Just Say Whoa

 It was bound to happen sooner or later.

After all, we live just to the left of the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields of every stripe and contour. As much as I hate to admit it, most urban-dwellers would say we live in the country.

But The Princess is still just a baby in my mind. She's a sweet, little thing. So young and impressionable.

Of course that's the problem, right there. She's young and impressionable. Prone to errors in judgment, like all youth. Like I was once. Although never like this. I swear.

Somehow I always thought she would benefit from the influence of nearby, uber-hip Iowa City. Sure, I worried a little about the University of Iowa's party school reputation, but this?

Never saw it coming.

I just wasn't ready for it yet. Then again, maybe no parent ever is.

I mean sure, she drives a pick up truck. Sure, she's in FFA – which used to stand for Future Farmers of America but now just stands for FFA (but only FFA members know that) – even though she's a good two generations removed from actually living on a farm. Go figure.

And yes, the local FFA chapter still has a Drive Your Tractor To School Day during FFA Recognition Week. And yes, she really, really wanted to drive a tractor to school. But we don't have one.

In the end, it was her FFA connections that proved to be the bad influence.

I blame FFA and Iowa State University.

She left home for the Iowa FFA Leadership Conference at ISU as my little radio hog. She came home a changed young woman.

She came home a stranger to me.

She came home listening to country music.

It seems like just last week she was listening to a playlist that almost exclusively featured rap and hip-hop music. Tunes – to use the term loosely – in which every other word should have been bleeped out. And the words that didn't need to be bleeped out couldn't be used in polite or politically correct conversation.

It seems like just last week when she wasn't listening to hip-hop lyrics that caused even me to blush, she was listening to overly-harmonized boy bands and the high-pitched, breathy whining of the latest pop-Tart of the month.

It seems like only last week because it was only last week.

Where has the time gone?

I feel a little (very little) like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof:

Is this the little girl I weaned on 80s music?

Is this the little girl playing those awful Kidz Bop CDs?

I don't remember voluntarily handing her the aux cord,

When did they?

There she was, fresh off the school van, excitedly telling me about the food and the architecture, and the mullets (or lack thereof), and oh, yeah, there were presentations and stuff, too, when – as The Gap Band would have said – she “dropped a bomb on me, baby.”

“Who knew country music could be my jam?”

OK, now the very fact that she used “jam” and “country music” in the same sentence with “jam” being slangfor “my favorite” and not slang for an “improvised musical performance,” is just wrong.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

This is not about the fact that I am not a big country music fan.

OK, maybe it is. Full disclosure: My least favorite Billy Joel song is “Shameless.” It's not that I don't like the way Billy Joel sings it, but no matter how many times I hear the Billy Joel version, I am always reminded of the Garth Brooks version.

Shudder.

The only country music song I have ever actively sought out (that I will admit to) is "The Rodeo Song" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tX6ggRByE8g). Come to think of it, every fourth word of that song should be bleeped out, so maybe country music and hip-hop aren't always so different after all.

Not that it really matters because tonight when I hopped in the truck, she had the radio tuned to pop music again.

But I'm still not handing her the aux cord.

99% Inspiration, 5% Zombie Plague

I arrived home from the 2016 Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop inspired and ready to write, only to find that the main characters in the novel I'm writing had left me without giving a forwarding address.

These were the same main characters who talked non-stop during the seven-hour drive to Dayton. The ones who dared me to jot down legible notes in the blue-black, pre-dawn of western Illinois. The ones who taunted me with plot points, punctuated by lightening strikes and torrential downpours in central Illinois. The ones who carried on lengthy, meaningful, insightful conversations as I navigated the hair-raising Indianapolis traffic.

These were the main characters who whispered frantically during the workshop sessions, like naughty students sitting at the back of the classroom:

“Describe the smell of The Bar – how the brick walls marinated in cigarette smoke for more than 100 years, and now they subtly diffuse that acrid scent, like a forgotten, cardboard, pine tree air freshener in a '76 Pontiac Bonneville.”

“Make sure our pitch represents us well! Mention the 80-year-old pole dancer. And the motorcycle. Don't forget the motorcycle!”

