Category Archives: Maggie

End of December

It’s pretty bad when you can’t even remember your password to write a post. Ahem. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

Nick is now 5. Five. Wow. In a way it seems like he’s been 5 for a while, but in other ways, it can still sneak up on you. If he’s five, then Maggie is 7 1/2. Seven and a half is almost 8. I’m not sure I like where this is heading. I am trying to not worry about the teenage years until they are, you know, teenagers. (So my boy turns 5 and I’m talking about teenagers. I know… I know…)

Nick also is now tonsil and adenoid free. He’s breathing better, sleeping better, eating better and this week I can say for sure it was the right call. Actually as soon as the surgeon described the adenoids I knew it was the right call, but there’s that moment when your child wakes up from anesthesia that makes you wonder why you let these monsters touch your sweet baby, let alone carve part of their bodies out. He’s beyond all that, and was actually a pretty easy going patient. I could tell the day he felt better when he started messing with the cats again.

(P.S. for anyone who is having a tonsillectomy – 10 day recovery period. No lie. Ten days.)

And now we sit on the precipice of a new year – I’m a resolution maker. I am. Although I make resolutions just about every day, so it’s not really anything different for me. In late December, I usually write them down in a note on my phone and some years I look at the last year’s note and go with those. Other years, it’s a whole new list.

Some things I’m going to do this year (not resolutions, more goals):

take up knitting again, successfully this time.

launch a new website, with two redesigns on my current sites

pay off my super-duper new commercial embroidery machine (don’t worry, you’ll be hearing plenty about that soon.)

get back to more personal writing and documenting of our lives.

What about you? Do you make resolutions? Goals? Anything new you want to tackle in 2012?



Feeling a little chatty today. Ahem.

I took Nick to Home Depot yesterday to buy a 2×4 to use as a balance beam. I got a chance to see some of the PT he does at school and much of it are things that we could easily be practicing at home, assuming I have them on a to-do list to cross off.

Our 2×4 is nowhere near as nice as the school’s but ours was only $2.30. The school’s might actually be a 3×3, but I’m calling it close enough.

Anyway, Nick was very happy with our new purchase and apparently felt a certain amount of ownership. Maggie came home from school and a melee ensued over the 2×4 piece of lumber on our living room floor.

They took turns. Only because an adult was standing there making sure no one took a 2×4 to the head.

Today, minutes after Maggie got home from school, I came into the living room to see Nick stretched out (the boy is l-o-n-g) on the 2×4.

“Are you lying on that so Maggie can’t get on it?”

“Yes. It’s mine.”

At least he’s honest.

I guarantee you if I had bought two of them, no one would want to use either of them.



After a long hiatus, I never know if I should catch you up on everything I’ve written in my head or just jump in with what’s in my head right now. (My head is a very, very full place.)

My parents have a cartoon on their wall that says “Filers should not marry pilers.” I’ve mentioned this cartoon before. I quote it all the time. What I’m just now realizing is pilers should not give birth to pilers and expect them to be filers.

Did you get that?

I’m having all sorts of drama over school work not coming home, completed homework not being turned in, and general disorganization. The guilty party (besides, well, me) doesn’t care. She has taken a few penalties at school, things that I think bother her, but she finds a way to not let it outwardly bother her.

I even talked to a counselor at school who mentioned one of the most important things:  Lead by example.

My dear piling child and I are screwed.

the wheels on the car

Note to self:

If you’re going to mess with the precious balance of the morning routine by convincing your bus-loving 7YO to ride in the car so you can drive 8 miles before school to the pharmacy (because the same pharmacy that is 2 miles away is staffed by a bunch a jerks) to get preventative ear drops that you forgot to pick up the day before, you might  want to make sure that the pharmacy will be open.

Instead, you can do the above, see the “pharmacy opens at 9” sign, groan, drive said 7YO to school to sit in the havoc of the drop-off line (still 1,000,000 times better than the pick-up line) to go home, wait for 30 minutes, repeat the trip to the pharmacy, go to school, figure out if you’re even allowed to bring a prescription onto school premises, put drops in child’s ear and never know if there was even a reason to need to drops in the first place.


Dr. Mom

First things first – I am not a doctor…

…but I am really good at diagnosing weird things. My family has had more than our share of weird things. I have been right on a handful and wrong on a handful so really, that’s only about a 50/50 history. (At least one of those literally saved a life.) When you figure in the weirdness factor of some of the things, 50/50 is pretty good.


The other day I was braiding Maggie’s hair. We were practicing spelling words as I braided. It was a super-normal morning.  Halfway through the braid, she looked up into the mirror with huge eyes saying “I feel really ill.”

I looked into the mirror and her face had zero color in it. Not just pale, but her lips were white too. It was freaky. I told her to run for the bathroom assuming she was going to throw up any moment. I grabbed a bucket (there is a whole bucket post I promised my friend I would write. It’s coming. Promise.) and followed her into the bathroom.

She sat on the toilet for a few minutes. Still no color. After a few more minutes I asked if she felt any better or worse.

