Poor Ish Is Dead

I know. Ish doesn't rhyme with Judd at all but I thought it was clever.

Hey - I haven't slept much in last few days!

Anyway, we came home from Quinn's baptism last night to find Ish gasping his last little fishy breaths. Rob aerated his water. I mashed up some peas and placed them in the water (because I've read in several places that it helps in situations like these). He tried to swim sideways (because he was pretty much belly up already) to get some fish food but I don't think he ever did.

This morning, he was at the bottom of the tank and not moving.

And so passes the great Ish, won at a pre-school carnival, lovingly tended for 2.5 years as he lived in his 1 gal ice cream bucket (really, it was so the opaque plastic would give him privacy - that's what it was! Would you want to live in a glass house?). He will be mourned by my children and by our cat Jenny whom I'm sure is thinking, "Damn, I coulda had a good meal too!"

Is it bad that upon noting his death, my first thought was, "If I flush him down the toilet now, I can put the ice cream bucket on the curb for the recyclers to pick up!" And I did. No sense keeping more trash evidence of his demise around to torment my children.

As a side note, which I will not be confessing to my children, I'm thinking that he died from not being fed. These last few days have been crazy and little things have slipped through the cracks. (And you thought this blog was the only thing I was ignoring!)

Or, as I will tell the children, he was faking his death because, "all drains lead to the ocean." And now he is a free fish swimming in the vast Pacific Ocean. Heck, Nemo's his best friend.

That's the official story anyway and I'm sticking to it.

The Mouse Has Landed

I would throw an exclamation point after the title but I feel like I'm over using those bits of punctuation and they're just too powerful to be callously tossed about.

So, we made it. I've been up since 4am. Okay, 4:10am (I took the luxury and hit snooze once). The first leg to Seattle was quite smooth and easy and no problems. The kids watched a movie in the airport and then we walked to the food court (Holy gift of God, Batman, we found a table!) and had Wendy's burgers at 9:30am. Mmm...nothing like needing lunch before 10am! We made a video, I'll be sure to post it later, that required many takes as to avoid names and faces of my children (paranoid hubby). We played Mancala, Go Fish and sipped a Frosty (the real reason we ate at Wendy's).

We boarded the plane and lo and behold, sitting in first-class was Calista Flockhart and her son Liam. Really. I stared good and hard to make sure. That' s me - uber classy!

We walked to our so not first-class seats (row 25) and had an uneventful flight. No real food (but we were full of a Wendy's gut bomb) and while they offered Jones sodas, it was only the standard flavors, no Green Apple. So. Sad.

The real excitement came via, what else, bodily functions. Quinn used the airplane restroom, oh, whoops, lavatory, 3 times - it was a 2 hour flight. 2 hours. And when the plane was descending, he said that he had to go again. Urgently. I told him to hold it. And then poor Lulu had to go. She'd been sleeping two hours but woke up as we were in descent and the lavatories were closed off. By the time the plane had come to a stop, she was crying because she had to go. What could I do? I picked her up hoping she would calm down and hold it just 5 more minutes (really, eternity) and she didn't. Nope. Started peeing on me; I dropped her placed her gently on ground and let her pee on the aisle carpet. Seriously. What else was I supposed to do?!?! Then they announce that the airplane is too far forward and could everyone please be seated so they could back up a skoshe. I sat and placed Lulu on my lap. Yea. I had pee on my shirt and now one nice big wet spot on each of my thighs. People, this is mother love.

We deboarded the plane and I told the flight attendants that there had been an accident on the right side of the aisle between rows 24 and 25.

"On the seat or on the floor?" they queried.

"On the floor." I replied.

"What do you mean by accident? Did they spill..."

"Pee. She peed." I said pointing at Lulu.

And with that, we left. Really, people, what was I supposed to do?

So, as we are waiting for our baggage (and I am surreptitiously glancing at Calista and looking for Harrison - who was no where to be found), I hear them announcing that the next flight (our plane was turning around and going back to Seattle) was being delayed by an "unscheduled maintenance." At first I panicked a bit and thought I would be blogging about how we narrowly avoided disaster. But later, driving in the car with my dad, it dawned on me - they were, most likely, cleaning up my daughter's urine!

Note to the travel weary: Children peeing on aisle carpeting could delay the outbound flight by 30 minutes.

