Merry Christmas, Or Whatever

I'm going to tell you a story. No, you read that wrong. I know it's Christmastime, so it's an understandable mistake. Take out any image you had of a storybook and an armchair by a yule log. This is more of a Liam-Neeson-as-Santa type story, so read it in that headspace: I'm going to tell you a story. It's the story of Christmas 2016 for The Wahl family.

First of all, we've been fighting a bed bug infestation for a while now. For you to appreciate the instant horror I felt two weeks ago when we saw yet another bed bug lurking on a pillow: our little home has undergone two professional bed bug treatments, averaging $1500 each, over the last two years, and both have failed. Every time we see one of their nasty faces we have to make a choice about every item we own: treat or toss? 

And this time 'round, we were merciless. We culled our possessions by half, easily. Half our store of kid's clothing sizes yet to come. Half our current clothing and spare bedding. Half our stuffed animals, half our toys. ALL MY BOOKS, Y'ALL. ( #NeverNotCrying ) Basically, we cut down until each room in our home could be treated (and by treated I mean emptying the contents into the dryer and then spraying liberally around furniture and baseboards with alcohol before promptly evacuating) in about half an hour. This gets us in a place where we can treat the whole house in a weekend. I figure we'll just do this once a month until the end of time. They'll observe me in the insane asylum, perfectly normal for three weeks and then tearing everything in sight to pieces on the fourth with a manic tick and a murderous gleam in my eye. So, two weeks out from Christmas, we have thrown away half our belongings. But it's okay. We're all together and we're all alive.

A week from Christmas, I see a bug. Treatment mode goes live. I do all our laundry again. The 'fold' pile covers the dining room table and reaches to the chandelier, but we somehow manage to get it all processed. The trouble is, we can't treat the Christmas tree. So, much to the dismay of four little faces (especially my Jack Attack, who has just had his Christmas-themed birthday party and who generally thinks Christmas is just for him), we open presents early and we toss out the tree. But it's okay. We have a Christmas Eve planned at Great Granny's. It'll still be festive. We're alive and we're together.

Do you love anything as much as he loves Christmas?  I don't love anything a 'demon possession' amount....

Tuesday before Christmas, the baby gets a fever. In my mamaheart I felt the ominous foreboding of an impending stomach storm. And indeed, early Tuesday morning, we are awoken by our lovely Penelope, standing in our doorway with hot red cheeks and a sour expression. An expression which, once she was all snuggled in our bed next to her Daddy, turns into lots and lots of vomit. An impressive amount of vomit. Like, more than should have fit in her body. It was not science. Rug, pillows, comforter, pajamas. Into the washer. But it's okay. We've got a little time. Surely she'll be better by Christmas Eve. Of course I knew better. Any mother of four who watches her children share cups and fists and tickles and burps who thinks only one will get sick is deluding herself. And I was. I was deluding myself so hard. They next day, another child fell victim to the bug. I cleaned more pillows and blankets and pouty faces. My favorite *psychotic laugh* is when the puke trails down their little chests and pours into their diapers. Penny got pale and was throwing up the tiniest sips of water, so I took her to the ER for fluids. Her chest x ray looked good, her tests came back fine, and her little body was somewhat cooled, so they sent us home. I thanked baby Jesus repeatedly that she did not vomit in the van. #blessed David joins in on the puke party on Thursday, and John and I are starting to slide each other dreadful side-eyes. We're not going to make it to Great Granny's Christmas Eve thing. Christmas is literally cancelled. But it's okay. We're all alive and we're all together.

Zippy kept waking up and checking on her.  #squee

Christmas Eve was a beautiful day. The children had rallied to a status of playing almost normally, with occasional trips to the toilet for pukes. 70% actually made it to the porcelain destination. Many naps were had. We went outside so our pale and lifeless bodies could feel the sun. Then John and I, after getting them all tucked into bed, decided to watch a movie. Something to cheer. John hadn't seen 'Love Actually' so we netflixed it up. Y'all it was so much fun. A lovely date in the war zone of bodily fluids that is our home under siege of illness. I felt calm the next morning, if sleep deprived. Maybe I won't need to be committed after all. John and I declared a 'No Grump Pact', and I decided to give my hard-working husband the very best Christmas gift: a nap. I figured he and Charlie could get in a good one while I tried to get some of the neglected cleaning done, and then when he got up I could get some rest. Alas, it was not meant to be. When he woke up, the virus woke up with him. All my bright shiny new inner peace vanished in a puff of smoke. You see, I've done the math. It'll take him all of Monday (which he has off of work) and maybe part of Tuesday to get well. Which puts me...all alone in the week when I'll get it, with the post-sick, can't-wait-to-do-all-the-things children. *throws pity party* But it's okay. We're all still alive. We're all still together. Deep breath.

