My Giggling, Pig Snorting, Sleep Study Story

(Note: A few years ago I had to have a Sleep Study done, which I wrote about on Sarah’s site. However, just this past week, I got to thinking about that whole experience again and the thinking made me giggle and the giggling made me decide to share the (slightly re-written) story here on Smithellaneous, too. We can all use a good laugh!)

My Giggling, Pig Snorting, Sleep Study Story

Since I had no idea what to expect, I was just slightly nervous as I drove toward my Sleep Study appointment. When I arrived--favorite pillow in hand—the first thing I discovered was that it takes about ninety minutes just to get all the monitors and sensors attached. My tech guy had stuff laid out everywhere and all of it eventually had to be attached somewhere to my person.

This is only about half of the stuff-to-be-attached.

At 10:30 pm, when he had finally finished wiring me up, I asked for one last trip to the bathroom before the final plug-in procedure took place. When I got to the bathroom (trailing numerous wires behind me) and saw myself in the mirror, I broke out into laughter.

Because I looked like this . . .

(I’ll let the laughter die down a bit before moving on.)

After I had finished giggling at myself, I took my strange looking little self to the bed and arranged my tired, wired self upon it. The technician got all my wires plugged into a large, mysterious looking receptacle and then told me that he would step into the adjacent control room and give me some instructions over a speaker about calibrating the equipment before the actual sleeping commenced.

I lay there feeling oh-so-foolish, not to mention oh-so-self-conscious as I followed his instructions to roll my eyes to the left and then to the right, to open and then close my mouth, and to take a few deep breaths and let them out. I obeyed the instructions as well as I could, even though I felt incredibly goofy, lying there looking like an apparition from a low budget science fiction flick.

Everything was going along as well as could be expected until my technician pal said to me over the room speaker, “Now I would like you to please make a noise like you’re snoring.” (I guess he had to make sure that the “snoring sensors” were in the right place.)

Well, it took me just a moment to fully assimilate that request because no one has ever asked me to “make a snoring noise” before. (Just for fun, try to make a noise like you’re snoring. It wasn’t easy, was it? And didn’t you feel like giggling, just a little?)

When I realized he waiting patiently for me to comply with this relatively simple request, I finally took the plunge and launched forth into my very best snoring effort. Unfortunately, my sample snore came out sounding very much like the unattractive sound that a portly pig might emit while rooting around in the mud.

Well, that sound escaping from my very own mouth, coupled with the surreal experience of being wrapped in wires and lying on a bed at 10:30 at night while being observed through video cameras by two strangers --it all just struck me as being incredibly funny.

And unfortunately, the more I thought about my perfectly executed “pig snort,” the funnier it got. It didn’t take too many more moments of “pig snort pondering,” before my weird looking, wired up self was inexorably overtaken by uncontrollable giggles.

That would have been perfectly fine except for one small thing. The sort of funny-ish, pig snorting, calibrating moment—the moment where a little laughter might have been appropriate--had already come and gone. In fact, it was already several minutes gone.

So in the minds of the technicians, there was no reason in the world why their wire-wrapped guinea pig should suddenly start chuckling cheerily in the midst of their sober and scientific calibrations.

It got very quiet in the control room and then I heard a worried voice inquire over the speaker, “Um. Are you okay, miss?”

I could just picture them calling the hospital across the street and asking them to send one of their psych people over (STAT!) to evaluate this odd woman who was lying on the bed laughing for no apparent reason.

I eventually got myself back under control and the reassured techs finished up their little round of calibrations and then turned off the lights in my room.

It was then that the pressure started. It was then that I realized it was up to me to produce some sleep. So that it could be studied. Which, after all, was the whole reason I was even there.

I did my very best. Really, I did. I tried my utmost to be a calm, cooperative patient. I lay there quietly. I attempted to think peaceful, sleepy thoughts. I tried to take deep, relaxing breaths. Everything was going along fairly well, all in all.

But then? Then a crisis came calling. A crisis in the form of a pig snort.

Yes indeedy, before I could stop it, that whole “snorting pig” thing hit me again, full force. And then the funny image of myself in the bathroom mirror added itself to the “snorting pig” memory and I proceeded to guffaw merrily for several long moments. Too late, it occurred to me that every single bodily response I produced during the overnight hours would be recorded (on hundreds of computer pages) and then minutely examined by highly analytical medical persons.