These were the same characters who mumbled discontentedly on the drive back home, accusing me of ignoring them as I fought the gusty winds to keep the car on the road. They hinted at inconsistencies with the back story. Like spoiled children they quibbled over which was my favorite. They questioned the entire narrative, and my ability to represent them accurately.

Now I was home, “ass in seat,” ready to write, and the little bastards were nowhere to be heard.

At the first sign of a tickle in my throat, they packed their bags for vacation. Or maybe they were forced out of my head when my sinus cavities swelled up to five times their normal size. All I know is, by the time the elephant sat on my chest and poured Tabasco sauce down my throat, they were on their way to the airport.

Those imaginary characters have an instinct for survival. I'm sure they are right now living it up on some fictional Florida coastal beach, having fun in the sun with their toes in the sand and margaritas in hand.

Meanwhile I've been left behind to shiver in my sweatshirt, head on my pillow, tissues in hand.

It's been cold comfort to find that other Erma-ites are suffering similar symptoms. I hesitate to admit that in the week before I left for Dayton I marveled at the fact that I had not succumbed to the crud so many others had suffered from this winter. It is precisely that kind of Pollyanna thinking that makes you a prime candidate to become Patient Z – because I am starting to think this could be the Zombie Plague and not just the flu.

So, while I wait for the aches, chills, hot flashes and coughing to subside – or until I develop a taste for brains – all I can do is wait patiently for my errant characters to drop me a postcard or two to move the narrative along. Maybe when they get tired of making things up on their own they'll come back to me. Maybe they'll even bring me a souvenir, like a nice t-shirt. Or a nice, tidy resolution to their story.

Not That I Worry, Mind You

So.

To cap off Spring Break 2016, The Princess and some friends decided to spend the day in Chicago.

Now mind you, this would be the same group of girls who, a couple of weeks ago, were having trouble deciding whose car would make it to Des Moines (2 hours away) for the Girl's State Basketball Tournament, and who would most likely be able to stay awake to drive home.

Not that I worried at all about three high school girls (granted they're all 18... just barely) driving the nearly three-and-a-half hours to Chicago's Navy Pier (which, by the way is located in downtown Chicago) and Shedd Aquarium, or driving the nearly three-and-a-half hours back home late at night (when most people like to sleep).

Now mind you, earlier in the week, when I suggested we go to Chicago to the aquarium, the children rolled their eyes so hard I was afraid they would sustain brain damage.

Not that I worried. At all.

Now mind you, this would be the same Princess who whines if you do not respond instantly to her calls or texts, but who, after setting out for downtown Chicago doesn't see the need to call or text her mother.

Not that I worried. Because obviously I knew that:

A. They were having too much fun to call;

B. There are no cell towers in the Greater Chicago Metropolitan Area;

C. All three girls' cell phone batteries died on the three-plus hour drive there;

D. Their cell phones didn't work at the bottom of the Chicago River, where their bodies were no doubt sinking after the kidnappers tossed them off one of the bridges. Although I will admit, cell reception is probably crap at the bottom of the river.

Now mind you, being a typical Mom I did text her late in the afternoon just to:

A. Embarrass her.

B. Make sure they made it safely to wherever they wound up after telling me they were going to Chicago;

C. Check cell reception at the bottom of the Chicago River;

D. Let the kidnappers know that I was on to them;

Not that I worried. Because in response to my text asking “How's it going?” she did send a return text saying “Good.” Which is exactly the reply you would expect:

A. When a group of teenage girls is having fun;

B. When that's all the time you have time to type as you're sinking to the bottom of the Chicago River;

C. When kidnappers let their victims send a brief, non-committal message to assure their worried parents that they are still alive;

D. When you're sitting in the Customs Office at the Canadian border because you got lost on your way to Chicago from Eastern Iowa.

Now mind you, I could have called one of the other girls' parents, but:

A. I like to keep my own particular brand of crazy hidden as much as possible, and there was a slim chance that I was over reacting.

