Enough

I think I reached the pinnacle of sanity last Friday. We were beginning the process of adjusting to our family's "new normal"after Yukon's accident, getting him back behind the wheel of his beloved Ford Valdez, allowing him to breathe without me in the room, that sort of stuff. We had a delightful, meaningful Easter together, quietly enjoying each other's presence and the beautiful day. I finally began to get my own projects under control, including a huge grant for our pastor's sabbatical in 2012 and a participant guide for the upcoming Mayor's Marathon in Anchorage, mixed in with a thousand other little things a business owner must do.

Yeah, what was I thinking? Yukon of course was overdoing things a little, as I suppose any of us would when allowed back into the realm of our regular world. I stopped by his office to drop off a car key and noticed as soon as he walked out of the building the familiar shuffling gait, the pale face, the reluctance to respond to my inquiry of "How do you feel?"

Shaking, I told him to call his doctor and tell him he was on the way. I had to take some friends to the airport and it was too late to find someone else, so we asked Yukon's coworker (god bless him) to take him to the doctor's office and I would meet them there. I drove my friends like a crazy woman to the airport, dumped them off at the door, and raced back to the physician's office, where co-worker sat nervously reading a magazine.

Running up and down hallways with a jigsaw puzzle of closed doors, I finally found Yukon and the doctor discussing a plan. "Can you take him over to the ER for another CT scan?" Dr. asked. Crap. Of course I will.

ER staff said "Hello, are you back again?" (I've decided this is not such a bad thing), hospital chaplain friend thought I was joking when I said we were baaaack, as did another friend who had to pick up Bear from school, again. Sigh.

Nurses listened and were concerned about lack of breath sounds, (his not mine). Scheduled him for CT and ultrasound, said it would be a bit of a wait while they recorded EKG and such. I left to ostensibly let The Dog out of his kennel and grab some things for a long stay, just in case.

I sat in my car sobbing. Positively gushing tears for a scared Yukon, an exhausted me, and two boys who I feared might not be in the presence of their father for much longer. I simply could not stand one more minute. Not one.

After three hours of nail biting tension, we found out Yukon had experienced an asthma attack due to his increased activity and all the dust in our Anchorage air. The CT and ultrasound showed, thankfully, no sign of pulmonary embolus or the offending clot in his leg. Good news.

When we were about to be released from the ER and the nurse was out of the room getting our paperwork, Yukon looked at me from his narrow bed, still attached to tubes and wires.

He started to cry.

"I was so afraid for you," he said.

I think we've all had enough of this.

"Real Pre-School, Mommy"

There is just nothing like the first day of school; new clothes, new lunchbox, new attitude. Little Bear, not so little anymore, took his first day of "real pre-school" in glorious stride. He had attended the little, one-room Lutheran preschool last year, but only since Januray, so today was indeed a milestone.

Very proud of his Thomas the Tank Engine backpack and fire truck lunchbox (not necessary for 2 1/2 hours of school, but obviously very important), Bear talked up school to our houseguests and marched into the classroom with all the confidence of one much older.

Yukon had the day off and was able to witness this display of independence, whereby we were dismissed with a "I don't need anyone to sit with me right now" statement.

So we grownups went to breakfast at our favorite weekday joint, the Snow City Cafe, where we drank coffee, ate breakfast burritos and generally enjoyed a slower morning than usual.

The air smells like back-to-school; crisp and leaf-y. Bear's new Keen hiking shoes will undoubtably be scuffed by next week from using his toes as brakes on the scooters, but they will be as comfortable as he is in his "real school" experience.

As for me, I finally can get back into a writing routine that was disrupted by so much over the summer. A welcome feeling.

On Coping With Caring

"I am never given more than I can handle; but need to consider new ways of handling situations if the old ways are not working.
I am open to new ideas, new solutions, and new arrangements if they are called for."
-Lyn Roche "Coping with Caring"

Who'd of thought that giving notice at work would garner such insightful responses from my co-workers and friends? After two short years working at a place, albeit one full of creativity and insight anyway, announcing that I was leaving had people quoting philosophy from down the hall.
The decision was made last week that I would return to the daily overseer role for the young Bear and Wolf children; Wolf's social and learning issues being the most convincing reason.
I initially accepted the job at the Office while we were still in South Carolina, knowing that the long, dark winters would soon drive me to certain distraction if I didn't have something to do outside the home. But 24 months later, it is time for me to go back into the home.
Bear will be able to attend "regular" pre-school, free of hotdog and white bread lunches and naps on institutional cots with children who ate Doritos and Kool Aid for breakfast. He will be able to play dress-up and pirates with mommy, and go to playdates.
Wolf will have a mother available for all-to-frequent parent/teacher visits, volunteer opportunities, and school project assistance.
Yukon will have a wife who doesn't look as if she just emerged from the clothes dryer on a static-y winter afternoon.
And me? Oh yeah, me.

I will write. And drink wine. And laugh.