I belatedly realized that the little machines in the control room were probably going crazy and the graphing needles were probably flying all over the place as the two technicians looked worriedly at each other and started wondering again about calling the psych team.

I could hear the conversation now. “Hello? Um, we are currently working with the strangest subject we have ever studied, the only woman in the history of our sleep clinic who makes pig snorts and then bursts out laughing several minutes later for no reason whatsoever, even when nothing is funny.”

Well, I am to happy to report that I finally got myself settled down. However, all of that laughing followed by all of my frantic attempts to stifle said laughter had caused me to feel just a wee bit hyper--so hyper in fact, that I had one of the worst night’s sleep I’ve ever had. I lay awake for at least an hour, drifted off, popped back awake (trying valiantly not to think of pig snorts), lay there again, drifted off briefly, and woke back up.

I finally got into a deep sleep at about 3 am, only to have a happy voice chirp over the speaker at 5:30, “Good morning!”

Uggghh.

The technician came into the room to unwire me and as he did so, he said that they had been able to record some things "of interest." (Which was probably a scientific term for the recording of a wacked out patient’s uncontrolled giggles.)

I got back home at about 7 am and found Steve eating breakfast and Sarah packing her school lunch. They asked me how it went and when I started telling them the “pig snort” story, I got tickled all over again.

Sarah regarded me with concerned but cheerful alarm while Steve looked at me and said, “Becky dear, I think you might need to go on to bed.” (He’s been married to me long enough to recognize the signs of sleep deprivation.)

So off to bed I went and slept deeply till 11 am, reveling in the fact that there were no tubes stuffed up my nose, straps wrapped around my chest and stomach, or wires extending from my limbs.

And the best part? If I wanted to think about a pig snort and laugh, I could.

And so I did.

The End.

___________________________

Quick note about yesterday’s post:

It has occurred to me that I might have stated a little over dramatically the “liver damage” possibility connected with taking a toenail fungus medication.

Actually, what the doctor said was that I should have blood work done halfway through the round of medicine just to make sure the liver was processing the medicine well. If it wasn’t, I would just discontinue the medicine.

But no actual liver damage would be done.

Which is a good thing.

Okay. I’m done.

How To Wear A Monocle

Important (and also urgent) announcement!

I am exceedingly sorry to have to tell you that it appears as though the paint fumes have gone to the head of the Really Renowned Remodeler of the Smith Family Master Bath.

Last night I wandered innocently into said bathroom to snap a few shots of the progress being made and before I knew it? Insanity had set in.

And I really did nothing to encourage it. Honest!

Steve already had a paint mask sitting on top of his head when I arrived, which is where he keeps it when it’s not actually being used as a mask. And all I did was set my lens cap on the counter. That’s it.

He took it from there.

But I must say that after he and I looked at the pictures I took last night, we had a Very Long Hysterical Laughing Moment. Watch this video and see if the pictures don't affect you the same way.

(I apologize in advance that the photos are not of sterling quality. In my defense I was: 1) standing on a ladder 2) laughing my head off 3) dealing with horrible lighting from a single work light that was perched on the countertop.

But hey, I don’t pretend to be a pro! If I were a pro, I would most likely not be spending my Monday evening in a bathroom with an insane guy!)

NOTE: To watch this full screen, click on the rectangle in the right hand corner of the screen.

This And That. (Alternate Title: My Importune Pal)

Sugar Shaker

This is a sugar shaker that resides in our home.

It was purchased in antique shop in England over fifty years ago.

(And no, I am not the one who purchased said shaker. Since I am only forty-eight.)

Actually, Steve’s parents bought it when they lived in England and have had it around their house all these years. During our visit to their home for Christmas, Vernie brought it out and asked if we would like to have it.

It’s quaint. It’s a conversation piece. Steve uses it every afternoon to add sugar to his “spot of tea.” And it matches the colors of our house.

What’s not to love?

Camera

Still practicing with the new camera and taking pictures of everything in sight. Such fun.

It’s especially fun when a certain little guy appears in the photo. A cute little guy. An endearing little guy.

Dog

Well, Snowy is endearing except for one thing. One little ol’ thing that I mentioned in an earlier post.

