Worst Memory

*Post inspired by the Write on Edge RemembeRED prompt, "Your Worst Memory."

I had to copy and paste from an old RemembeRED post for this, one about affection, because by far, this experience is the worst memory of my life: when Josh got stung by a scorpion last summer. And rather than rewrite the same story, I'll just paste my same words here:

Never had physical touch meant more to me. What if I never got the chance to touch my baby again, while life still flowed through his veins and his soul still resided in his new, perfect, cherub-like body?

The last hour had been Hell. The worst Hell I'd ever experienced as a mom, and I could only pray I'd never experience worse. We do all in our power to protect our children from the millions of threats in this scary, uncertain world, and all it took was five minutes without my attention. Five minutes for that little intruder to make its way into our kitchen and attack my baby as though he was the one trespassing.

They call them "bark" scorpions, and they are everywhere in Bagdad, Arizona. We usually spray on a monthly basis, but sometimes we go longer. Sometimes we miss a month because, really, what could go wrong?

Well, everything went wrong. And I will never miss a month again.

It stung my child on his finger, and when he first started screaming, I knew what it was, even though I couldn't see it. And there it was, hiding under his toys. I was worried, but because I'd heard scorpion stings weren't much worse than a wasp sting, I let him cry. And cry.

But he wouldn't stop, and I grew extremely worried.

Especially when he started trembling. He started seizing as soon as we got him to the Bagdad clinic--the last place equipped for this. His tiny, eighteen-month-old body jolted around in my arms, and I didn't understand how it could be so bad. But I later learned that the poison attacks the nervous system in bodies so small, and would attack it for over twenty-four hours if we let it.

I held him tight, my tears wetting his white-blond hair, while he moaned and his limbs moved about uncontrollably. They told me to hold his arms down, keep him tight, and I was in shock. In shock that I had to do such a preposterous thing.

Please, God, I prayed. Please heal my baby. I passed my love--strong enough to move a mountain--into him, telling the universe to make him better.

But it didn't.

An hour later the helicopter finally came to fly him to Phoenix Children's, because they were the best equipped for the situation. His seizing was worse, his eyes in the back of his head, and they took him from my arms. They burned, and so did my chest, and my round, pregnant belly felt more sick than it ever had. They told me his daddy should ride in the helicopter with him because it wasn't safe for a pregnant mother.

So I sobbed again, my soul in anguish and my heart throbbing.

And the 2.5 hour drive to Phoenix was the most painful 2.5 hours in all my life.

Please, I cried out loud, I will never complain about having to hold him again, I swear. I will never complain that he needs me too much. My arms were empty and I craved--more than I'd ever craved anything--his affection. His arms snug around my neck, his laugh in my ear.

Please, give me at least one more opportunity to see him again. Please, please, please. Please don't take him from me.

His song--the song I sing to all my children--came on the radio, track eleven's turn, and my trembling hands turned it off. Prematurely mourning, yet fighting with all of me to will him to live. But in the silence I heard the helicopter overhead, reminding me my baby was way too far away, in the sky with his father...too close to living with his other Father.

And, many tears later, his Father heard my prayers, knew I simply could not survive without my Joshua. The Children's hospital was the only hospital in the state that had any vials of scorpion anti-venom--four, to be precise.

And four just happened to be the exact amount he needed.

Coincidence?

I think not. A miracle, in its fullest.

And within two hours, his muscles relaxed, and I held that lethargic, perfect baby as long as I could. And even all night wasn't enough.

Lesson Learned: Going to Bed Hungry

*Post inspired by the TRDC RemembeRED prompt, "Lesson Learned."

Write a post that either starts or ends with the words "Lesson learned." 

Written from my son, Sam's, POV.

"This'll be the last time I tell you to eat." Mom's eyes are on fire, her voice stern. It cracks, and spit even sprays from her mouth. She acts like she means it, but she can be a pushover sometimes. I know how to work her.

"But Moooom, pee's coming out!" I say, crossing my legs and doing a little dance in my booster seat. Mom hates when I pee in my underwear, even a little.

"Nice try." Her voice is hoarse now. Probably from all the yelling. She says it's not yelling, that she's just talking firm, but the vein bulging in her neck says it's yelling. She even cussed once. Surprise, surprise.