Christmas dinner! I can at least make something resembling a comforting meal. We got chicken fingers and potatoes, and I've been plotting to make buttery delicious mashed potatoes. As fate would have it, we were newly out of milk. WHO WAS DRINKING IT WHILE SICK??? mmmmmmkkkkkkkk *deeper breath* We're all alive. We're in this together. It's okay. I make sweet potato fries instead, which is a favorite. It's warm. It's comforting. It's on the table. We sit. Penny runs to the bathroom. I don't think I'll ever forget the long, almost pornographically wistful side-eye I gave my untouched plate as I followed her to the toilet. Goodbye, warm food. *whispers* I'll miss you. She makes it. Victory! She wipes herself...and drops the toilet paper on her leg. If you don't know, this incites a panic that PEOPLE WHO ARE ACTUALLY ON FIRE DO NOT EXHIBIT, and causes immediate hearing loss to all adjacent players, whether friend or foe. *even deeper breaths* I move her to the living room, where more wipes are. I kneel down to clean her bottom. My knees are immediately soaked in liquid. David has been sicknapping and hasn't walked the dog, which becomes apparent with the look of intense guilt Zippy is giving me. I get her clean. I change pants. I return in time for Charlie to need "MOE FOO! MOE FOO!" I cut him up more chicken and refill his fries. I sit down. My food doesn't even has residual heat. I might as well have taken it out of the refrigerator. But it's okay. We have food. We're all together. We're alive.

Bedtime comes. Charlie requires extra snuggles, but they're all in bed. They're all asleep. I sit down at my desk and listen, in case the vomit fountains activate. I just sit there, staring into the darkness. I've got nothing left. For the love of all things good and holy, if they'll just stay asleep, I'll be okay. Half an hour passes. I think it's safe. I tell John goodnight and retreat to the sofa, because I could have reheated my dinner off his aura of fever heat. My restless mind starts to let go. My eyes close. It'll be alright. We made it through the day alive and together.

THUD. I'm up! Which one is it? It's the last survivor: Jack. But he's not throwing up. That's too mainstream. The thud was the sound of his nighttime pull-up (still occasionally wets at night) hitting the floor in his doorway. There is poop, a steady trail of poop, from the pool on his mattress, across his room, into the hall, and all the way to the bathroom. WHAT WOULD POSSES HIM TO TAKE IT OFF THERE? I assure him I'm not mad. I get him into the shower. I proceed to the clean-up deed, which must be achieved in silence because, thanks to the bed bugs eating the boys' bunk bed, Charlie sleeps on his little mattress two feet from him. Now, I thought I fed him sweet potato fries and a little chicken. But apparently not. I can only assume he has consumed large quantities of superglue steeped in polyjuice potion, because this stuff is STUCK to the floor and smells like a rodent died inside Jack and liquefied in his stomach acid. Aiming very, very carefully around the general splatter, I get on my knees to scrub. Progress is being made when I KID YOU NOT, the dog strolls up behind me and pees on the floor. And pees and pees and pees. It's running toward the rug. I jump up to throw a towel on it, and I step right into a wayward pool of poop. Barefoot, man. Just cold foot skin right on slippery gray butt product. I mop, with hot water, mercifully strong-smelling soap and my own tears. I hear the shower turn off and wrap my boy in a towel, both out of love and desperation for him to warm before he shivers up any vomit. But there's an...aroma. THE BOY DID NOT USE SOAP. It's fine. He's newly seven. It's two in the morning. Understandable? I send him back and throw that towel in the washer with the sewer blanket load. The sofa is readied, the boy is dried and re-diapered. I even managed a little tiny cup of water and a forehead kiss.

Because it's okay.  We're all here.  We're all together.  We're okay.

Not my kids, but apt.

And now I'm sitting here in the dark, listening. Listening for the sounds of upchuck and listening to my own stomach gurgle ominously. And y'all, I USED THE LAST OF THE COFFEE YESTERDAY.