Sir Snowy has now become convinced that 4:30 am is the Happiest Time! of the Day. He also believes that 4:30 is the Perfect Time! of the Day for Mom to sit in her chair with him and do her Bible reading and blog writing.

So here’s the early morning scene at the Smith House.

I am sleeping. Soundly. At 4:30.

Suddenly, in the midst of my deliciously drowsy dreams, I hear a polite little, “scratch, scratch, scratch” on the bedroom door. I groan and mutter muttery things under my breath.

Thirty seconds pass.

“Scratch, scratch, scratch.”

Then a polite and helpful pause.

I can just picture Snowy putting his paw back down, post scratch, and then sitting sedately back on his haunches and waiting with great delight for what he knows will eventually happen should he just continue to practice his own patented brand of canine importunity. (Importunity is a word from the Bible that means “not giving up.” And since Snowy is a Pastor’s Dog, he tends to think in those terms. I think.)

Finally, when I realize that he’s really. not. going. to go away, I fling back the covers, stomp across the bedroom floor, and throw open the bedroom door with less than loving thoughts percolating in my heart.

And then I see this face.

Snowy catching a glimpse of me in all my early morning, disheveled crabbiness does nothing to dissuade him from the glory that is his life. As soon as he spots me, he goes into a veritable paroxysm of delight, flinging himself around the hallway, wagging his tail frantically, and panting and smiling with a tumultuous display of the happiest kind of joy.

And I know just what he’s thinking. “Mom decided to get up and spend time with me! I am so happy! I am so excited! Life is so grand!”

Yeah. It’s grand all right. If 4:30 a.m. can possibly be referred to as a grand hour.

And so Snowy and I have become early morning buds. I let him outside, feed him, and then the two of us just hang out in the peaceful, pre-dawn hours. (Although I do realize I could go back to bed after taking care of him, I figure 4:30 is right next door to 5:00 and 5:00 is actually a fairly reasonable getting up hour. And so I usually just stay up.)

And just because he really is pretty cute, I’ll close with a few more pictures of my importune pal.

Acracknophobia.

Steve has always been one of those people who can eat anything he wants, any time he wants, and never gain weight or have any negative effects from it.

Which (may I just say?) can be just a wee tad annoying to live with. I mean, I can just walk past a brownie mix and add an inch to my waist whereas I’ve had to listen to Steve say during most of our marriage, “Well, I’d better have a piece of cake before bedtime so that I can keep my weight up.”

Could a jury possibly convict me for throttling such a man?

However, in recent months, his cholesterol has come back a little high and so he’s been on more of of a mission to alter his diet a bit. And he’s doing very well with it, I must say.

(I must also add that I am more pleased than I can tell you to hear him ask how many calories or fat are in a particular dessert. Ahhhh. Sweet revenge. He finally has to do what I’ve been doing for twenty-nine stinkin’ years! Mwahahahaha!)

But I digress. . .

Since I can also stand to watch my calorie and fat consumption (understatement of the year), he and I have pretty much been on the same page, food-wise.

Except for one item. And this is serious stuff, folks.

My darling husband loves lots of crackers with his lunch time soup and has now started requesting that I buy him fat free crackers.

Now while I can happily consume things like low fat Ranch dressing and 2% milk all day long, there are some places where I feel compelled to draw the line.

And ladies and gentlemen, fat free soda crackers would be one of those places. To me, they are hideous, horrible, and horrendous things. (Want me to tell you how I really feel?)

And so, since the overall cost is not any greater (each box just lasts longer) I have started buying His-n-Her Crackers.

Which would work out just dandy except for one small problem. The wrappers on the crackers look exactly the same. So if I see a lonely sleeve of crackers in the cupboard that has been extracted from its sponsoring box, well, how am I to know if I’m about to bite into the yummy full-of-fat cracker or the loathsome free-of-fat cracker?

It’s a real issue, people.

And so, caving into my personal paranoia of inadvertently consuming you know what, I got out my marker and carefully labeled each sleeve of crackers.

A little OCD? Probably.

Well, Steve took one look at my all my careful organizing and labeling of the conglomerate cracker population in our family and made a solemn announcement, “Honey, it seems to me that you have a severe case of acracknophobia.”

(imagine rim shot here.)

Don’t Even Ask

(Please note the safety pin in the eye glasses.)

