etc.

“Good grief,” I thought. My husband said he told me it wasn't a place for me, but I insisted I was fine. I finally asked him if he thought it was safe for me and he told me it was.  We discussed the business of tipping.  10% was considered a huge tip.  We didn’t think we’d ever get used to tipping very little.  We’d always been good tippers since we knew many waiters and waitresses who struggled, trying to get by on tips.  Especially now, seeing the immense poverty, it was going to be doubly difficult not to tip what we consider a normal tip.  When we gave our tip, jaws would drop and faces looked shocked.  It was embarrassing.  We chatted on, wondering what the real proper tip for our coffee that day should be.

Before long, using his car, the main trusted local drove across the street to the café where we were drinking our coffee.  He announced to us they had completed their task and they were done.  Our stuff had cleared customs and our container had been unloaded.  Our things were now in a couple of trucks suitable for transporting our things across the city to our apartment.

In half an hour?!  It was unbelievable.  We were 7 in Montreal and it took us way more than half an hour to load that container.  He said they were done and so we had no choice but to believe them.  We got up to go.  Finding the waiter, we paid our bill and left.  We climbed into the local’s car and made our way to our apartment to oversee the delivery of our things.

Halfway there, we discover that my husband has left his cell phone on the table back at the cafe.  Someone needed to oversee the unloading of our stuff at the apartment.  We quickly decided that once we drop off my husband at our apartment, I would go back to the café for the cell phone with the local.

We pulled up in front of the café and I alighted.  Looking around, I didn’t see anyone, not even the waiters that had been working there just 45 minutes before.  I found a woman working behind a register inside.  When I asked her about the phone and described it to her, she reached underneath the counter and pulled it out.  The phone was still there.  As poor as everyone was, no one took it.

We had tipped well and were repaid with the protection of our things.  Good manners had paid off.  Literally.  I am just not so sure it was our good manners that saved our phone. 

Whoever’s it was, I am grateful.  Thank God we got our phone back!

#10% #20% #cafe #car #cell phone #chair #coffee #container #country #customs #lift #money #paperwork #poor #tip #unload #short story #blog #short #story

[hungryraven-blog]

Moving Mountains

"I looked down at my shoes and the gravel path.  Was it really dangerous?"

I don’t remember how old I was when it happened.  It was a beautiful day though.  The sun, not yet directly above me, felt warm on my face.  It must have been morning or early evening, then.  It was not an overly warm day and yet the trees were bright green.  In my memory there was no snow in sight either, telling me it was either late spring or early summer. 

We were hiking on a mountain.  In Georgia, we were visiting friends who had moved far away.  This was no ordinary mountain.  It was Stone Mountain.  A huge piece of granite with the largest bas-relief in the world.  We reached the top and could see for miles and miles.  The trees seemed endless.

The rocks on the ground were beautiful.  I busied myself with the rocks, picking them up and turning them over in my hands.  Some were shiny and really colorful.  Others were dull, but if I squinted and looked carefully, they were special too, in their own way.  I was not the only one who did this.  I am sure of it.  The adults did not pay attention.  They were too busy admiring the scene and chatting among each other.

Soon, it came time for our descent.  We would hike back down the mountain the same way we came.  It was a gravel path and not difficult walking, as I recall.  In my hands were many rocks I admired.  I fully intended to keep them like seashells one collects along the seashore.  To me, they were that unusual and pretty.  I must have been very young to have wanted to keep a bunch of stones.

I can’t imagine how my dad must have felt when he saw me, hiking down a mountain with a bunch of rocks.  Was he afraid for my safety or did he not want rocks at home?  It’s hard to say.  Here’s what he did say that day, “We are walking down a mountain here.  It can get rough in parts.  I know you really like your rocks, but what if you fall?  You will put out your hands to break your fall but instead of stopping you from falling flat on your face, they will be full of rocks.  Falling with rocks in your hands sounds pretty painful, doesn’t it?  Maybe you ought to leave the rocks here on the mountain.”

I kept on walking, keeping pace with him.  I listened to every word he said and carefully thought it over.  I did not have any pockets.  I looked down at my shoes and the gravel path.  Was it really dangerous?  After a while, I dropped a rock.  Then, another.  And another.  Pretty soon, my hands were empty. 

I never gave it a second thought until I had a daughter of my own and we were walking through the forest preserve near our home.  He could have said many things that day.  The approach he took was to explain why he didn’t want me carrying around rocks and in such a way that it did not come across as such.  Instead, he presented the dilemma to me and trusted me to make the right choice.

I think about this day and can’t help but wonder about other lessons I learned.  Most assuredly, I was raised to think for myself, to take in information and make a decision all on my own.  I am sure there were times when I was commanded to do as I was told, but there must have been plenty of times like this one where I was trusted to weigh my options and make a decision for myself.  In life, not always is there someone to tell you what to do, where to work, how to live.  There are so many choices to make.  Where to eat, whether to study for a test, where to go to college, who to marry and where to live are decisions everyone must make.  However, the choices I have made do not reflect the average person.  How different is my life!  Thank God.

#choice #choose #friends #independence #life #path #quartz #rock #rocks #stone #stone mountain #stones #walk #blog #hungry raven #hungry #story #short #short story #raven #flash fiction #flash friday #flashfic