Thing One

So today is the fourth day in a row I have woken up with a swollen upper lip. Not to be confused with a stiff upper lip. No stiffness, just unexplained swelling. Behold:

It’s kind of hard to see it in the picture, but my top lip isn’t supposed to stick out so far. It’s like it’s rebelling against my face. Or maybe just trying to get some attention. I guess I haven’t been paying my top lip much heed lately. I mean, we used to be tight. Buddies. But lately, things have been different. I guess we’ve just… drifted apart. I’m sorry, upper lip. I don’t want things to be this way. Can you forgive me? Can you… uh, deflate, now? Please?

Thing Two

We live in a very tightly packed neighborhood. All the houses are lined up one by one, brushing shoulders with each other. I can hear my neighbors vacuum. There are also a lot of young families with baby monitors. With the close proximity, and so many monitors going at the same time, there are bound to be some… overlaps.

Last night my husband was working late, so I put the kids to bed by myself. Things went pretty smoothly, and I had been back downstairs for fifteen minutes or so when I realized I had forgotten to turn the monitor on in Zibbit’s room. I flipped the switch, and the room was suddenly filled with the most blood-curdling scream you have ever heard. Sometimes she gets her foot stuck between the bars of her crib, so I figured that’s what was going on since she was fine when I left. I started up the stairs when I heard a man’s voice come over the monitor. “What’s the matter?” he asks. “Why are you crying?”

I froze. And almost peed my pants.

My mind started spinning. Had Ammon snuck in without me noticing him? Not possible, he would have had to walk right in front of me to walk up the stairs. Why don’t we own a gun? A knife. I could use a knife. Or maybe the fire extinguisher. Yeah, I could spray it in his face like Mace. It must be an intruder, who else could it be? A crazy, kidnapping, evil… well, and sort of… kindly… I could hear the man crooning, calming Zibbit down, and the screams quieted to a sad little whimper. “Do you want the light on?” the man asked. “We’ll just leave the light on until you fall asleep.” Well that’s, uh, thoughtful… I tiptoed up the stairs, not sure exactly what I was going to do when I got to her room, just knowing I had to do something. “Goodnight, Audrey,” the man said and I heard a door close. Ok, good he’s leaving, now I can— wait. Audrey? Her name isn’t… ohhhhhhhhhkay. This was all starting to make sense now. I peeked in Zibbit’s room, finding nothing but my sweetly sleeping child. Back downstairs, I switched channels on the monitor, and I could hear her deep breathing. Back on the other channel I could hear Audrey, the little girl who lives across the street, finally settling down and speaking softly to her sister who shares her room.

There was no intruder coming to take my children and sell them on the black market. Thank goodness. But I think I might buy some Mace, just to be prepared. Either that, or stock up on more fire extinguishers.

Thing Three

I know I have a few readers in the Idaho area. Are any of you free the third weekend in May? Would you like to meet up for dinner? Let me know.

I recently stumbled upon the blog Where Am I Going, and Why Am I In This Handbasket? and it immediately became one of my new favorites. The blog’s author Katherine is able to narrate seamlessly between side-splitting hilarity and utter heartbreak. I held my breath when I saw her email in my inbox containing her guest post- I knew it was going to be good. I wasn’t disappointed. I love the message in this story. When a tragedy happens to someone we know, sometimes it can be frustrating that we can’t ease the burden of their grief. It’s good to know that the little things we are able to do really can make a big difference.

I don’t remember much about the day my mother died; it’s a blur. I remember collapsing when she was pronounced dead and throwing up on the floor of the Nurses’ Station. I remember nurses hunched over me, asking me to stop screaming. I remember falling into my father’s arms when he walked in the room, sobbing on his shoulder, and going down to sit in the Family Room as my friends and family took turns holding and hugging me.

During the days before my mom died a close friend of mine, Virginia, was one of my biggest supports. She sat in my mom’s room while I went home to eat, shower or grab a quick nap. She sat by my mom’s bedside through the night the day before she died so I could spend a full night at my apartment with my husband. She made herself available to me at all costs, making food for us, taking time off of work to be at the hospital and offering me a shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen with.

She came to the hospital as soon as she got the news and to my apartment afterward to sit with me while my husband made phone calls. That evening, my mother’s boyfriend treated several of my friends and family members to dinner and we stayed at the restaurant long after closing, drinking wine, laughing, crying and sharing memories of my mother. Virginia was there, and she came back to my apartment with me, staying up to talk to me for a bit before falling asleep on our couch.

The next morning my husband and I had to meet with the lawyer at 9am, and as I walked out the door I couldn’t help but be embarrassed about the state of our apartment; it was a disaster. Dishes were stacked in and around the sink, the garbage was overflowing, clothes were piled everywhere and the cat box desperately needed changing. I apologized to Virginia for the mess and told her to lock the door on her way out.

As we drove home that afternoon, exhausted after meetings with both the lawyer and funeral director, I remembered how messy our apartment was and began to dread going home. All I wanted to do was fall into bed but I knew I’d have to at least wash the dishes and tend to the litter box before I could. I braced myself as I turned the key in the lock.

To my shock, the apartment was spotless – so clean, in fact, that I checked the number on the door to make sure we had the right place. Virginia had cleaned from top to bottom before she’d left – she’d conquered the mountain of dishes, changed the cat box and garbage, folded our clothes, swept the floors and watered the plants. She’d left a little note on our coffee table telling us to take a nap.

I burst into tears.

I will never, ever forget that. Much of that time in my life is a blur but I will always remember the overwhelming feeling that someone cared enough to help me out like that. I was amazed then, and I’m amazed now, that I have a friend who is so selfless and genuinely kind. Her taking the time to clean my apartment meant more to me than I could express to her and it’s that kind of ‘random act of kindness’ that, since then, I’ve always tried to pay forward to others.

- Katherine, from Where Am I Going, and Why Am I In This Handbasket?

Things are slowly moving in the direction of London. Ammon will be meeting with his manager today to discuss the career side of things. Since Ammon will be leaving his team here, we’re assuming his boss won’t be highly enthusiastic about the idea, but he’s a good guy so hopefully he’ll be supportive. I’ve been looking into what to do with our house while we’re gone, since we really don’t want to sell. We might list it with a real estate property management company so they can deal with leasing it for us. I’ve also been researching places to live in the London area, but I’ve run into a few snafus. The apartment listings are full of cryptic messages and secret codes. For example:

Spacious ff detached hs with 4 db b/rooms in immac cond in gd area.Master b/room with en-suite,lg bathroom,lg lounge with dining area,lg kitchen,w.c,reception area,cloakroom,gdn,garage&lg driveway.Fit with security system.Profs only.Avail May.£1400 ono

What’s ff? Fantastically Freaky? I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that. And what in the world is an en-suite? I guess they’ll only rent to you if you speak French. It says there’s a lg bathroom and a w.c. which confuses me to no end, since I thought a WC was a bathroom. And Profs only? I have to be French and a professor? They’re really narrowing down their options here. And I have no clue what £1400 ono means. My only guess is they missed the “B” in Bono, meaning you have to be a French professor Bono look-alike.

These people are seriously picky.

Zibbit wanted another cookie. I tried to be strong, I really did. But oh, you guys. I gave in. How could I not? The cheeks, the batting eyes, the sweet little voice… She got me. I had to give it to her. And then I had to give her another one so I could record her saying “please”. If you listen carefully, you can also hear the part where she realizes I have a camera, and she says, “Smile! Cheese!” Dang, she’s cute. (There’s no video, just sound.)