A Rescue Squad And A Bladder Clock

I wrote this entry almost two years ago over on Sarah’s site. (That was back when her site was more about our whole family) I just ran across the piece again recently and even though the experience itself wasn’t funny, reading back over my telling of it did make me smile. And so maybe this will bring a smile to your day as well! (If nothing else, it will at least make you thankful that you can use the restroom any time you want. Small blessings!)

Jan. 30, 2008
A RESCUE SQUAD AND THE BLADDER CLOCK

Sunday afternoon I leaned over to pick up an empty water bottle and something bad, weird, and decidedly unhappy happened to my back. (I have a long, inglorious history of back problems.) I spent the rest of the day ingesting as many legal doses of Motrin as I could fit down my throat.

When I woke up Monday morning, my plan to get up and get ready for work came to a screeching halt when I swung my legs over the side of the bed and experienced terrible back spasms and pain . I did some major screaming and carrying on and collapsed back on the bed, trying desperately to locate a position that didn’t hurt. When Steve got home from taking Sarah to school, he found me whimpering and blubbering on the bed, telling him that I could not move, I was not going to move, and no one could make me move because moving hurt, dagnabit!

Although the back pain was bad enough, the more immediate issue facing me that was that I hadn’t used the restroom in twelve hours and I was starting to feel some definite tinges of desperation in that area. Steve was trying to figure out what to do with me, what to give me for pain meds, and how to get me out of the bed so that he could get me to the bathroom, to the emergency room and/or to the chiropractor.

I’m sure if I hadn’t been hurting so bad it would have been quite funny as Steve earnestly intoned, “Okay, Honey, scoot your rear end two inches to the left and move your shoulders a couple inches counterclockwise and then swing your legs toward me.” He was so wonderful and patient, but nothing either one of us did was working. Every time I moved at all beyond one certain semi-comfortable position, I was stabbed with spasms and pain.

And the bladder clock kept ticking.

After about an hour of these on-again, off-again contortionist maneuvers, after an hour of tears and trauma, we both came to the same conclusion: We could not solve this problem alone. Steve called Beth, a nurse friend from church, for advice. She said, “I would recommend you call the silent rescue team; that way you can get to the hospital without announcing to the whole neighborhood that there’s an ambulance outside your house.”

Well in my pain-befogged mind, I had it all figured out. My rescuers in shining armor were going to come in through the bedroom door and (after laughing hysterically at the sight of my make up-devoid visage and blender-in-a-hurricane hair) were going to take out their magical “happy needle” and give me a shot of something wonderful. At that point I was going to sail away on a peaceful, groovy journey to La-La Land while they removed me from my house.

But alas! That was not to be. There was no La La Land in my immediate future. In fact, there was a decided dearth of any form of La La Land-ness in my immediate future.

Instead, two burly guys marched up the steps and into my bedroom carrying a horrid looking metal contraption with straps. They set it down on the floor by the bed, looked me straight in the eye and one of them announced, “Honey, this is not going to be fun and I promise it’s gonna hurt, but we are going to have to pick you up off your bed and put you in this special chair so that we can get you down the stairs.”

Well, I started crying before they even touched me because I knew what I was in for. One of them locked his arms around my neck and shoulders, the other one grabbed my knees and legs and we took off, working seamlessly like a well-rehearsed team: they lifted and I screamed. (I’m sure they were most grateful for my inestimable contribution to the operation.)

Now back when Steve had put the call in to 911, he had told the dispatcher (and I’m sure this bit of news brought hearty chuckles and smirks to all involved) that not only was his wife having severe back pain but she was also desperate to go to the bathroom. And by this point, desperate was not anywhere near to being a strong enough a word to describe my pitiful state.

Once my two fellas and I had made our bumpy way to the bottom of the stairs and I had stopped screaming long enough for their ears to stop ringing, one of them said very politely, “Miss Becky, do you want to go to the bathroom now?”

I was incredulous. There had been no needle-abetted trips to La La Land. I’d endured a traumatizing yank out of my bed into a medieval-looking chair. I’d survived a terror-inducing trip down fifteen stairs. And now I was being asked if I would like to be placed on a toilet by two big ol’ Rescue Dudes?”

I think not.

Instead I scrunched my eyes shut and wailed like a 2-year old, “I wanna wait till we get to the hospital!”

