The Shape of Things

While sitting at the busy intersection to leave Wal-mart:

Twyla: (from backseat) Hey Mommy, what is that thing?

Mommy: Where honey?

Twyla: (pointing to the right) Right there.

This is a very commercially cluttered suburban intersection, with all sorts of "things" of interest to a 4-year-old, everywhere. I can't see where exactly she is pointing.

Mommy: Can you describe it?

Twyla: (silence)

Mommy: 'Describe' means to say what it looks like, like what color it is.

Twyla: It is black and red.

Mommy: (looks around but doesn't see anything black and red) Okay, can you tell me what shape it is?

Twyla: Um... (pause) It kind of looks like a pee-pee.

Mommy: Do you mean a boy's pee-pee?

Twyla: Yes.

I look again to my right, and down the road just a couple hundred feet from us is this black and red sign.

Nothing Special on Valentine's Day

A few years ago, Clay and I had a really crappy Valentine’s Day. That day, I went into the hospital for outpatient surgery—a D & C for a missed miscarriage and a polypectomy. So there was nothing remotely romantic or celebratory about that day. But, my darling little Twyla helped me out so much! I wanted her to come with us for the procedure because her sweetness calmed and comforted me. I had dressed her in a frilly pretty Valentine’s dress that she was so adorable in, and it made me smile just to look at her. At that time, she was a mellow, quiet little toddler and didn’t complain the whole time there at the hospital. I remember lying there waiting for the surgery to happen while watching Twyla scribbling in a coloring book and munching on some crackers, and I forgot about my nerves.

Still, we didn’t have a Valentine’s holiday that year. So, the next year we really wanted to make up for it. With newborn Lucy and an active 2-year-old, we really didn’t want to all go out to dinner. I was breastfeeding Lucy a lot then, so she at least would have come along. And then dinner out is expensive, and a babysitter would be needed for Twyla. All of that sounded complicated so we decided that Clay, who attended cooking school for a year back in his younger years, would cook a really yummy dinner at home. I love his eggplant parmesan, so I went to the store and bought all the stuff, and he got off work an hour early in order to prepare the lovely meal. He labored in the kitchen for an hour or so, baked it, and it came out beautifully. We had a nice salad and good bread to go along, so it seemed just as good as restaurant cuisine anyway. We were very happy about how our Valentine’s Day was going.

The three of us dug into the scrumptious dish and Twyla, not yet the picky eater she is now, chowed it. After a few minutes, we noticed the area around her mouth and her hands where she touched her food had become red. We wiped her off thinking it was staining from the red marinara sauce. When it did not come off, we realized it was irritation, as if she was having an allergy. Right about at that same moment, my mouth felt itchy, and Clay said his mouth tingled and itched as well. This surprised us because Clay and I had never had a reaction to eggplant, and Twyla had eaten it a couple of times before with no such repercussions. Needless to say, we stopped eating and washed Twyla really well, but she seemed to be even redder. Because we weren’t certain about the extent of her allergic reaction—if it would get worse before better—we decided that she needed to get it out of her stomach. So Clay held Twyla over the bathroom sink with his finger down her throat to make her gag. It took a few times and much consolation, but she threw it all up. Then it occurred to Clay and me that with my increasingly itchy mouth and lips that the evil eggplant we ate might get into my breastmilk. Lucy at that time was having nightly crying fits and didn’t sleep well, so I couldn’t imagine compounding that! I wasn’t sure about the allergen passing into breastmilk but decided to play it safe and make myself throw up as well to help get it out of my system. So there I was vomiting in the toilet, and we therefore had ourselves a delightful Valentine’s Day pukefest!

It turned out that the allergy was minor and seemed to be just skin and mouth irritation. Twyla’s face returned to normal in a couple of hours. And I was hungry with no dinner in my tummy, so I made a PB&J sandwich.

Two years later, Clay and I are of the mindset that doing nothing special for Valentine’s Day is an improvement to those two years and does not lead to disappointment. So this year, like last year, we are ordering pizza, making each other Valentines, hugging and kissing one another, and saying how much we love each other over and over.