"You only have two options," she continues, hand on her recently chubby hip. "You can either go to bed hungry, or eat and stay up for ten extra minutes." She doesn't mean it. Mom would never let me go to bed hungry. She loves me too much.

"But, Mom...the pee..." I continue to dance, adding a whimper to the plea.

"You can pee your pants, for all I care. Sit in your own pee. But you're not getting up from that table until you're done. Not unless you want to go to bed." Her eyes bore into mine, telling me she's no joke. But on the inside I still laugh.

On the outside, I groan.

She glances at the clock, and so do I. The position of the long and short hand tell me it's after seven o'clock. And I know that means it's after bedtime. Mom's time. She sighs, her face turning red, and looks back to me. I'm starting to wonder if she's getting serious now, after eight threats.

Now she stomps over, huffing, and yanks my chair away from the table. I scream and cry because I'm four, and what else am I gonna do? "No, Mom! I'm hungry! I'm really hungry!"

"If you were hungry, you would've eaten your dinner. You had the last hour and a half to eat, so don't try that on me! It's bed time. You can go to bed hungry." Oh. My. Gosh. She actually means it.

"Mom!" Tears stream down my cheeks, and so does slobber. I like to make a good show.

She's dragging me down the hallway, heading for that darkened doorway. My room. She wouldn't dare.

I scream louder, cry harder, pleading. "I'm soooo hungry! I want to eat!"

But when she puts me in bed, turns off the light, and closes the door, I stop screaming. I cry silently, stunned she actually put her starving child to bed.

Through the door, I hear, "Maybe next time I tell you to eat, you'll listen."

My tummy grumbles and I can still smell the taco casserole, untouched on my plate.

Lesson learned.

I eat my words. With Sweet & Salty Chex Mix.

*Post inspired by the TRDC RemembeRED prompt, "It's a fill-in-the-blank-for-your-own-prompt Prompt:  The first time I ________-ed after _________-ing."

The first time I drove my minivan....after swearing I would never own one.

And I mean swore. It actually made me a little queasy to see a young mom hauling around her kiddos in a minivan. It reminded me of my mom (nothing against Mom). It reminded me of the times in high school I got made fun of for driving hers. So I said that no matter how many kids I had, I would never drive one. I'd get an SUV first, no matter the higher cost.

Well, the cost is higher. And I didn't have kids then, who cost an arm and a leg to raise. Literally, I payed for diapers in legs last time.

Okay, maybe not literally.

And when baby number three was on his way and we finally accepted the harsh reality that three car seats just would not fit in our tiny, gas-efficient Saturn, we put our logic goggles on and I realized it was that time. That time to fit into the soccer mom stereotype (even though my kids don't play soccer). It was unavoidable now, especially if we didn't want to pay a fortune for the extra gas and insurance that would come with an SUV.

And after hours of research, test drives, annoying, pushy spawns of Satan car salesmen, we finally found her.

I say her because she truly is a part of our family.

Four hours, fourteen signatures, and two new sets of keys later, I pulled her off of that lot, blasting her beautiful, refreshing "Max AC" in the armpit we call Phoenix and something flipped inside me. The rear AC for the kiddos, the smooth ride, the horse power (hey, it was like a Viper after the put-put Saturn we had), the satellite radio, the little mirror that lets me see all my kiddos and what they're doing, all the extra space, the comfortable seats, the leg room, the middle console I could conveniently keep my Sweet & Salty Chex Mix on...

I was a believer.

And I realized I had never enjoyed driving any of my previous vehicles more than her.

And that was when that shiny, maroon 2009 Kia Sedona became my baby.

(Okay, not really my baby. More like an adopted pet or something.)

And I am proud to say I am a minivan mom.

Affection

*Post inspired by the TRDC RemembeRED prompt, "Affection." (Choose a time when either the abundance or lack of affection stands out, and show us.)

Never had physical touch meant more to me. What if I never got the chance to touch my baby again, while life still flowed through his veins and his soul still resided in his new, perfect, cherub-like body?


The last hour had been Hell. The worst Hell I'd ever experienced as a mom, and I could only pray I'd never experience worse. We do all in our power to protect our children from the millions of threats in this scary, uncertain world, and all it took was five minutes without my attention. Five minutes for that little intruder to make its way into our kitchen and attack my baby as though he was the one trespassing.


They call them "bark" scorpions, and they are everywhere in Bagdad, Arizona. We usually spray on a monthly basis, but sometimes we go longer. Sometimes we miss a month because, really, what could go wrong?


