A klutz and a massage therapist walk into a bar...

Some people have a magnetic quality about them – they draw other people in because of their charm, or looks, or whatever sort of magical aura they give off. Others seem to have a certain luck about them – everything falls into place in their lives, they are seemingly always in the right place at the right time. And then there’s me. Oh sure, I am magnetic and I also have a very specific brand of ‘luck’ that follows me wherever I go…it’s just an unfortunate combination.

Let’s start with my bad luck - lack of coordination: Seven days ago, as I was walking to my desk, I ate some pavement in the parking lot at work. I was fine and walking upright, and then I was on the ground with an aching from my hands to my knees. As I picked myself up off the ground and noticed that I conveniently landed right in front of the security camera, I also realized that my right knee was really hurting. In the state of shock that one finds them in after taking a tumble, I walked to my desk, set my things down, clocked in, and grabbed a tissue that I placedmid-shin to collect the blood that was pooling from my knee. I rolled my leggings up to reveal a moderate scratch and already blue bruise on my left knee, and a significantly more impressive chunk of missing skin on my right knee, with some pavement sprinkled on top. While periodically switching out the tissue, I called a co-worker who found me a first aid kid complete with antiseptic wipes that made me cry more than the fall itself, and about 14 bandages only large enough to cover an infant’s pinky finger. It wasn’t until the nice gentleman standing at my desk asked me ‘Honey, should you be here right now?’ that it occurred to me that I might need more medical attention than a tissue.

Once home, gauzed, and iced, I headed back to work for a pretty quiet rest of the work week. Aside from being sore, and dreading cleaning and changing the dressing of my wounded right knee, I felt fine. This morning, on the one week-iversary of the ‘incident’, I was leaving my neighborhood gas station when I, again, found myself on the ground and in pain. Only this time, there were witnesses, and it was my left knee that was bleeding. As I picked myself up this time, a very nice lady grabbed my wallet, phone, glasses, and keys that were all strewn about, handed them back to me and told me to have a better day. I again went home, cleaned and bandaged my knee, and this time iced my ankle that looks like a softball. When it was time to head into work, I told my boss that I couldn’t shove my foot into heels or even my flats, so I waltzed in bloodied, bruised, and in flip flops…real classy.

Moving onto my magnetic quality – I attract crazies: Since I just had a birthday and was showered with a lot of love and some extra ‘fun’ money, I told Ryan that I think after my wounds heal, I will use some of it on a nice, relaxing massage. It was at that moment that my husband said ‘Yeah…from a CRAZY person!’ Not exactly sure what he was referring to, but trusting my gut that a reminder of a good story was going to be displayed, I bit. ‘What do you mean? Why does it have to be from a crazy person?’ Something in my own wording reminded me and it all came flooding back. ‘Oh, you mean the guy that I had to pay $100 to in advance, but it got me four 1 hour massages, and he kept moving my appointment to the last one of the day so we were the only 2 people in the giant, dark building when I left? And whose office was just an empty desk, massage table, and a futon?’ I was answered with ‘Yes, Heidi, that is who I was talking about (his tone was as if to say ‘Who ELSE would I be referring to??). And also the lady who you went to after I told you that you weren’t going to that man’s office anymore.’ Jogging even more memories, I responded with ‘Oh yeah. She told me she saw angels, and told me their names and what they were doing to each muscle. And then she put my wrist to her neck and told me that when she prays to those angels, they send healing through her arteries and then she passes that healing to me from her arteries to my wrist.’ I sure can pick ‘em!

So if you know anyone of sound mind who is extremely unlikely to kidnap me and also happens to be an on-the-up-and-up massage therapist, please send them my and my bloody knees’ way.

How I Almost Died At Starbucks

Anyone who knows me at all knows that I LOVE Starbucks. It is a magical nectar of the gods that tastes delicious, and it also makes me a nice person. I met a lady this morning at my local Starbucks that doesn’t seem to be a terribly nice person. Maybe when she is properly caffeinated, she’s lovely. Perhaps coffee is what she needs to get her through the day; and deep in my soul, I understand that.