This Isn't Kansas People!

Before I had kids, I sometimes fashioned my dreams into short stories. The girls and I watched the Wizard of Oz again last night, and the tornado scene of course reminded me of my lifelong recurring tornado dreams. This is one of them. It is the funniest tornado dream I've had and suggests that after so many years, I have mastered the dream, becoming a veritable expert on how to deal with the tornado dream.

“Okay people, listen up.” I figure we have five minutes at the most. “The first thing you need to do when a tornado is coming is look for some kind of underground shelter.” My class consists of about eight people, students who are fortunately attentive and cooperative. I could have been stuck with much worse. “The sky is really growing dark, and I sense that the tornado will come from that direction and head down our way. Where it will hit on the farm, I can’t say. So we must take precaution.” I pace back and forth before my class clad in a t-shirt and gym shorts. Impressively, I also have on athletic shoes and socks. Around my neck hangs a shiny metal whistle, which I roll in between my fingertips as I lecture. “Just remember to keep your wits about you.”

The man in the hawaiian shirt and green visor speaks up. “There isn’t a storm cellar around. So what do we do ma’am?” His sagging belly is supported by thin blueish-white legs that taper into black socks and brown loafers.

“That’s a good question.” Glad that he asked it, I stress the next important point. “What we do now is search for is a ditch. We haven’t much time, so let’s quickly scout out the area for a ravine or something. A dried creekbed works well. So does the bottom of a road shoulder.” The Japanese couple is slow to respond and searches me for clarity. “Ditch,” I mouth to them as I point to the ground and gesture a scoop with my hand. Smiling, they nod in understanding and join the rest of my dispersed class. I look up the dusty two-lane road toward the storm to witness my favorite part of a tornado dream—the birth of the funnel. Every time I see it, my heart races, breath quickens, and I marvel at the gray sky full of tumultuous beauty, impending danger, and predictability. The funnel stretches downward in the distance, and I know it’s time to take immediate action. I blow my coach’s whistle. “People, it’s coming,” I shout.

They run over to me, and the shirtless teenage boy in faded jeans reports, “We looked everywhere, and there aren’t any ditches.”

“Alright this sometimes happens.” I explain matter-of-factly, “This isn’t Kansas, people. It’s the Texas panhandle.” Scanning the farm for a solution, I realize we are standing next to the remnants of a collapsed building. “A-ha! Everybody grab some wood! We’ll build our own shelter,” I proudly instruct. “Now go, go, go!” Everyone, including myself, scrambles to erect some kind of shed. I know that it needs to be underground, but this is just the way the dream is going.

A young girl in a ponytail yells, “But aren’t we all going to blow away if we don’t get it built in time?”

“No, not necessarily.” I apply my best team-spirit appeal. “If you’ll remember in the movie ‘Twister,’ Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton did not receive one scratch at the end. My dreams are a lot like that. I have years of tornado dream experience, and they never harm me. But I don’t chance it by standing out in the open. We have to get this thing up, then we’ll be okay.”

The tornado winds toward us across the fallow agricultural field. As usual, I’m enveloped with a rush of amalgamated excitement, fear, and trust. Our time is up, and the shelter is only half-finished. It looks more like a vertical obstacle in a military training exercise. Not surprisingly, the tornado snakes along the other side of the road in our direction. “Okay, hurry! Everyone huddle together against the wall. Stay low!” I’m glad that no one is screaming. Crouched in our rickety shelter, we wrap our heads with our arms. The roar climaxes, but as expected, we all manage to stay intact. The tornado passes by, sticking to the other side of the road. A bit bewildered, my class rises to their feet, dusting off their clothes.

“Good job,” I say. “We didn’t have much to work with, but it all turned out fine.” Of course, I never doubted that it would. I turn toward the disappearing tornado with a parboiled sense of security. “Every now and then,” I caution my class, “the tornado will loop around and come back. This usually happens when you don’t stay alert or celebrate too much in the dream. You see, tornados don’t like it when you’re cocky.”