B. Nope, that's pretty much it, although...

C. They are 18 and, unlike me, actually know how to use the navigational systems on their phones.

Not that I worried and stayed up half the night waiting for them to come home, because:

A. I decided long ago that the key to surviving teenagers is to sleep as much as possible when you have the chance, because once the call comes from the police department/ hospital/ Navy Seals searching the bottom of the Chicago River/ customs officers at the Canadian border, there will be no more sleep;

B. I could fall asleep standing in line with kidnappers at a crowded customs office on the Canadian border;

C. I slept fitfully for half the night, until I heard a ghostly voice whisper “Mom, I'm home,” then I slept fitfully for the other half of the night wondering if I actually heard something or if it was just an example of that weird “we're so close/beyond the veil” phenomenon that would end up with me being portrayed by a tired-looking actress in a dramatization on some cable TV show;

D. All of the above PLUS the cat woke me up at 6:30 on a Saturday morning, again, so that I could watch him eat after checking to make sure that The Princess, was indeed, peacefully sleeping in her bed.

Now mind you, it is 9 p.m. on a Saturday night and The Little Prince isn't home yet.

Not that I'm worried.

The Best Part of Waking Up (Not)

I am awakened by a muffled sound from my alarm. It's the pre-alarm sound that always startles me so that I am ready with my ninja-like reflexes to hit the snooze button when the alarm proper goes off.

It is not full day light yet, as it should be at 7 a.m. I know I set the alarm for 7 when I went to bed last night. I was looking forward to that extra hour or two of Saturday sleep. It should not be this dim, even if it is overcast.

I wait impatiently for the alarm to begin softly playing hits of the 70s and 80s so that I can hit snooze.

The mattress sags by my calf. I sense hesitation.

The mattress sags by my hip. I tense.

Twelve pounds of pressure are transferred through a two-inch round-ish paw, exerting a multiplied force of at least 100 pounds on my belly.

I reach blindly for the snooze button – finding a cold, wet nose. I recoil. Blech.

“Hmphf.”

All four paws step across my abdomen in sequence – 100 pounds each – boom, boom, boom, BOOM. The last includes an extra push, extra force, then a thud on the floor as the snooze is set.

I slip back into my dream. Billy Joel is playing the piano. He looks deep in my eyes and sings:

“Mrack?”

His voice sounds like a cross between a congested baby duck and a mangled squeeky toy. A mangled, squeeky duck toy? What?

I squinch my eyes shut and flail over the edge of the bed for the alarm. Something warm and fuzzy slides between my grasping fingers.

“Meh.”

Quiet.

There is a gentle nudge on the side of my mattress next to my head. Soft puffs of air. I'm being sniffed for signs of life.

“Sleepy time,” I hiss-whisper.

“Meh-eh.”

“Shhhh.” I try not to wake my husband. He snores on, a back-up alarm.

A plastic bag rustles near the foot of the bed. I knew better than to leave that there. I throw a wadded up Kleenex, but it falls short.

The sound of claws shredding carpet.

I toss back the covers. The shredding stops.

“Mreh. Mreh.”

The tiny dancer leads me around the foot of the bed, fakes right then darts left across my toes and leads me to the bathroom.

He sits expectantly on the sink, blinking, puffing out his chest, preening, posing.

“Eh?”

I reach around and over him to wash my hands. He bumps my arm. Bumps my other arm. Sniffs the water I slopped on the edge of the sink while being bumped. I sigh.

“Mreh?”

I open the door.

THUD. Cat-like grace, my fanny.

He ankle-tackles me in his haste to regain the lead. He waits for me in the hallway, then races ahead, changing lanes without signaling, cutting me off. I stumble, stop mid-step and swear softly.

He sits in the kitchen doorway, blinking. Oblivious.

“Meh!”

His food dish is . . . completely . . . full. Horrors! There has been no one to stand guard and watch him eat for at least eight hours!

“Meh!”

Big, green eyes, staring.

I pet him in one long, full swipe. Firm pressure is applied evenly from his ears over his shoulders down his back across his hips and along the tail. To. The. Very. Tip. Whichisheldfor precisely, three, seconds. Then twitched away.

The head is raised expectantly, the process begins again, muscles ripple one by one to the tail, two, three.

And

Done.

Crunching.

I am dismissed. The alarm has been reset.

