IT ‘S LIKE A PARTY IN YOUR LUNGS! EXCEPT WITH FLUID AND HIGH FEVERS AND HORRIBLE RACKING COUGHS THAT SOUND LIKE YOU’RE BUSTING RIBS!

Le sigh. Yeah, it’s like a non-stop visit to the Crap Carnival here at Chez Redheadmama. We were at the doctor’s office for 4 hours (!!!enraged punctuation!!!!) yesterday, took us an hour just to get into the doctor’s waiting room where we then waited in a freezing cold room with a child shivering from a 103.4 fever, then we had to get blood drawn, then chest x-rays, then prescription, then madness-inducing little details that made me get somewhat Hulk Smash-y. And yes, I’m thankful for good health insurance and doctors and medicine and PLEASE JUST LET ME WHINE FOR A SECOND.

Emma is not happy about all of this, mostly because she’s got a super awesome sleepover party scheduled for Friday, which basically is going to go like this:

1) Enter Five Tween Girls.

2) Hours of nonstop screaming/giggling/screeching.

3) Makeovers of The Dog, The Cats, or Big Brother.

4) Repeat.

(Should also mention that somewhere smuggled in there will be Mommy vainly clinging to Facebook like a FRIGGING LIFEBOAT in the storms of pre-pubescent girl glee. Oh, also, Black Cherry Wine Cooler(s).)

Henry seems to be responding to antibiotics, but the last time he had pneumonia, he “seemed” to respond and then landed in the hospital with vague talk about “needles” and “fluid” and “needles sucking the fluid out”. Hopefully that won’t happen again, mostly because hello? MAH BABY IS FULL OF THE SICKNESS, but also, Emma really needs to get this party ON. If for nothing else to show off her room, which looks like a thousand baby unicorns vomited up gallons of blindingly pink Pepto-Bismol over every flat surface.

This is Emma’s second year of being on the Cheer Squad for our little town.

She takes it VERY SERIOUSLY.

Here she is getting ready to cheer.

Seriously, is she about the cutest thing you’ve ever seen? The hair bow gets me every time. EVERY. TIME.

Especially when she’s all concentrating and serious and stuff.

Watching the game, getting ready to cheer……and…….

Here we go!

Whoops. Miffed it.

No worries. That’s the mark of a true cheerleader: you fall down, and you get right back up again.

Of course, when you have THESE goobers in the stands, you have to concentrate twice as hard on what you’re doing.

Today is the first day of school for Henry and Emma.

It is Emma’s first day as a fifth grader, and her last year in elementary school. Here she is with Eddie the Eagle, our school mascot. I have been SWORN TO SECRECY as to Eddie’s identity, and I take that vow very seriously, even though my adorable children threatened me with some pretty serious harm unless I told them.

It is also Henry’s first day as a sixth grader at the middle school. I wasn’t sure if I was going to let him go, since the last three weeks have been pretty crazy, what with seizures and ambulance rides and bloody noses and general mayhem. But I prayed about it, and talked to friends and grandmas, and got good counsel, and even though I’ve been white-knuckling it all day long, I know he’s having a great time and that it’s the best place for him.

(My high schooler’s first day is tomorrow. He’s been lying around, being lazy, bumming more cinnamon rolls all day. He’s 16. This is basically what 16 year old boys do.)

Both little ones woke up with GREAT anticipation this morning. Henry was in a fantastic mood, and only had one little “flutter” twitch. Emma dressed up all cute and was looking super stylish. They both wanted to leave, oh, like 45 minutes early, but I wiggled out of that.

I’ve been anxiously awaiting the end of school all day long so I can see them and hug them and hear all about their first day. I think I’m more excited than they are. There will be mush GALORE, but they’ll just have to put up with it.

Emma had two little friends who she thought were pretty much friends for life ditch her in third grade; we got over it with much weeping and gnashing of teeth, but still, got over it. THEN it started all over again in fourth grade, with girls who I thought for sure would know better.

Now, honestly, I know my kid isn’t squeaky clean in all of this, and there is definitely some blame that needs to be attached to her. That’s not my main bone to pick. No, my problem is this: why does this have to happen? Why do all these sweet, gentle, tender little girls who I’ve watched grow up since they were toddlers suddenly have to treat each other so unkindly?

Some of it is hormones, some of it is just plain old maturity (or lack thereof). It sucks, to be very direct. Sucks big time. And it’s difficult for me not to go charging in head first like an angry rhino and you know, COMPLETELY MAUL EVERYONE WHO HURTS MAH PWECIOUS WAMB.