As a tried and true Starbucks customer, I have visited many stores, met countless baristas, and spent a disgusting amount of money (in my quick estimation, it’s in the neighborhoodof the cost of a very crappy car, but nonetheless, a car) on the blended goodness known worldwide as a Caramel Frappuccino. I have encountered baristas who make the perfect blend of caramel and coffee, and I have also been handed a drink that has astrikeout through ‘wc’ (whip cream, for you non-lifetime members), and yet also has a mountain of lusciously peaked whipped cream on top. I fully understand what a bummer it is to navigate the ridiculously sharp drive-thru turn after waiting anywhere from 3 – 38 minutes in a line of cars, get to the window, and be greeted by a way-too-perky twentysomething holding a drink that was not made the way you ordered. I. Get. It.

Over the many times this has happened in a span of 12 years, my reaction has varied from secret delight at the thought of indulging in the extra calories to nicely asking ‘I thought I ordered no whip – did I forget to tell you that part?’. 99.99 out of 100 times, they swiftly apologize, take the drink back, and correct it in 15 seconds. In the lady’s defense, I have very rarely, but it did happen, encountered a green barista who lacks some customer service skills. In my case, she had accidentally knocked my cup over, spilling approximately half of my drink, and when she handed it to me, she said ‘We spilled. That’s why your cup is half empty.’ Trying to see the positive, I assumed that I had been granted the courtesy of a lower price and said ‘Did I get charged for a Venti (large)?’ The answer was a resounding ‘Yes!’, to which I countered ‘But I received the amount of a Grande (medium)…’ With only losing a smidge of her perkiness, she repeated ‘Yeah. We made you a Venti, but we spilled half of it.’ A kind email explaining my disappointment sent to the store manager resulted in a genuine apology, and a gift card for the mishandling of my order and experience.

This brings me to today. I collected orders from the staff at work and set off to go get some coffee for my friends that I work alongside. As I walked through the doors of my local coffee chain and approached the counter, the barista whispered under his breath ‘Oh God! Not that lady.’ As I wracked my brain trying to remember if I had committed any recent crimes and perhaps my photo was on a ‘Wanted’ sign behind me, and he was expressing his displeasure at having to apprehend me for the authorities, he clarified ‘Not you! There’s a woman in the drive-thru who is mad and coming into the store. She’s…she’s uh…well, you’ll see what she is.’ And that I did.

The doors swung open, and she nearly ran a few folks over getting to the counter. I noticed that she was small framed, wore glasses, and had a mixture of blond, brown, red, and black hair. I have no scientific evidence, but I am pretty sure that if it were studied, a correlation between the amount of colors in one’s hair and the amount of F bombs dropped out of their mouth would be found. In my very small sample size from today, I found this to be true. She began screaming about how her drink was made incorrectly, and she demanded to have the name of the barista who committed such a crime, so she could ‘ruin her’. I generally catch more flies with honey than I do with vinegar, but you do you, ma’am. The supervisor calmly reminded rainbow hair that the barista apologized, made her a new drink, gave her the new drink for free, and offered her a gift card for her next visit, and stated that she would not be revealing her employee’s name. Rainbow hair didn’t like that. Her yelling got even louder and she pulled the power card – ‘NOBODY messes up my coffee! Do you hear me?!’ I’m pretty sure a man in a coma at the hospital 3 miles away heard her, but it didn’t seem like a great time to let her know. She continued with ‘I will have ALL of your jobs by the end of today! My coffee was made wrong, and this isn’t the first time!’ The supervisor, who is my new hero, stayed strong and simply countered ‘That’s too bad.’ Rainbow hair realized that her words weren’t holding much water, so she leaned in, made a fist, and swung it in front of the supervisor’s face and shouted ‘Now you’re WITHHOLDING names of employees that I deserve to know?! Corporate will be hearing about this!’ With a final string of curse words that I’ll spare you, she flung the doors open and left.