Well, everything went wrong. And I will never miss a month again.


It stung my child on his finger, and when he first started screaming, I knew what it was, even though I couldn't see it. And there it was, hiding under his toys. I was worried, but because I'd heard scorpion stings weren't much worse than a wasp sting, I let him cry. And cry.


But he wouldn't stop, and I grew extremely worried.


Especially when he started trembling. He'd started seizing as soon as we got him to the Bagdad clinic--the last place equipped for this. His tiny, eighteen-month-old body jolted around in my arms, and I didn't understand how it could be so bad. But I later learned that the poison attacks the nervous system in bodies so small, and would attack it for over twenty-four hours if we let it.


I'd held him tight, my tears wetting his white-blond hair, while he moaned and his limbs moved about uncontrollably. They'd told me to hold his arms down, keep him tight, and I was in shock. In shock that I had to do such a preposterous thing.


Please, God, I'd prayed. Please heal my baby. I'd passed my love--strong enough to move a mountain--into him, telling the universe to make him better.


But it didn't.


An hour later the helicopter finally came to fly him to Phoenix Children's, because they were the best equipped for the situation. His seizing was worse, his eyes in the back of his head, and they'd taken him from my arms. They'd burned, and so did my chest, and my round, pregnant belly felt more sick than it ever had. They told me his daddy should ride in the helicopter with him because it wasn't safe for a pregnant mother.


So I'd sobbed again, my soul in anguish and my heart throbbing. 


And the 2.5 hour drive to Phoenix was the most painful 2.5 hours in all my life.


Please, I cried out loud, I will never complain about having to hold him again, I swear. I will never complain that he needs me too much. My arms were empty and I craved--more than I'd ever craved anything--his affection. His arms snug around my neck, his laugh in my ear. 




Please, give me at least one more opportunity to see him again. Please, please, please. Please don't take him from me.


His song--the song I sing to all my children--came on the radio, track eleven's turn, and my trembling hands turned it off. Prematurely mourning, yet fighting with all of me to will him to live. But in the silence I heard the helicopter overhead, reminding me my baby was way too far away, in the sky with his father...too close to living with his other Father.


And, many tears later, his Father heard my prayers, knew I simply could not survive without my Joshua. The Children's hospital was the only hospital in the state that had any vials of scorpion anti-venom--four, to be precise. 


And four just happened to be the exact amount he needed.


Coincidence?


I think not. A miracle, in its fullest.


And within two hours, his muscles relaxed, and I held that lethargic, perfect baby as long as I could. And even all night wasn't enough.

No Pennies!

*Post inspired by the The Red Dress Club's remembeRED prompt, "What, from your childhood, do you still know by heart?"

Besides the obvious things, like the Pledge of Allegiance and "No cuts, no butts, no coconuts," I remember a lot of things from childhood.

Okay, maybe not a lot. I actually don't remember that many details. I'm the kind of person who, once I have no need for it, let's the information go to make room for all the other stuff that is thrown my way. It's also why I am horrible at remembering names.

Sorry new person in my ward who has probably told me her name at least five times and who I just call "you" because I'm too embarrassed to ask you your name. Again.

I do remember some silly, nerdy things, though. Like the tune of the Nintendo video game, Mario 1. Or the Gummy Bears theme song (sadly, I don't have the "secret" recipe for Gummy Beary Juice memorized anymore, though I did at one point).

But mostly I remember the haunting tune of blue ice-cream truck: me, my brothers, and my fellow neighborhood children's arch nemesis. There was Doyle, the one we loved and would save all our change for, but then there was the "No Pennies!" ice-cream man. The one who would speed down Sabre Lane and angrily throw our change back at us if it included too many pennies, yelling, "No pennies!" before screeching away again.

I also remember saving all of our pennies and trying to buy two dollars worth of goodies for that reason. Handing him that clear sandwich bag, nearly tearing from the weight of 200 pennies, and seeing that sweaty, Arabic mustache twitch in irritation brought a smile to my eight-year-old angel face.

I also remember that it takes five children's bikes to make a barricade in the street so that he cannot pass. With a waving fist, he turned that little blue music-mobile around and we, the neighborhood kids, cheered as though we'd just defeated a terrorist threat.

Needless to say, our tactics worked, because we never saw him again.