The Princess' Last Stand

 Last fall, when the Princess began her senior year of high school and we took “first day of school pictures” for the last time, I did not cry.

When we walked across the field with the other cheerleaders and football players at the senior night game, I did not cry.

When we walked across the mat with the other cheerleaders and wrestlers at the senior night meet, I did not cry.

When I finally got around to putting all the important school events on the 2016 calendar – days off, concerts, prom – I did not cry.

I didn't bother to write in graduation because The Little Prince is only a freshman and The Princess is only a . . . a senior. A senior? A senior!

A senior who will be graduating from high school in May.

May 29. I went back and added it to my calendar, but I did not cry.

I was still in denial.

It's not like I didn't know she was graduating. For two years now she's been making post-graduation plans that range from moving to Australia to never moving out of our house. That seemed reasonable, since there are days I wish she would move to Australia and days I want to snuggle with her on the couch and never let her out of my sight.

The constant contact from prospective colleges has also made it difficult to ignore her impending graduation. Sorting through all those letters, emails and phone calls to pick just the right school has been tough, as we have different selection criteria. She's looking for a school that is close enough to home so that I can do her laundry consistently, but far enough away that I can't nag her constantly. I'm looking for a school that is far enough away so that she has to do her own laundry regularly, but close enough that I can supply the detergent routinely.

I want her to spread her wings and test her independence, but I want to be there to cheer her on.

I have done a poor job of documenting the first 110 days of her senior year, but I vow to make up for that with the last 65 days. I'm starting with a costumed photo shoot for her final President's Day in high school.

The Little Prince has (successfully) turned my distraction to his advantage. Last night when I told him to clean his room, he reminded me “The Princess only has 280 days to clean her room before she moves out.”

The joke is on him. There are 600 school days until his graduation.

That's plenty of time for me to cry.

Top 10 Signs You're an Iowa High School Wrestling Tournament Newbie

This may be your first time at the Iowa High School State Wrestling Tournament if...

1. You make it to downtown Des Moines just fine and even find a parking spot, but then you immediately get lost in the skywalk.

2. You make it to very crowded The Wells Fargo Arena (never underestimate the ability of teenage girls to find teenage boys) and still manage to find the group from your high school without texting anyone.

3. You set out to find a seat on your own (because you don't want to embarrass your teenage daughter), only to find out the only available seats are in the third tier. You make it to the third tier only to remember that you are Deathly. Afraid. Of Heights.

4. Deathly. Afraid. As in, almost paralyzed and unable to leave your seat in the third tier. As in you nearly wet yourself every time one of the teenagers around you climbs over rows of seats for no apparent reason other than to give you a heart attack.

5. You treat yourself to a Thelma's ice cream cookie sandwich for second breakfast, because you survived the third tier. Life. Is. Good.

6. You decide that it is better to stand out on the concourse and occasionally check the scoreboard rather than to try and find a seat in the third tier again.

7. You manage to score a seat in the top row of the second tier, which doesn't require walking up or down any steps. YAY!


8. Through casual conversation you find out you are sitting with the great-grandparents of the 126 lb. wrestler from Logan-Magnolia. Along with his great-aunt, parents, grandparents, and younger brothers. You cheer along as he wins his first consolation match. YAY


9. You make the following fashion observations:

• It's Iowa, so 75% of the teenage boys wear ball caps advertising something.
• It's wrestling, so 27% of the teenage boys wear stocking caps.
• It's a high school tournament, so 98% of everybody has on a coat, sweatshirt or t-shirt announcing their school, wrestling in general, their wrestlers in particular, cheer leading or some other sport.
• It's Iowa, so 60% of the teenage boys wear cowboy boots. The other 30% wear tennis shoes.
• You are witnessing a fashion shift (at last), as less than 5% of the teenage girls are wearing Uggs, but now 75% are wearing white Converse tennis shoes. Don't get too excited about change, as 85% of the girls still wear skin-tight black leggins and 10% wear skin-tight jeggings. The other 5% wear cheer skirts, and then change to leggins. This makes it nearly impossible to tell the girls apart from a distance.