We got out to the ambulance and I was moved from the chair to the gurney which, of course, produced even more ear-splitting howls on my part. I’m sure both guys were wishing they had brought their industrial strength earplugs along. They started me on oxygen since I was on the verge of hyperventilating—body shaking, teeth chattering, bladder screaming. They also tried (twice) to start an IV in order to give me morphine but had no luck. By that time, my bladder had become fuller than full and I had became unhappier than unhappy.

Steve followed faithfully behind us in the car and then followed us into the ER where I was transferred to yet again to another bed. By this time, I was getting pretty close to the end of my (very short) rope. A few people came in to hook me up to stuff and ask me questions--I finally cut through all the blither and blather and yelled as delicately as I possibly could, “I need a bed pan!” (I thought about adding “STAT” to my command, but thought it might be overkill.)

More pain ensued with getting the bedpan maneuvered into place (sorry if this is too much information) and after a few minutes of hopeful waiting, you’ll never guess what happened!

Nothing. At all. Whatsoever.

At this point, the nurse from our church came in, took one quick glance at the traumatic tableau and said, “We’re going to have to put in a catheter.”

Well, dontcha just know that that news made me happier than I have ever been in my entire life. My body was already in such a hypersensitive state that if anyone even brushed my knee with their hand, I would jump ten feet in the air. And now they were talking about a catheter? I’m sure it was one of the more challenging jobs my little team had ever performed, but to their credit they persevered with great patience gentleness and were eventually successful.

My comment at that point? “Ahhhhh!!!”

Another nurse came in to ask Steve some questions and somewhere along the line she inquired, “Does Mrs. Smith smoke, drink or use illegal drugs?” Steve said, “Nope.” Then he waited a beat and added, “And she don’t cuss, neither.”

The nurse thought that was pretty funny. I even smirked (a very tiny smirk) in between my yells of “Ouch! Oh, I hurt! Ouch, ouch, ouch!” (For a person who loves words, I was certainly not being very articulate!)

The people who were working with me had tried several times to start an IV (using the tiniest needle size they had) and each time, the vein blew. When at last they succeeded, I experienced one of the happiest moments of my life. Going to the bathroom and getting morphine all within five minutes—well, that was just about my closet brush with bliss ever.

The rest of the day was pretty much a blur from that point on: I recall mumbling some incoherent things to Steve and waving my arms around occasionally for absolutely no reason. Steve said the doctor came in to talk to me and I fell asleep right in the middle of answering one of his questions. (How rude!)

After about four hours of being observed to make sure the medicine was going to keep the pain under control (in addition to an uncomfortable, not-so-fun bout of dry heaves) they cleared me for discharge. My own personal Sir Galahad was waiting with the car and we made the trip home to where my darling children and worried dog were all waiting for me. Steve went out and get my pain prescriptions filled, we ate a dinner that someone from the church had brought in and then, just for the fun of it, I started throwing up and running a fever. (Throwing up with a bad back? Not a good thing.)

By about 8:30, I was thoroughly medicated by half of the Wal Mart pharmacy, tenderly tended to by my family, and lovingly tucked into bed by my wonderful, considerate husband who had just spent his entire day off, lovingly and patiently ministering to his screaming, bladder-bulging, throwing up wife. He’s a good man!

Today has been a bit better; I’ve rested most of the day except for going to the chiropractor. The pain meds are keeping everything under control and someone else from the church brought dinner again for tonight so I am feeling well loved and well cared for.

And the best news of all?

I can go to the bathroom any ol’ time I want! Can life get any better?

Silver Hatted Strangers

Last week I opened our refrigerator and saw the usual suspects. In their usual non-tidy line up.

However, when I looked a little closer, I realized that a few strangers had snuck into the back of the line up, strangers who were wearing sassy hats made of silver foil.

“Hmmmm,” said I. “What could yon strangers possibly be doing lurking amongst the usual suspects in The Smith Refrigerator?”

It was a question that begged for an answer.

I took a few of the front items out so that I could be afforded a closer glimpse of said strangers. And lo and behold, one of yon strangers had a note attached to its silver hat. And the note was written in my daughter’s writing.

The plot thickened.

I took an even closer look. I saw what the message said. I pondered the message. I pondered the messenger. I pondered the silver-hatted strangers who had taken up residence in my refrigerator.

