Dirty Tale

Several years ago - while trying to shed a few extra unwanted pounds, I opted to go for a diet that had worked for me once before. The Cabbage Soup Diet. Which primarily consists of a homemade soup concocted with water and cabbage.
Saturday was fine. Sunday was fine. Monday was a work day and despite severe stomach pains, was also, basically fine.
Mid-day, I had my free period- and missing one of my best girlfriends that had moved away to LA on me, I decided to go out to my car in the massive parking lot to have a smoke and a chat. And to divert the attention I was focusing on my belly pangs.
Midway through my cigarette and chat, I felt my stomach do some flip-flops. I figured the gas was setting in. I did my best to maintain focus on the conversation. Suddenly, in a burst of rumbly outburst, and while discussing my girlfriends near tragic car accident- I suffered through my own sort of tragic car accident.
I shit my pants.
At first I didn't know it. At first I just assumed that whatever was happening down there would just require a quick exit and a visit to the ladies. After a tiny investigation, via a glance down at my barely khaki, almost white pants.... So not the case.
I interuppted my girlfriend with the news- and suddenly her tragic incident took the back seat to my suddenly urgent predicament.
There was a lot of repeat questions between her and I...
Me: I shit my pants?
She: You shit your pants?
Me: Did I really shit my pants just now?
She: Did you really just shit your pants?
Me: What am I going to do? I have to go back into work!
She: What ARE you going to do?
Me: Do I need to go or what?
She: You DO need to go... call me later and tell me what happens.
And so I did what any other person would do... I wrapped a sweatshirt around my waist and went into the the closest entrance and knocked casually on the first occupied classroom door I could find. A woman approached and apprehensively opened it a crack and I then realized what I was about to have to say to this woman I didn't know.
Me: Look, I am a teacher here... and I just shit my pants, and I have to go. You really need to help me out and tell someone I need a sub. Here is my phone number in case you can't get ahold of anyone. I am leaving the building.. um... NOW.
And off I ran. I couldn't afford to look back.
Feeling completely disgusted, I got back into the safe confines of my car and called my very best gay guy friend- who I knew would help me laugh and sympathize my way through my car ride home.
Upon hearing my story- he declared a state of emergency- after laughing hysterically, of course, and then also called off work so we could nurse me back to a normal emotional state together.
After throwing out the clothes, showering, and demanding I eat some fiber- things started to feel much better.

Within hours, after getting through the larger part of a twelve pack, we actually went out dancing. Never mind that it was a Monday. To me it was a pant's shitting day and I really needed to get some other notch in my belt in order to take the heaviness out of the fact that my most recent noteworthy event was crapping myself at work.

Somehow- because I work with a fat mouth- this story came out at my NEW teaching job. Just last week. Lots of teaching professionals laughing at me. At my story- about the day I pooed my pants. I quickly turned the tables and asked my colleagues if any such thing had ever happened to them. Shockingly- while guffawing uncontrollably at MY story- nary a soul raised their own hand to admit such a dirty tale.

And I call bullshit. I call a good old fashion shit-your-pants-bullshit- because it HAS. It of course has happened to SOMEONE else besides me.

Scared

When people told me to make the baby sleep on his back, use ONLY sleepers and above all else, put NO TOYS or bumpers in the crib. I listened. I listened because I am a new Mom and I didn't want to make a drastic mistake. Over the last week, as we leave month three happily behind us ( gimme me a break, I had a rought start ) and enter month four ( thank you God of rice cereal ), we have made the swing a part of Jake's past and introduced him to his new one and only sleeping spot. His crib.
It's been fairly easy, as the timing seemed right. Well, that, and since he was teething he was on some doses of Tylenol so once that kicked he didn't give a rat's patootie WHERE he was sleeping.
In order to smooth his transition into his "big boy bed", I allowed him one eensy teensy tiny itty bitty allowance. His eight inch by eight inch square binky. Silky on one side and fuzzy wuzzy soft on the other. He loves the thing and it helps him fall instantly to sleep once the cool, shiny silk is placed lovingly against his cheek. How can a mom say no?
Last night, while home alone, I put him down for a late afternoon nap. Binky and all. Suddenly I heard his guttaral screams and at first, figured he was spoiled and his pacifier fell out... again. But then something about that cry made me run like the wind towards his room. I flung the lights on and the poor little guy had gotten his binky somehow stuck across his face. The more he tried to breathe in, the more stuck he felt. Since he was screaming, I knew he was okay, but when I leaned in to pick him up, he went limp in my arms and immediately snuggled his head on my chest. It took him a good twenty mintues to calm down and breathe at his normal rate. It took me at least twenty four hours. Well, actually, I don't think I am over it yet. I don't think I will ever be "over" it.
Tonight, he went to sleep withOUT his special binky. I actually want to throw the darn thing away, but figure he will grow into it.
Now that my first scare is over, I feel more like a mom than ever. As I buttoned my big-sized pants around my rounded middle this morning, I thought how lucky I was that I heard him. How lucky I am to even be graced with his life. How quickly things can go wrong. How horrid it would be. I am a humbler Mom today.