Note to all those who traveled on the outgoing flight: I am so, so, SO sorry.

Note to the older couple who sat next to me and were completely nonplussed by my child urinating on the exit of our row: Thank you for your patience, humor and compassion.

Oh, and thank you all - BiV, Evil Mia (mwahahahahah), Stefanie, Lizzie, Shelby and Laura (and David Santos - spoken in bass voice) - for leaving me sweet messages. It was so nice to arrive here after all the excitement and read such love. Thank you.

And BiV, I'm SOOOOOO happy that I'm finally feeding on your blog.

Restroom #486

There are moments I look around me and wonder how did I get here. I'm being very literal. Today I looked around the back working innards of a butcher's shop and wondered, "How did I get here?" The answer was found in my little blonde and not quite 4-year-old daughter who had to pee. I find this to be a typical situation for me. Some people have children who will only use bathrooms which they have investigated thoroughly and have been approved by the local health department. Even then, they may hesitate if this bathroom is not actually located in their home. My children, on the other hand, view every new bathroom as a life-fulfilling adventure; in moments like these I loathe their strong sense of independence.

A couple of years ago I boarded a plane bound for Alaska with a 18-month old lap child in diapers (really, they may as well just give her my seat), a 4 1/2 year old who was potty trained and a 6 1/2 year old who was well versed in all things bathroom. I made sure that we went to the bathroom before loading the plane. However, Quinn's eyes lit up the moment he realized there was a toilet on the plane. "Really?" Taking a child to the bathroom in an airplane lavatory is exceeded in difficulty only by trying to change a diaper in said lavatory; I speak from experience on both matters.

Net result, I have been to airplane bathrooms with small children. I have been into women's bathrooms, family bathrooms and yes, on occasion, men's bathrooms (the joys of having sons). I have been in more port-a-potties than I can count. (The port-a-potties made for the handicapped are nice and roomy but I wouldn't recommend the port-a-potties located at ball fields during the last game of the season; the sights and smells continue to haunt my nightmares.) We are intimately acquainted with every bathroom in countless friends' homes, our in-laws', two local elementary schools, our favorite park, our local library, our church, our stake center in Eugene, our local...no, two...three...FOUR grocery stores and Walmart. We have passing reference to the bathrooms in a few area churches, every rest stop between here and Hwy 18 in Tacoma, Washington (no hyperbole used here), the South Lane Rural Fire Department as well as every inch of local roadway and the vast wooded areas of Western Oregon (okay, slight hyperbole on that last bit).

Today, I add Custom Meats to that list. I had never before seen a real hanging side of beef. Check that one off my list. I turned the door handle to open the bathroom door and came away with a booger sized piece of raw meat. *Sigh* "Do you really have to pee?" "I can't hold it." The toilet was clean, the soap dispenser filled and paper supplied. (I suppose I should be grateful to the know that the sanitary facilities in a meat packing place are so well maintained as there will be no traces of urine in my ground round.) I will also always be grateful that there seems to be no end to the number of strangers who will allow someone to use their restroom facilities when they see this person accompanied by a small person dancing and clutching her crotch in front of them.

But this topic is far too narrow because right behind the "How did I get here" question is the "What am I doing here" question. Again, this is completely literal. There are moments when I look at myself in these assorted bathrooms and, as if having an out of body experience, wonder who that weirdo over there is and what the heck is she doing?! I have made "hand puppet" shows over the tops of bathroom stall doors, encouraging my little proteges to pee. I have, of necessity, used the bathroom while my children were present at some point in each of their lives. I have sung songs to them. I have said things like, "You really don't need to get naked to poop," and "Please don't touch that" with a touch of hysteria in my voice. I have reminded to wipe, to flush and to wash hands. I have cautioned against "sword fighting" with streams of pee. I have asked boys to aim better and ensure that all the urine ends up in the toilet. I have placed Cheerios in the toilet for floating targets; a peanut M&M as proof that the dolly went poop, why don't you? I have told stories about poop wanting to go down the water slide and how much fun this was for their poop. I have disinfected children after they finished exploring port-a-potties.

Ultimately, "How did I get here?" and "What am I doing here?" can both be answered quite deftly with the living fact of children and all their idiosyncrasies and, of course, the glue that holds the universe together: poop and pee. And my strong desire to have to touch as little of that glue as possible.