“A little better, but my face feels really hot.”

I touched her cheeks, which were ice cold, and assumed she would spike a fever any minute.

After another 10 minutes of so, I relented and let her lay in her bed with the bucket beside her. She was perking up a tad, and decided she was hungry. (I will cover this in the bucket post, but I never feed a child who (in my mind) may be on the verge of puking.)

I got her some crackers and water and by the time I checked on her again, she was in bed working on her loom making a hot pad. Her lips were back to normal and her color was much better. I said she should rest a bit longer and if “it” indeed had passed, that I would take her to school late.

Suddenly a memory came to me. Last year as I was braiding Maggie’s hair, the same thing happened. She turned sickly pale and, of course, was ordered to sit in the bathroom. She sat that time for 15 minutes before asking to watch a show. I sent her to the TV room with her bucket and within an hour, she was bouncing around the room totally fine. My husband thought I had been suckered into letting her stay home, because she was fine by the time her saw her. But I’m here to tell you, the color of her face is something you can’t fake. Lips just aren’t that color.

So then it dawned on me that both instances were while braiding her hair. And both times she was fine an hour later.

And I got to googling.

I’m pretty sure (remember I’m not a doctor) that it was a vasovagal reaction. They sometimes cause fainting, but are the result of a sudden drop in blood pressure and heart rate which lower oxygen to the brain. Symptoms include

  • Skin paleness
  • Lightheadedness
  • Tunnel vision — your field of vision is constricted so that you see only what’s in front of you
  • Nausea
  • Feeling of warmth
  • A cold, clammy sweat
And, there is an only occasionally-recognized trigger called hair groomers syncope – fainting or near fainting while having one’s hair groomed.
My husband laughed and laughed and laughed at me. He does not endorse my Dr. Google degree.
But I tell you what, Maggie sits when we braid her hair now.

gold coins

I have deadlines coming up for a few different projects, no naturally now is when I decide to take a few minutes to write. Ha.

I posted on Facebook the other day that Maggie’s endocrinologist’s computer says she will likely be 6’1″ tall. About a year ago, it predicted 6′ even, so the prediction is going up. She says she will still listen to me when she is looking down at me. We’ll see.

Another interesting thing happened at this doctor visit. The Dr. (whom I love and adore and appreciate immensely) asked Maggie what the tooth fairy gave her for her missing tooth.

“A gold coin worth 100 cents,” she said.

“A gold dollar coin?” he asked.

“Yes! That’s what she brings every time.”

Turning to me, he says “Where do you get the gold coins?”

Ummmm, I DIDN’T GET THE GOLD COINS. THE TOOTH FAIRY brings the coins. Hello???!!!

“I’m not sure where the TOOTH FAIRY gets them,” I said trying to get the point across.

He seemed to get it and we moved on.

And then a few minutes later he brought the gold coins up again. I answered as quickly as I could and changed the subject politely.

I waited for Maggie to ask about it later, but she hasn’t yet. So she either heard, knows and isn’t willing to risk it, or she didn’t hear. The Dr does have a thick accent, so there is a chance she missed that part of the conversation.

I guess the really ironic part is that I have a stash of gold coins that I got from the ice machine near my in-laws that returns gold coins for change when you buy ice. (which I figured was a bit too long to try to explain to the dr.) I also got a handful of them from their Grandpa Joe. After the first three teeth, I figured I better hide my back-up gold coins a little better so the tooth fairy didn’t get busted.

And now I can’t exactly find them. So for the last tooth, I found one of Maggie’s coins that she has already received from the tooth fairy, and gave it to her again. I know, that’s horrible. She has no idea.

And someday, she will read this. Hopefully not until well after she doesn’t believe in the tooth fairy anymore. (Maggie, I owe you a dollar. Love, Mom)

when one door slams

I used to be a door slammer. Every once in a while I revert back to my old door-slamming ways, but for the most part, I am a recovered door slammer. Or at least, that’s what I think.

I still close doors with emphasis when I get really frustrated.

A funny story (now, 14 years later, it’s funny) from long ago: When my husband and I had first begun to share a home, and were still working out the kinks of a new relationship and cohabitation, I got really mad during an argument, stomped off and slammed the bedroom door.

Well, I tried to slam the bedroom door. It got stuck on a rug that was nearby and wouldn’t slam. In my growing frustration, I repeatedly tried to slam the door getting the rug further jammed under the door. After about four minutes of trying to slam the door, I huffed and walked into another bedroom and slammed that door.

Recently my children have started slamming doors. They slam them in each other’s faces when they get angry with each other. They slam them to prove that their room is their room. They slam them to prove that they can. And sometimes they just shut them loudly and it sounds like a slam.

It makes me crazy.


We’ve talked about door slamming. We’ve talked about what it feels like to have a door slammed in your face. We’ve talked about how much it would hurt to have a finger slammed in a door. We’ve talked about how loud it is and how much it bothers mommy. We’ve talked and talked and talked.

And if you come to visit our house right now, there is a certain seven-year-old who no longer has a door to her bedroom.