Back in the Swing

As the holiday transformed itself overnight from cornocopias to Christmas trees, and the temperatures dropped from 30 to eight, and the first of the sticky snowfalls decorated our lawns, I have found myself intensely... busy. Between night classes and medical concerns and appointments and preparing our home for the Winter, I could say that life has been passing me by, a task in going through the motions, one moment to the next.

Until today, that is. I have one final doctor appointment today at 10:30. The news so far has been nothing but promising and with each passing appointment ( FOUR in the last week), my confidence has catapulted itself almost to the point of "no worries at all". Thank God. And since the appointment is at 10:30, I decided, as a gift to myself, to spend the afternoon NOT going back to work, but instead, perusing the shopping mall to tackle my Christmas lists.

I have chosen an outdoor mall. Probably not ideal for eight degree weather, but the sparse crowds mixed with my "plan", not to mention it's proximity to my doctor, should make the outing fruitful. I am planning on wearing TWO pairs of pants, three shirts and a stocking cap. I have already googled the layout of the mall and pairing it with my Christmas lists have managed to come up with a plan of attack, complete with coffee breaks, bathroom breaks, and pit stops at the car to unload. Did I mention I will not DON the extra thick gear until AFTER my appointment? I would not want to risk an "I weigh a lot melt down" so have even decided to "pack a bag" to carry INTO the doctor's office and will not gear up until after the dreaded weigh in. Thinking ahead my friends, just thinking ahead.

Overall, I am finally feeling at peace. When December 1 rolled around, just a few short days ago, my life felt up in the air. I resigned myself to avoiding all things Christmas and wasn't even bothered by the Thanksgiving decor still covering the nooks and crannies of my house. But with each passing appointment, and the good news began to warm my soul and soften my hardened and scared heart, I began to hear myself humming jingle bells softly to myself. Last night, at 9:30, while driving home from my night class, I heard myself belting out at top long, along with the radio, Joy to the World. I knew the tides had finally turned.

Tomorrow, when my husband will be gone for several hours on an outing with a friend, I plan to transform our Fall leaf laden home into a Winter wonderland, fake tree and all. When my husband gets home, I envision sipping cocoa and listening quietly to my Bing Crosby Christmas CD while the twinkling lights of the tress illuminate the background. In reality, we will order a pizza while my husband watches UFC, and drinks a beer and I read books about psyhcogical torment. But still, it will be "normal" which is what I am really going for.

Danger Zone

I am in pain. Not surprising. But my "accidents" seem to come in waves. It all started yesterday morning.
Every single day when I walk into my period 4 classroom, the guy who has class in there before me seems to get a very big kick out of "surprising" me. Every. single. day. As in, I-drop-my-shit-and-scream. And I know it's coming, but I can't seem to "not get" surprised. And so late last week, I warned the six foot two fifty guy to "stop doing that", it's going to give me a heart attack. But yesterday... then beautiful yesterday... he did it again. And, much to his chagrin, and then to mine... I heard my mouth say in garbled slow motion, " I said STOP doing that" and my leg coaxing me to "do it"... KICK HIM. And so with every ounce of energy, muscle, fat and bone, I swung with all my might. And then we had a connection. Hard plastic Target shoe to shin. And the crack, as my teaching aide said, " sounded like a home run!". Moments after, not even a second, we were both bent over in pain. And I must admit, it was pure joy on my end. Despite the throbbing feeling in my shit kicking ankle. And as the story drifted through the school halls, it was always met with a "bethca he won't do that again".
But now my ankle hurts.
And then last night, my husband had a single co-worker over for dinner, because he's a nice guy and he's been craving a home-cooked meal. So... I had the glorious floor to work magics in the kitchen and to really be appreciated for my efforts. Game on. Baked pork chops, corn on the cobb, home fries, salad, and chocolate chip cookies. A meal meant to impress the everyman. But if you are a cook, you will soon know that there was quite a lot of "oven stuff" going on over here. So much, in fact, that I seemed to have forgotten myself! even as I reached in to pull out the lucious, crispy fries. And then the quick scorch quickly brought me back to my senses. I looked down at my arm and noticed a good sized sizzle had cooked the bacon right off my arm. It's disgusting... and painful.
Don't even start in on me with my toe. It's still.... gruesome. And no amount of polish is "corrective" enough for my tastes, because as I laid the 527th thick coat on there, my toe began to look like those polyeurathane paper weights with a scorpion stuck inside. Only it's not an insect, it's my freakin TOE nail.
And then there was the boxing. Which I admit was fun. And while boxing when I told my husband about the ankle injury, he suggested that next time we work on some "proper kicks". And as I punched that bag- hands coated in thick, hot, pink, plastic gloves, I felt good, mighty... strong! Until today. It sort of reminded me of the day Jen needed nude colored arthirtic arm supports to sip her beer properly. I felt as if picking up the chalk to write on the board was suddenly... difficult.
So... even though I got new shoes in the mail yesterday ( thanks Piperlime... for being as good as Zappos! ) I could not wear them as the heel height was taxing. I could not wear long sleeves due to the burn. I could not wear sandals because of the toe. I could not write because of the boxing arms. I was not agile due to the on-going back issues.
If ever there was a call for Zuma pants, moon boots, and a muscle tee... this, my friends, would be IT.