And when I couldn’t quite get the Case of the Mysterious Silver Hat-Wearing Strangers figured out, I called in the writer of the words, the person responsible for affixing strange words to the sides of strange strangers.

And I was given the answer! I was handed the solution to the mystery! I was presented with the key to unlock the secrets of the universe! (Well, not quite.)

As it turns out, Princess Sarah had decided to use part of her afternoon to create a special dessert for the family’s evening meal. From her description of the creation process, the dessert consisted of her tossing a variety of miscellaneous sweet substances into the blender and whirring them around for awhile.

Then she poured the created concoction into three glasses and attached silver hats and the note, in an effort to warn her dad and me away from the surprise.

The mystery? Solved.

The desserts? Delicious.

The smile on my face over my daughter’s whimsical addition to my day? Huge.

I just love silver-hatted strangers.

Gloomy Into Goofy

I know it’s kind of a serious-ish, gloomy-ish day, with me having to go off for a breast biopsy and everything. However, what better day to post something fun than a day like today? In fact, I am hereby declaring this to be The Official Day For Turning Gloomy Into Goofy.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been working toward a blog re-design for a few weeks; however, the designer and I got bogged down for a while as I tried to get a new photo taken. Thankfully, I’ve finally gotten THAT accomplished and the blog should be completed later this week. (The design will be the only thing to change; the address will stay the same.)

Since I am not terribly photogenic, it always takes numerous pictures to get just one good shot of me. In between three photo shoots, three outfits, and two photographers (Steve and Sarah), we finally came up with something I could use.

But you know what? It’s the shots that we didn’t use which are really the priceless ones. And those are the shots I thought I’d (courageously) show you! Because gloomy or not, we can all use a bit of goofiness to brighten our day.

By the way, I’ve added a few captions to further enhance your enjoyment. And please, no laughing out loud. The management of Smithellaneous requests that you keep your snickers down to a dull roar.

Shall we begin?

Well, grandkids. Let me just tell you how we did it back when I was a kid!

Let’s see, now, kiddies . . . what came next?

Oh wait. Maybe I should have put my teeth in first.

_______________________________________________________________

Oh dear, oh dear. What to do? What to do?

Hold the phone, hold your horses, hold everything. It’s time for my mid/post/early afternoon nap.

Oh, dear Lord, WHAT should I do with this crazy husband of mine?

So then I figured out the perfect pose that enhanced the wrinkles in my neck . . .

And don’t laugh about it, either.

Shall I get up? Shall I stay seated? Does this chair make me look fat?

Hi there!!!! Let me tell you all about my NEW! POSITIVE! THINKING! BOOK!

Putting the positive thinking to the test.

This is my slightly confused, somewhat puzzled look. I think I do it well.

Do you think if I re-arrange my hood it will make my lips go back to normal?

Steve said WHAT??!!?

I can explain . . . .

It's a bird! It's a plane! It’s PERKY WOMAN!

Do you think this bench will hold me?

Move along, people. There’s nothing to see here.

And there you have it. Did the viewing of these photos turn any of your globules of gloominess into giggles of goofiness?

Good!

Rebuked By Potatoes

Our family was sitting around the table on a Sunday afternoon, eating a takeout meal from a chicken place. Most of the food had been passed and it was finally time for the little container of potatoes to begin its way around the table.

It started with my son, went to my husband, passed by my parents-in-law and finally came to me.

I was so incredibly happy to see the Potato Container wending its way in my direction because I love potatoes and gravy. I long for potatoes and gravy! I live for potatoes and gravy!

But alas! When I finally got my greedy paws on the Styrofoam bowl and peered into its depths, I saw to my everlasting horror that there was just one small scoop of the delectable, white stuff remaining.

One scoop.

I looked to my left and noticed that my daughter, Sarah, had not yet gotten any potatoes. I looked at the potatoes again. I looked at Sarah's plate.

I wrestled with my conscience. I wrestled with my soul. I wrestled with the Unselfish Mother DNA that was rising up in full force. I wrestled with the Selfish Becky Smith DNA that was rising up in even fuller force.

I pondered. I ruminated. I looked at the potatoes one more time. And then, as hard as this is to admit, I helped my selfish self to the last serving of potatoes.