Ashamed on her behalf, I told the barista helping me that they handled her well, were doing a great job, and I hoped that she didn’t ruin any of their days. I paid for the final order with a $10 bill, and he handed me back three $5 bills and told me to have a good day. Well, considering that I made money on the deal, it was a pretty good day. I said ‘Didn’t I give you a $10?’ with all three bills fanned toward him. He grabbed one of the $5 bills out of my hand and apologized for the mistake. But I was still holding $10. I said ‘But I still have $10…I think I am only supposed to have $5.’ Math isn’t my strong spot, and when it comes to calculating change, I am seriously probably at a 5^th grade level, so I got pretty confused about the whole ordeal. He assured me that my correct change was $10…after I bought $5 worth of coffee and handed him a $10. Which honestly, I feel like I deserved a free coffee after risking my life for it.

As you can see, the love of Starbucks is genetic. I just hope that kindness when working with the service industry is, too. And I hope he gets his math skills from his dad.

Meltdown of the Month

Sundays are hard, as I get an opportunity to glance into the lives of single parents. Ryan leaves very early and is unavailable to help with Clark for any sizeable amount of time until well into the afternoon. This past Sunday was especially hard, as we had to say goodbye to our beloved pastor who has been appointed to another church. 

As I started getting ready that morning, Clark woke up, too. It makes my morning much easier when I can get ready before he is awake, but giving him Benadryl so that I can have perfectly straightened hair is frowned upon, so I put my stuff on hold and got him up and fed. He is in a weird size range, where most of the clothes that fit him are between 6 and 9 months smaller than he should be wearing. He’s a little peanut. However, there are occasional items in those same size ranges that are too small. The only way to know is to try. So I pulled out a cute new outfit to put him in, undid the 84 buttons on it, and slipped it over his head. The problems didn’t start until I had one arm through, and the other one was stuck halfway in and halfway out, making him look like a baby bird with a pathetic broken wing. A few minutes were spent wrangling himout of the too small getup, and a few more were spent convincing him to let me dress him once more, as our church is not one of judgement, but clothes are required there.

After he was settled and I had a few minutes to finish readying myself, I let him play and stood in the doorway of the bathroom where I could still see him as I finished my hair. In the time that it took me to put my straightener away, grab his empty cup from his hands, refill it and return, the remote control was nowhere to be found. TV is one of my absolute favorite pastimes. Between work, personal commitments, and watching Cardinals baseball, Thursday evenings and Sunday mornings are my only 2 opportunities in a week to watch what I want, so I take those times very seriously. I asked Clark where he put the remote, and after a few halfhearted looks in the obvious places, my sweet boy looked me in the eye and held his hands up to his shoulders in a shrug signaling to me that he didn’t know. Little liar!

What wasn’t typical was that there was an ice cream social shortly after church to honor him and his family, that my family wanted to attend. Tempting fate, we rolled the dice and took Clark to a restaurant after a long morning, and right in the middle of his normally scheduled nap (he may look like Ryan, but his personality is an overwhelming 95% just like mine, and we take our sleep veryseriously!). Aside from him violently thrashing his cup onto the floor, where the lid promptly flew off and spilled everywhere, it actually wasn’t too bad of a dining experience.

Being the thrill seekers we are, we decided to just take him straight to the ice cream social, sugar him up, and immediately head home for a nap. He handled the social well, other than a few very shrill screams when we told him it was time to say goodbye to our small group friends. Ryan and I knew it was time to stop pressing our luck and to get him home for a nap. He helped us to our car, and off I drove with the baby, diaper bag, leftovers, and my personal belongings. Knowing that Ryan was a few minutes behind us, I wanted to get Bub home and settled in bed so that I could rest and wait for Ryan to return.

I get home, park the car in the street so Ryan could have the driveway (I’m super nice!), get my phone out and place it on the roof of the car along with the leftovers, put the diaper bag (which only has one good strap left…we need to ask Grandma to fix it for us!) on, unstrap Clark, and get him out of the car. Holding his hand in my left hand along with the car keys, I shut the door with my right hand and grabbed the leftovers and my phone in my right hand, and set off on our adventure to the front door. 