10. You realize Iowan's travel in packs – by school, by family, or in groups of girls or boys. This makes it very difficult to navigate the narrow concourse or sidewalks quickly. This is annoying, but makes for interesting people watching. You also wish you had a sheep dog with you to move the herd along.


11. You have a great time hanging out(ish) with your daughter and her friends. But you still wish there was less... wrestling... involved in wrestling and you'll be happy if you never see another teenage boy getting his dislocated shoulder popped back into place.

Colon-NAP-scopy, the Rest of the Story

I hadn't planned on writing a follow-up to my last blog about preparing for my first ever colonoscopy, because really, who wants to have a colonoscopy, let alone read about someone else having a colonoscopy?

Not me!

Which is good, because I really don't remember anything that happened Monday. Except that I slept. A lot. And sleeping is my very next favorite thing, right after eating.

So, if you ignore the part where I couldn't eat solid foods for 24-hours and I couldn't eat or drink anything for 8 hours, and concentrate on the part where I got to sleep for more or less seven whole hours, my colonoscopy wasn't such a bad thing.

I've taken to calling it my colon-naps-copy.

I'm still a little hot about the whole “no eating or drinking” clause, because I woke up Monday morning thinking “Woo Hoo! Coffee counts as a clear liquid! Come to Mama!”

But then I thought – and who knows why I had this rational thought after not eating solid food for 24 hours already – “Wait a minute....” And sure enough, there in CAPITAL LETTERS, buried in the middle of the instructions, it said “DO NOT EAT OR DRINK ANYTHING 4 HOURS PRIOR TO PROCEDURE.”

Of all the mornings to sleep in.

Yes. Yes, I would have set my alarm for 5:30 a.m. just so I could have a cup of coffee. If I would have remembered that little detail.

Everything turned out for the best, though, because Me+No Coffee=Tired.

This means that after arriving at the hospital at 8:30 a.m., checking in and changing into an adorable matching gown and robe set, I sat in the waiting area and promptly dozed off. I woke up in time to listen to the final boarding instructions and to have the I.V. started (not of coffee, unfortunately), then promptly dozed off again.

After this short nap I was given my boarding pass and ushered down a short hallway and into the procedure room. Once comfortably seated... er, arranged... on my side, the Wonder Drugs were administered. I don't remember what they were exactly, but it doesn't matter, because I will always refer to them as (cue the choir of angels) The Wonder Drugs.

Nurse A (my favorite nurse of all times) administered The Wonder Drugs and told Nurse B (second favorite) to mark the time. It was 10:03 a.m. This freaked me out a little because in all my vast TV medical drama watching experience, the only time they ever “mark the time” in a hospital is when someone dies.

I was still checking to make sure I was alive when (and this is where things get fuzzy) Nurse A asked the time (10:05, apparently she realized I wasn't dead yet), and the doctor asked me if the drugs were working. I couldn't figure out why she was asking me this so soon, or how I would know if they were working, or why her voice was coming from across the room when she was standing directly over me and why her face look so loooooong and wavy.

And that's when I thought “Yes. Yes they are working. And I like them.”

The next thing I knew it was 11 a.m. and I was in the recovery room.

My husband, the long-suffering King, was there waiting for me and looking forward to taking me to the Hamburg Inn for breakfast. Despite not having eaten for more than 24-hours, I vetoed food. Apparently when they were scoping my colon, they left behind a fully-inflated beach ball. I couldn't bend over to put on my socks, much less think of eating. If you've ever had a fully-inflated beach ball in your tummy, you know that not even pancakes or biscuits and gravy sound good (although they sound good now, hint hint).

I managed to stay awake for most of (a little bit of) the ride home, then curled up tight around my beach ball and slept for another five hours.

Best. Day. Ever.

I have decided to use my enforced fast as inspiration to clean up my diet. I have made a pledge to become a mindful eater, to pay more attention to the foods I eat. This means I will carefully consider and fully appreciate each and every Cheeto and Oreo that I stuff into my mouth.

Long story short? If you are putting off having a colon-naps-copy – I mean colonoscopy -- don't. Early detection saves lives. There's nothing to worry about (but I'm not a doctor).

And everything to nap for.