And then I had the nerve to pass Sarah the empty container and say, "Sorry, sweetie. The potatoes are all gone."

Sarah looked at my plate. She looked at her plate. Her face filled with the pitiful pathos of a potato-deprived princess. She looked back at me once more and said, "You took all the potatoes?"

My first instinct was to be proud of myself, to be glad that I had stood up for myself and had not cowed to what I should have done. I was a strong, independent woman who could have the last serving of potatoes if I jolly well wanted to. I was not enslaved by the expectations of my children, I was not constrained by the compulsion to please everyone all the time, and I was not obligated to fulfill the needs and whims of those around me. I could partake of the last bit of potatoes if I wanted to, thank you very much!

I spent a few glorious moments reveling in my rare foray into the realm of self-indulgence. I rejoiced that one of my all-time favorite foods in the world was nestled on my plate, waiting to be doused in my gravy, waiting to be forked into my lips, waiting to attach itself to my hips. (Oh wait. Forget that last line.)

Sarah didn't do anything to make me feel guilty but I did notice a look of slight confusion cross her face that said, "Who is this woman and what has she done with my mother?"

I sat for a few moments pondering The Look. I also pondered The Potatoes.

And then suddenly, right smack dab in the midst of all my pondering and reveling, my brief flirtation with my giddy greediness started to lose its appeal. I stared at the potatoes and they stared back at me with one white, accusing eye as if to ask, " Why have you stolen food from your poor child?" I stared back with some small attempt at bravado but it was useless.

What's a mother to do when she's being rebuked by potatoes? She caves in. She gives up. She capitulates.

I picked up my spoon and scooped up the pile of potatoes. I held them aloft for a few shining moments of fond farewell and then reached over and plopped them on Sarah's plate.

I said, "Here, Sarah. I don't really need these." (And if you were to take one glance at the expanse of my "back forty" you would doubtless agree.)

And then, with a light heart and a potato-chewing princess at my side, I made the wonderful discovery that if you split open a biscuit and put gravy on it, it's even better than potatoes!

Although the selfless uniform of motherhood seems to fit me just fine most of the time, I was still glad for the opportunity to briefly dip my toes into the shallow pool of selfishness. It helped me realize that making it all about me isn't all it's cracked up to be and it reminded me that giving gifts to people I love brings me far more joy than hoarding things for myself.

But when it comes to sharing my chocolate? All bets are off.

The (Mild) (Wild) Roller Coaster Ride

(Note: I posted this piece a couple years ago on Sarah's site after we had spent a day at the Busch Gardens Amusement park.)


We had a lovely day at Busch Gardens although it started off with a bit of a fizzle. (Instead of a sizzle.) We had parked the car and were blithely (and rather smugly, I might add) bypassing the very congested area where people were forming long lines to buy tickets. We sashayed right on through the crowd and sailed right up to the entrance where I opened my little bag with a flourish and prepared to distribute our four complimentary tickets.

And then it hit me. “Oh no. I only see THREE tickets! I must have left the fourth one at home!”

Now any of you husbands reading this missive are probably already thinking to yourself, “How would I handle a situation where my intelligent wife—who I’m quite sure knows how to count--shows up with only three tickets for four people? How would I handle a situation where purchasing a ticket to replace the one that she forgot would cost a chunk of change?”

I’ll pause here for a moment and let you fill in your own blanks. Done? Okay, now I’ll tell you what my husband did.

He was quiet for about ten seconds and I knew that a few “interesting” thoughts were probably percolating in his head. But all he said was, “Well, let me go back and buy another ticket. You all go ahead into the park and have fun and I’ll meet you in about an hour.” And he didn’t mention it again all day.

Now don’t you think he needs the Husband of the Year Award? I felt bad enough as it was and he was so wonderful not to make me feel any worse. After that inauspicious start, we had a wonderfully relaxing day.

Well, I should say it was relaxing until Nathan talked me into going on a roller coaster with him. (Side note: when we were driving up to the park, Sarah looked at this huge roller coaster and said, “I would never go on that coaster.” Nathan said, “Why? Are you scared?” She retorted, “No, the colors clash." While Nathan rolled his eyes I smiled proudly at my female offspring. It was such a great “girl thing” to say.)