#BurnInHellChristmas2016 #JumpInTheDumpsterWithTheRestOfTheYear  

Blessed: A Perspective From a "Poor" Mother

                When I was growing up I was poor and I knew it.  I knew it from listening to my parents worry over the tiny amount of money left over for groceries after the bills were paid.  I knew it from watching the kids at school get to participate in extra-curricular activities after school that I couldn't afford to be a part of. I knew it every time I slid into a frayed pair of jeans two sizes too small.  But more than any other reason, I knew it because of the looks. 

                Looks of curiosity from my classmates when my stomach growled loud enough for the whole room to hear.  Looks of pity from adults.  Looks of anger and suspicion directed toward my parents when we stood outside in the cold without winter coats.  I understood the pity- understood it with every ounce of scrawny my twelve-year-old body.  I was to-be-pitied.  Nothing was expected of me.  I understood the curiosity; surely someone must have made a grievous and unforgivable error for our family to be hungry in The United States of America.  But I never could understand the anger. 

                My Father has a debilitating form of arthritis that causes him severe, chronic pain.  That man wanted to work; he begged people to hire him- and sometimes they did.  But it wasn't too long before the pain and exhaustion were too much, even for his epic amount of stubbornness.  Eventually he ended up on disability.  It ravaged his self-esteem.  But nobody made a mistake.  Nobody was spending the mortgage payment on drugs or beer.  Nobody frittered the paycheck away by gambling.  There simply wasn't enough money to meet our needs. It took me a long time to put this puzzle of anger together, but I think I have it figured out.  It is a whole lot easier to blame the poor for being poor than it is to accept the fact that it could happen to anyone. 

                At no fault of your own, you could be bankrupt. Some of the smartest money men in the country posit that most Americans are one major negative financial event from bankruptcy. One car accident.  One cancer diagnosis.  One house fire.  There is a possibility that it could happen to you, and most people do not like that feeling.  So that bristling when they saw our situation was their own fear, or the avoidance of it. Much easier to assign blame than accept the unknowable quality of the future.  Much easier to refer to the forty-something behind the register as a “burger flipper” and decry her for not having gone to college than to attempt to fathom that she has a learning disability and would rather work anywhere than to go on disability. 

                I didn’t choose to be born into a poor family any more than Joe McIvyleague chose to be born into a wealthy one.  I can’t blame him for his frame of reference- it’s the only one he has!  And he didn’t choose his perspective any more than I chose mine.

                This week, I will have a phone interview to apply for SNAP (my generation’s version of food stamps) for the first time as an adult and a parent.  I am not looking forward to it.  I am not going to enjoy swiping that EBT card.  But I am going to enjoy preparing healthy food for our three children, and I’ll count it as a blessing as I put it on the supper table, and I’ll count myself among the blessed. 

                I can choose to feel pitied.  I certainly remember how.  I recall with total clarity the very vastness of my own insignificance.  But the fact that my financial situation is inferior does not make me inferior.  I am not less simply because I have less.  My children are not worthless just because the ending balance has veered dangerously toward zero these last few months.

                If the cashier looks at me with pity, I plan to smile at my children and tell her I am blessed.  If the cashier looks at me with judgment, I plan to smile at my children and tell her I am blessed.  Maybe this is just a season (my husband and I are working hard to make it so), but maybe it’s not.  If it is not- if this barely-making-it thing lasts a childhood, my children will know that they are blessed.  They will see it on the dinner table every night.  They will see it in their parents' hard work.  They will see it, more than anywhere, in their parents' attitude.  Because we know we are blessed.  When John and I smile at each other over our daughter’s curly-headed mischief, or when our oldest tackles a new school subject with intense curiosity, we know we are blessed.  When our youngest son aggressively cuddles us in the morning, we know we are blessed. When we still like kissing each other after eight years, we know we are blessed.  And you know I wouldn't trade these blessings for the monetary kind in a million years, and not for a million dollars.

                So when I get into that checkout line at the grocery store, and my palms start to sweat just a little when an older, well-dressed lady gets in line behind me, I will not feel less.  I will not feel inferior,or insignificant.  And when we thank God for the meal, we’ll really mean it.  And we’ll know we are blessed.  And maybe someday I’ll be the well-dressed elderly lady in line behind the cart full of kids whose matron is apologizing for how long it takes to ring up a WIC ticket.  If that day comes, I hope I remember this season.  I hope, when I look at that woman ahead of me in line, I will recall how much strength it took to believe things could change.  I hope I buy her a box of diapers.  But I know I won’t pity her.  She is a beautiful, blessed, brilliantly loved child of God.

Roll for initiative,
J. Wahl

p.s.
Edits on my book are HALF DONE!  *dance party*