Walking along, I noticed that the wind was really starting to pick up and cursed myself for not wearing leggings with my dress (a lady I work with calls me Amish, so I was using Sunday to practice my nerve for maybe not wearing leggings to work one day). Everything was going fine until we made the turn from the driveway to the sidewalk. My sleep deprived toddler had thought we were walking to the backyard to play, and was displeased to learn that we were actually going inside. He expressed his disappointment in his favorite way – to immediately drop to the ground and have a little sit-in protest. After 10 seconds, I asked him to grab my hand and get up. He complied. Until I took another step.

We make it a rule at our house not to negotiate with terrorists, so I calmly explained that we were going inside and that I wanted him to walk with me. At sit-in protest #2, he thought that I wasn’t getting his point and tried to heave himself backwards onto the concrete. With one hand holding leftovers and my phone with my arm tucked tightly to the side of my billowing dress, I was able to hold him up enough that he experienced a slow, soft landing on the concrete. Convinced that this was the last time he would ever get to be outside again for his whole life, I guess he really wanted to fight for every last second, so he began a full body roll down the slanted driveway. Being a good parent, I didn’t want him to roll into the street, so I threw my phone into the grass, dropped the leftovers on the concrete, and used my feet to interfere with his rolling demonstration.

I am not sure how every kid in the world knows two universal truths: the floor is lava, and that making yourself limp while your parent tries to pick you up makes it 100 times more difficult, as your little body turns into a screaming 30 pound bag of sand, but they come out of the womb knowing that stuff! As I was trying to delicately squat and simultaneously pull the limp bag of sand formerly known as my child up off the driveway, a big gust of wind flew up my dress and blew it over my head. By this point, my give a damn was completely out of order, so I stood up, bent over at the waist, mooned my entire neighborhood, and tossed my screaming child over my shoulder.

It was at the door when I realized that my keys were somewhere in the front yard, and I had a serious internal debate about sitting on the front steps and crying until Ryan got home, or going on a scavenger hunt for my keys. My independence won out and I took Clark, still hanging over my shoulder, retrieved the keys, opened the door, promptly put him in bed and made another trip outside to grab my leftovers, phone, and what was left of my pride. 

Lessons learned:

1.   Naps > Ice Cream

2.   Hide the remote up high

3.   Wear leggings

Swimsuit Saga

With summer fast approaching, I have been planning ways to take Clark to the pool, splash pads, and any other place that has water fun for him. While browsing adorable little swim trunks for him, it occurred to me that this means that I, too, will probably need a swimsuit. And just like that, the wind was gone from my summer fun planning sails. Goodbye, coolest mom ever and hello, mom who wears a parka to the pool for fear of showing one square inch of flab.

As I Googled ‘Duggar swim suits’ knowing that those would be the only kind of suit that could hide my imperfections, I realized that they don’t actually cover their ankles. Which is unfortunate, because I have recently developed permanent cankles due to an immune disease that makes my lower limbs look (and feel) like tree trunks. Or it may have something to do with karma and the fact that I dubbed a boss I hated ‘Cankles’, but that’s probably not it, right? RIGHT?!

For me, the insecurity has little to nothing to do with the number on the scale. I am the thinnest that I have everbeen, and I have  less confidence than I did at 70 pounds heavier. It doesn’t really help that my 17 month old’s absolute favorite game is to follow me to the bedroom or bathroom where I undress, and then laugh, run over to me, and squeal with delight as he touches my stretchmarks. What they say is true…kids are BRUTAL. While fighting back tears, I made a conscious choice to smile and say ‘Do you like Momma’s tiger stripes? They’re pretty cool, aren’t they?!’ Luckily, he’s 1 and easily entertained (and he also doesn’t know that I had those marks before I was pregnant with him), so that elicited even bigger giggles. I chose to suck it up, quit sucking it in, and speak about my imperfections positively because little boys, just like little girls, develop their thoughts about their bodies by listening to how their parents speak of themselves.