Anyway, I had already chickened out of going on a roller coaster earlier that day. That unfortunate incident involved me standing in line with Nathan for about thirty minutes and then, right as it came time to board, losing my nerve and making my way (going in the wrong direction) through a line of about 300 people.

It was pretty embarrassing saying, “Pardon me, ‘scuse me” that many times and announcing to everyone by my exodus that, yes indeedy, I was a ‘fraidy cat!

So after that egregious egressing experience, I was extra determined that I was NOT going to back out of the next roller coaster riding opportunity. I patiently stood in line with Nathan as we awaited our turn on the instrument of torture.

At long last, we got strapped in and took off. And when I say took off, I mean, TOOOOOK OFFFF!

After a brain-tingling, spine-snapping minute or two of frenetic action, the ride slowed down and I immediately started to pat my middle-aged self on the back saying, “Hey, Becky. You did it! You rode a scary coaster! You ROCK, girl!”

But then all of a sudden, the dreadful thought occurred to me: The ride was not done. Indeed, the ride of terror had just begun.

WHOOOOSH! we flew off down the track.

WHAM! we turned sideways, back and forth, a hundred times.

WHEEEE! we plummeted straight down toward some water.

WHOOAAAAA! we ripped around several corners.

It was bad, but I was hanging on--screaming, yelling, hyperventilating, but all in all, still in pretty good shape. But then, to my everlasting horror, the ride REALLY took off.

For real.

Real fast.

And I lost it.

I closed my eyes as tight as they would go, grabbed on to my little shoulder harness (which I was convinced was going to let go of me at any second) opened my mouth and just WAILED. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I actually CRIED on a roller coaster.

Nathan told me later that he looked over at me and was filled with a terrible horror that he was responsible for taking his mother on a ride that was making her cry! But what was he supposed to do?

Call Steve on the cell phone? Ask for the ride to be stopped? Offer me a Kleenex?

I think not.

A few seconds (or years) later, the cars finally careened into the station and there I sat in front of the whole waiting crowd--tears dribbling down my cheeks, nose running, and terror oozing out of every pore. I didn’t have the wits or the wherewithal to look around me but I wouldn’t be surprised if one glance at me sent all the middle-aged moms running and screaming in the opposite direction. I know for a fact that I wasn’t very good for business.

The next day I was telling a friend about the experience and she had the temerity to say, "Oh, my 8-year old daughter just loves that ride."

WHAT?

I told another friend about it and she said, “Oh, I’ve been on that ride. It’s one of the more mild ones at Busch Gardens.”

One of the MILD ones!!! I couldn’t believe it! I cried on a MILD roller coaster? I sniffled on an easy peasy ride that 8-year olds adore? I shed all those traumatized tears over stinkin' NOTHING?

Here I had thought I was on the worst roller coaster that the Engineers of Horror had ever come up with and I was just sure that my stricken tears were more than justified. And then I found out it was mild. Mild, I tell you!

I am so embarrassed.

Moment of silence please, while I just get over it.

Okay, I’m done.

Thank you for your support.

______________________


One additional roller coaster story: A couple years before the above story took place, our family was at Islands of Adventure in Florida. I thought I would create a bonding moment with Nathan and go on the Hulk roller coaster with him. To show you that I had completely lost my mind, here is a brief description of the ride taken from a Web review:

"This ride has quickly gained all sorts of media attention
and has made its name in the list of the world’s best roller coasters. The best part of the ride is that at the beginning, it accelerates from 0-40 in less than two seconds.

Then you head into an inverted zero gravity roll and go down a 105-foot drop and through a cobra roll that, in 1999, was the world’s largest. Riders complete a vertical loop, then enter a tunnel full of mist. By this time, the speed of the train has reached its highest speed --aproximately 65 mph. Also, during the ride, the train pulls 4 G's."

During that horrific, horrible, horrendous ride, I screamed until I thought I would pass out. I saw my life flash before my eyes. I knew I would never again see the faces of my husband or daughter. It was over. My Life. Was. Over.

When I had miraculously survived till the end of the ride and we were pulling back into the station, Nathan (who was only fourteen at the time) looked over at me and inquired worriedly, "Mom, are you emotionally damaged?"

I forgot all about the terror and just laughed and laughed at my funny son. And then, when I was done laughing, I made a solemn promise that I would never, ever, ever get on that roller again.

And I haven't. And I won't.

The end.