However, that would probably not be the best course of action. So far, what I’ve done is listen. Listen, listen, and listen some more. Offer some advice, mostly along the lines of “keep your chin up” and “don’t let them get to you” and “here’s how you do a roundhouse kick to the kidneys”. I hug her when she cries, I let her get mad when she needs to get mad, and then I help her get over it rather than mulling over her injuries, both real and imagined.

She’s excited about her fifth grade year, mostly, because she’s a GIANT NERD who really loves school (just like her mom!). She’s also really excited about dealing with the whole friends thing head-on. Emma’s matured a lot this summer, some of it naturally, some of it forced upon her as she’s had to deal with her brother’s health issues. I’m pretty proud of her, especially since I know how much it costs her behind the scenes to put that brave face on in front of people.

One of the things that I totally love about Emma is that she comes up with creative ways to deal with things that bother her, rather than wallow in her misery. This week, she decided she would write what she was worried about on a small rock, and every time those issues popped up, she would touch the rock and pray about it. Simple, yet disarmingly effective.

I’m eagerly anticipating great things from her and for her this year. We’re in this together, which sounds so cliche, but what I mean to say is this: parenting is really just a blindfolded walk through a dark house. You never know what you’re going to bump into or step on, and no matter how many people have gone before you or how much confidence you might have, YOU’RE STILL WALKING BLIND. You just have to do your best and do your absolute darndest to get to your destination with as little harm as possible and as much grace and love and sheer blasted courage as you can possibly put into the effort. Together.

Emma is a HUGE fan of the Warriors series of books, which are basically Clan of the Cave Bear with cats. Yes, cats.  All the cute widdle kitties you see toddling around on a daily basis apparently have a secret life we don’t know about. What else are my pets hiding from me? Stock investments? A hidden interest in dentistry?

Part of her fun with these books is creating her own Warriors “world”. She was trying to come up with a good name for a medicine cat, you know, something Clanny like “MoonLeaf” or “SagePaw” or “ItchyRash”.  These are the suggestions we came up with:

• CATatonic
• CAT scan
• CATastrophe
• CATheter

Those didn’t fly too well. I did suggest “CATalytic converter” for a mechanic cat, but alas, my suggestion fell on deaf ears.

So Emma got a haircut yesterday. She is naturally gorgeous (OF COURSE) and doesn’t need a haircut for people to realize this fact (OF COURSE), but something about the way the stylist crafted her lovely blond locks made everyone in the salon do a double-take. Like on cartoons! That really happens! Kind of makes you wonder what else in cartoons is due to happen in your life; I’m guessing the piano dropping on your head is probably not something to look forward to, but I do long for the day when Foghorn Leghorn is prancing around my yard (getting plenty of breading and vegetable oil ready….just sayin’……little bit of garlic, maybe…..).

Anywhodles, she’s like drop-dead fantastically beautiful. We get home from the hair salon, and she decides to take her new look on the road, aka, across the street at the neighbors’. There are three little boys there ages 8-10, and normally, these boys are the kind featured in Family Circle cartoons: loud, dirty, obnoxious, nuisance to society, etc. Emma saunters over there, and here’s what happens:

Boys: “……….”
Emma: “Uh, hi?”
Boys: “………”
Emma: “Hello?”
Boys: >>>whispering to each other<<<
Emma: "Uhhhh...."
Boys: "YOU'RE HOT!"
Emma: >>>blushing furiously<<
Boys: "Will you marry me?"
Emma: "EWWW! NO!!!"
Emma: >>runs home screaming hysterically<<

Her newfound status as Beauty Queen of the ‘Hood was almost immediately canceled out when she simultaneously sneezed AND tooted, extremely loudly, and then fell off her chair laughing about it. (Which I’m very thankful for.) (The laughing about her tooting, not the falling off the chair.) (Although that was funny, too.)

She is 10. Double digits, man!

Ten years ago, I was in the hospital looking at my 6th week of bed rest. Six weeks earlier (Memorial Day, in fact), I had gone to work like normal, enjoying the fact that I would have the office to myself and therefore could play loud, obnoxious music and stare blankly into space. I started bleeding, and tried to play it off since I am a HUGE wimp when it comes to doctors, and so went home and took a little nap. Dean, on the other hand, is NOT a huge wimp when it comes to doctors and immediately (thank God) rushed me to the hospital, where they determined that I was in pre-term labor. Emma was not due until Labor Day (oh, sweet irony), so was coming three months early.

Since we were living on the coast and they didn’t have facilities there set up to deal with this kind of thing, they shoved me into an ambulance, sirens blaring, for the drive to Portland. Normally this drive takes 90 minutes, we made it in 45. The very cute paramedic was cute even as he handed me barf bag after barf bag.

Once we got to the hospital and got me all shot up full of drugs, I was officially on bed rest. Guess what? Not as fun as it sounds, especially since the hospital’s air conditioner was apparently located in my room, which meant a deafening blast of sound 24 hours a day, plus, the doctor would come in on a daily basis delivering more gloom and doom (the baby is going to be stillborn, the baby is going to be blind, the baby is going to have cerebal palsy, etc.). I did enjoy the All Law and Order channel, and the cute boxes of cereal.

Six weeks into this, I had a gigantic burrito for lunch. It was yummy. Two hours after the burrito, I started having gas, or what I figured was gas, and asked for Pepto-Bismol. Thankfully my nurses were smart and figured out that HELLO, MAH BABY, IT IS COMING OUT.

Yes, I mistook premature labor for gas. Sorry, Emma!

Everything started going pretty fast after that. I got multiple IV’s, which I had to fight tooth and nail to NOT be put into my forehead (WTH, seriously), and was rushed into the OR. Emma came in about 15 minutes and was the easiest labor ever, mostly because she weighed only 2 pounds, 11 ounces.

If she was a fish, we would’ve thrown her back in.

Although she was small, she was tough. No breathing issues. No blindness. No cerebal palsy.

She stayed in the NICU for five weeks. She had to be intubated to drink milk, which I pumped, and she was in an isolette. I was afraid to touch her. Her entire leg was as big as my index finger. She set off her heart monitors dozens of times a day.

Eventually, though, we got to bring her home. And every day has been like a little miracle. I’m so thankful for you, Emma.

Dean: I’m going to bring some barbecue sauce on the walk.

Emma: Why Daddy?

Dean: You ever heard of the Donner Party?

Me: Uhhh…..

Emma: What’s the Donner Party, Mommy?

Me: (glaring at Dean) Well, it’s this group of pioneers that traveled across the Rockies and got caught in the mountains in the winter, and they had to….uh…..well, they got really hungry and there was nothing to eat, and -

Dean: THEY STARTED EATING EACH OTHER!!! HA HA HA HA!!!!

Emma: What? WHAT?

Me: He’s just kidding, honey.

Dean: PASS ME ANOTHER HUNK OF CO-PILOT!!!! HA HA HA!!!

Emma: Mom?

Me: I’m sorry, honey.

My cape. It is quality terrycloth material, newly re-purposed into a cape with extreme absorbent super powers.

You might have noticed my fearsome weaponry? It is a bow and arrow, hand-crafted from steel found only in the far recesses of Thor’s mighty iron mines!

Plus some string.

My shoes give me winged passage over the starry skies, and light my path as I flit my through grassy meadows. Also, they are MADE OF FREAKING PLANTS, PEOPLE. Note how crafty I am! And realize, that using plant-like materials on your feet doesn’t bode well for keeping splinters out or dodging huge spiders. Just an FYI.

My daughter has a tendency to be both perfectionist and highly competitive, which make for a heady mix at any age, but especially when you’re a tender nine years old. She’s pretty much just like me when I was that age, always getting straight A’s in everything (except math, our mutual nemesis), and is extremely upset when she gets anything less than 100%.

This morning was a pretty good example of this. She’s got a Junior Great Books competition going on this week, and today was the opening round. First, she got up late (for her). How did I know this? Because there was much weeping and gnashing of teeth, coupled with a few howls and groans of despair that she was “NEVER going to be on time and NEVER going to get ready in time and NEVER going to be able to do anything right”. Of course, she had plenty of time, but the perfectionist nine year old doesn’t see the glass half-full; she sees it as half-empty and about to spill all over her brand new pair of white pants that are dry-clean only.

Breakfast was both a scientific experiment and a disaster. I’ve literally never seen anyone eat two blueberry muffins so quickly, while talking a mile a minute about all that she needed to do today. It was mesmerizing. Once she “ate” (I don’t know if you can call it that), she whizzed around the house putting clothes on (she had nothing to wear, of course), brushing her hair (why is my hair always so messy Mom? why can’t it just behave itself? Oh honey, welcome to the world of women), and getting annoyed by her brother, who was very busy reminding me MULTIPLE TIMES that today was choir, which meant he and I had to wait in the parking lot for a while, which meant that I had BETTER bring his Nintendo or the world would end as we know it.

Thankfully my oldest didn’t have any crises this morning, but he’s Mr. Mellow as it is, so I never have to worry about him. Sister finally got everything ready, all the while (seriously) lamenting the state of the fourth grade educational universe while simultaneously managing to pet two cats and tell her brother to STOP BOTHERING HER already. Multi-tasking.

As I dropped them off at school, miraculously all stress went out the window, and her only concern was if her hair was growing fast or slow. We discussed this at length as we sang along with Pink Floyd on the radio, kissed goodbye, said multiple “i love you’s” in the drop-off line, and blew at least 12 air kisses. Man, kids are fun.