Our children will have plenty of time and opportunities to critique their bodies – I (and you) really have no right to speed up that process for them. With the help of photoshop and unrealistic standards to live up to, they will someday wish that something, if not many things, was different about how they look. There are a few facts of life that I stand behind – 1. Puberty. junior high, and swimsuits are kind to NO ONE. 2. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY thinks they have the perfect body, and 3. Life is too short to miss out on a fun pool day with my son because I am worried about how big my thighs are. What does it really matter if I show up to the pool with some cellulite seeing the light of day? My 1 year old doesn’t care, and I have decided that I don’t, either. 

Besides, look how cute he is, and how much he loves water:

Morning Madness

I am blessed beyond measure that I have a husband and Clark has a dad who believes in the fact that dads are parents, not babysitters. It is one of the many reasons that I married him – I knew he would be a good, hands-on parent. His involvement has even reached a point where I am pretty spoiled by it.

On a vast majority of mornings, I have zero to do with getting our son up, dressed, fed, and delivered to daycare because Ryan handles mornings. This week for various work reasons, I have pitched in and taken over some of the morning duties. And it has given me even more of an appreciation for my husband.

Here’s how yesterday morning went:

We had to wake Clark up so that I could get to work mostly on time. As is sometimes the case, his overnight diaper couldn’t hold up for the 12 - 14 hours that our son sleeps each night, and he was covered in urine. Having underestimated the lead time I would need to make everything happen, I didn’t have time for a full bath. Luckily, our 20th percentile 16 month old still fits pretty comfortably in one side of the sink. Being that he loves baths, I thought it would be a pretty painless wash. I was wrong. He screamed bloody murder both getting in and getting out.

Cleaned, dressed, and fed, I loaded him up in the car and headed to daycare. After an uneventful hand off where he blew me kisses and signaled me to get on with my day and let him get to playing. Passing 3 or 4 other parents on the steps, most of us noticed the large truck that sped past the intersection, throwing something out of the cab. By the time most of us registered what had happened, there was a loud explosion, a few flames, some smoke, and shrapnel flying out of the object. I am assuming that it was a giant firework, but I have also been calling it a bomb. It sounded very bomb-y.

After a few screams and assessing that nobody was harmed, I made my way to my car and looked for my phone to text Ryan and tell him about all of the excitement. That’s when I realized that my phone hadn’t made it into the car from home. So I drove back and caught Ryan before he left for work. I told him my crazy story and asked him to call my phone.

We heard buzzing right away, but couldn’t locate it in time before the call went to voicemail. Two more calls and some searching later, we realized that it had fallen down into the recliner. This happens a lot, so we are accustomed to flipping the chair over, lifting the Velcro flap at the bottom, and the lost item typically tumbles to the floor. Only it wasn’t that simple this time.

Another call or two later, the cold, hard truth hit us. My phone was in the chair. Like, inside the FABRIC of the chair. There was a tiny hole in the fabric that my phone found, and was now resting in the very bottom corner of the inner workings of the chair. Armed with a kitchen knife to make the hole big enough to fit an entire arm of an adult through, Ryan helped to save my phone from the abyss.

All that being said, and a quick stop to load up on caffeine that was desperately needed, I was only 15 minutes late to work. I am calling that a win after a sink bath, roadside bomb, and a morning rescue mission. 2 more days of morning duty, and then I am going to kiss my husband, tell him how much I appreciate him, and leave the house at 5am so I never have to do drop off again!

Birthday Letter

For Clark’s first birthday, we asked people to write him a letter that we will give him on his 18^th birthday. We have those letters together in a safe place for him, but the planner in me would like to have my letter saved in the digital world in case anything ever happens to the handwritten one. So, after much deliberation on how much I wanted the world to be a part of my personal letter to him, I have shared it below.

Dear Clark,

You, Clark Scott Sloan, have been the joy of my life. I know deep in my soul that I was put on this earth to love you. You are such a joy and a blessing to our family. Happy, funny, sweet, always smiling – you have truly been the easiest kid to love. 

Your giggle is infectious, and watching you learn and grow up to this point has been the highlight of my life. Your smile truly lights up a room, and that toothy little grin has melted many hearts. I love watching your chubby little fingers communicate in sign language, and even more so when I get to hear your small, sweet voice. ‘Momma’ has been one of my favorite names to be called. You are very smart, kind hearted, and a little ornery. I hope that you never lose those qualities.

I am not sure what the past 17 years have held for our lives, but one thing I know for sure is that my love for you will never fade. Among my biggest hopes for your life are that you will be kind, you will know Jesus, and that you will be happy. As a little boy, you have loved everyone you have encountered – that’s something that seems to be very difficult for many adults, so I hope that you will remember to look for the good in everyone. Whenever you have the chance to brighten someone’s day, take it. It might be a little creepy to still be blowing kisses to old ladies you see in the store when you are 18 like you do at age 1, but keep that sentiment ;).

Each day, I make it a point to cover you in kisses. I know that you will grow tired of this someday, but it is important to me that you know how much you mean to me. You made me a mom. You taught me what it truly means to put someone else first. You showed me what truly unconditional love looks like. Thank you for all of those things.

I hope that I will be next to you on your 18^th birthday as you open these letters and read them, but the truth is, I may not be. If that’s the case, I’m deeply sorry. It will be the biggest regret of my life. Every kid deserves to have their mom. If I am not there as you dig through these letters, know that I really wanted to be, and that my love and admiration for you never wavered. If I am there with you, just let me move into your dorm with you for a little while – it will make this transition much easier on me.

Regardless of who is or isn’t there with you, I hope that you see how loved you are, and how much value your life has, and has given to so many others. It is my prayer that this life will be kind to you, that you will find true happiness – whatever that looks like for you, and that you will never question how loved you are. 

Life will not always be easy, but very few things are permanent. Learn from your mistakes, and do better the next time. Tell the truth. Know that there are many things more important than being right. Take chances. Don’t let hate or fear win…ever. Help others every chance you can. Volunteer. Go to church. Donate to charity. Rest. In addition to these things, find the good in every day, work hard, remember your manners, be kind, laugh more than you cry, and call your mom.

I love you,

Mom

 

 

 

  

 

 

Wormy Wednesday

Full disclosure: This has nothing to do with my baby, but if you’re good and pay attention to my story, I will reward you with some pictures.

My Wednesday started out like any other.  My dear, sweet, kind, smart, caring husband who I love ONLY parks at the bottom of the driveway, so no other cars (e.g. mine) can also use said driveway. I am working on being more go-with-the flow, so I happily parked by the sidewalk in front of the house.

Spring in Iowa means that it will rain for 17 days straight and create mud EVERYWHERE. So I trudged through the mud and made it to my car only to realize that I had parked directly under our tree, and there were saplings and sap engulfing my vehicle. Determined to keep my good attitude, I decided to run it through the car wash at my local gas station.

I get to the gas station, pay for the car wash, enter the car wash, run over the curb while leaving the car wash, and park up front so I can go get some caffeine and a snack. Find said things, pay, return to my car, and drive to my office.

Once at my desk, I start my day by answering emails, returning calls, and working on any unfinished projects. 40 minutes into my day, I realize that my left ankle is slightly uncomfortable, scoot back from my desk, and notice I have something cold, wet, and stringy on my ankle reaching all the way up to roughly mid-calf. Approximately 5 seconds into picking it off my leg and examining it, I realize that it looks a lot like a worm. Like, a LOT like a worm. A dead, cold, slimy, cut in half worm and worm guts were on my leg for at least an hour!

So with my own real-life horror story told, here is the story once again, as told through the many faces of Clark:

How I felt when I realized there was a worm on my leg:

How I felt while touching the worm & worm guts:

How I felt after removing a worm from my leg and realizing that I am a SURVIVOR: