My parents were up here for Thanksgiving. It was about time- both boys were asking on a daily basis if they could go see "goppa and gomma". (Now that they are talking so much, it is amusing to me to hear their perceptions of their relatives. We pretend to go see grandpa and grandma, we pretend to call Aunt Marci, and we pretend to open presents or non-pretend dig through our wardrobes to find shirts and pants from Aunt Mary.) My dad had a little episode before coming up here with what they assumed was a touch of listeria, since it happened shortly after he ate some lunch meat that, it turned out, had sat on the counter overnight. He recovered in time to come up here to see us, but while here, my mom came down with the same thing, obviously viral instead of bacterial. So we know we have had exposure to a stomach bug with a seven day incubation period. With any luck, we'll kick this head cold just in time to start with the vomiting. That should be fun.
On the way into the ER early Saturday morning, I realized that in the chaos the night before, getting two little boys to go to bed in spite of grandparents being here for a slumber party, and being on fever watch, I had completely spaced giving Daniel his weekly oral chemo at bedtime. I made a mental note to give it first thing in the morning.
But did I?
I have counted the pills we should have taken since our refill on November 5, but that didn't help because I think I remember dumping the rest of the old bottle into the new bottle last month to make room in the medicine cabinet, rendering the number of pills left in the bottle (2, a full dose is 6.5) useless to me. I remember dissolving one dose in water in a syringe because he refused the swallow them, which was unusual, since he usually takes them in the form of a "pill truck", 
...but I think that might have been last week. I counted the pills before we went to the clinic on November 18 and remember thinking he would run out after his dose on November 25, but I think maybe I counted them thinking I would not be giving him a dose that night, because on clinic days when he gets a spinal tap we skip the weekly oral chemo because he has had the same stuff already injected into his spinal fluid earlier in the day. I remember at bedtime on November 18 suddenly realizing I did have to give it to him because that day at clinic had been IV only, no spinal. But I think when I counted them as two weeks worth before we left for the clinic that morning, I was not remembering I had to give a dose that night. Or was I? I have given so many pills to him in so many forms they have all blurred together. The kid should have swallowed 43 pills last week. But did I only give him 36.5? I'm losing my mind. I had one job. One. Keep the relapse risk at absolute minimum by giving him his meds, all his meds, at home and on time.
(It's a flatbed semi! But it is having tire trouble. Do you have a tire shop in your tummy? Can it drive down there to get its tire fixed? ...here, let me listen to your tummy...yep! I hear it jake braking all the way down! I think it made it to the tire shop! How awesome is it that you could help the pill truck get into your tummy to get fixed?!")
But did I?
The oncology clinic returned my call, which was laden with embarrassment and groaning under heavy self-recrimination even on the message left on their answering machine, to tell me that even though I was eighty percent sure I forgot to give it to him, the 20% chance he would receive an overdose was a bigger concern.
One job. I had one job.
Well. I mean, besides momming a toddler and a preschooler, feeding and clothing and dealing with their hysterics because they don't feel well and trying to keep them from sharing drinking glasses or silverware, and mitigating potential injury caused by thrown toys, sibling jealousy or parental neglect (they have discovered chairs can be moved to access countertops, there is nowhere left to hide the knives) and occasionally working part time, dragging them with me into condos to clean or inspect, obsessively washing their hands and bathing them and cleaning house and bleaching surfaces and taking their hands out of their mouths approximately 7,000 times per day and helping one build Lego airplanes while keeping the other from destroying and/or eating Lego airplanes.
Okay, so like... One really important job, closely followed by other really important jobs.
I have heard people say everything with kids is twice as hard as without them. I think that is BS. If everything were twice as hard, we wouldn't have a problem. I think it is more like an order of magnitude harder. Think I'm being hyperbolic? Here, let me tell you about my day so far. (Those of you with more than two kids, you should probably stop reading now. You clearly are not on the same plane as we mere mortals and your ironic chortling over my lack of ability to not lose my crap with my two kids while you feed organic homemade meals to your 3-6 kids and get them to bed on time with while smoothly juggling full time jobs clearly means that you have come into contact with gamma radiation at some point and have powers I do not possess. Just remember, as you are exiting, with great power comes great responsibility to not intentionally make the rest of us realize how terribly we are failing. On some level, we already know.
This morning. We awake with two kids in our bed, because Alex never has slept alone a night in this 19 month life so far, allowing us to not even add a crib or toddler bed to our budget, let alone find the space for it, and Daniel, even on the nights he starts out in his own bed, finds his way between us at some point. They both wake up wanting, nay, needing, nay, desperate for "da boobies". Now, let me say here, I am so. over. nursing. I really am. But are they? (Excuse me while I laugh maniacally) ...No. No, they are not ready to be done. And I can't wean them. I might be sorely tempted to if Daniel hadn't sailed through 10 months of maintenance chemo with exactly one fever. We don't do things much differently than the parents who are in the ER every few weeks, except for that. More times per day than I willingly admit, Daniel fishes around in my shirt, crying, and I sit down with him and we nurse, and he gets a fresh dose of a personalized antiviral, antibacterial, pro- and prebiotic substance. And what happens then? Thing 2 happens. He sees da boobies, and here he comes, his face all lit up with expectant delight.
Funny thing about tandem nursing. It isn't this way for everybody, but it definitely is for yours truly. One kid, it's fine. I'm fine. I can basically ignore the squeezing, playing, kicking, tugging, gnawing, stretching, rotating, yanking, everything that goes on when a non-infant is nursing. But the second it starts happening on both sides, I lose it. My skin crawls. I feel dirty and violated. Most moms who have nursing aversions don't last long at this nursing game. I'm incredibly lucky I only feel this way when nursing two, because some feel it with only one latched on. It just feels gross. Like spiders across your hand gross. Like slime oozing down your back gross. Like hugging a really sweaty person gross. Chewing on tin foil gross. I digress. It's happening right now. Im trying to write through it and focus but all I'm really doing is failing to ignore how I feel right now. I love my kids, but when they nurse through my aversions, I picture doing violence.
So then we get up, after they have had their first course of liquid breakfast in bed. They are happy, their blood sugar is up, I'm feeling like a new person because my body is blissfuly my own again. Breakfast is turned down by Daniel, who prefers Legos, even though I lower my standards and tell him he can do both simultaneously. Alex munches on a cracker I left lying on the counter overnight, and with him so distracted, I make an omelet, which B takes half of, eats as if in a race, grabs his coffee, and is out the door. I spend the next hour trying to convince the two small ones to eat, and then to let me dress them to go outside. Bobby has too much to do today to also shovel the decks and walkways of our seven large houses, so he's asked me to do it. I can't get the boys interested in going outside to play, or helping me snow shovel, or sled, so I pull out the big guns and promise them a gondola ride, put your snow clothes on and get in the car, we just have to make a few stops first. Just slaying this parenting thing today. They immediately stop the Lego redistribution project they have expanded into three rooms now and plop down with their legs in the air so I can slide their snowsuits on.
(At this point, let's contrast where I'd be by now if it were only myself I were dealing with. I'd have gotten up, made breakfast, put on my snow clothes, driven to my first property, shoveled it, worked up a healthy sweat, and be on my way to the next one.)
Alex has by now ignored his omelet but has eaten several handfuls of shredded cheese, so he's fed. Daniel refuses to eat anything, but he did have breastmilk, so it's better than nothing. I get Alex bundled into layers. He looks like a marshmallow wearing boots. I know this won't allow me to buckle him safely and tightly into his carseat, but we're only going a two miles and I can't unbundle and bundle them back up fourteen times in the next few hours. I'm sure any officer questioning my decision would understand. The Summit County police force and frequent state troopers are known for their lenience and understanding on motor vehicle safety compromises.
By the time I get Daniel dressed in snowpants, coat, gloves, hat, double socks, and boots, Alex has removed his hat, boots, double socks, and gloves, and is working on his coat. I tell Daniel to sit, and I dress Alex again. Then I turn around to tell Daniel we are ready to go, only to discover Daniel has his gloves off, and is freaking out because the band aid that was on his thumb is now lost inside his glove. A bandaid that once covered a very minor pinch from a toy that barely drew blood exactly eleven days ago. There is a slight change in pigmentation on his thumb where the owie once was. But that bandaid is apparently the difference between him being able to function and turning into a crying heap on the floor because his injury is naked and exposed. I go to get him another bandaid after only about thirty seconds of arguing that he does not need one. I put it on his thumb (intentionally covering his former injury site with the tape part because it proves two points- one, that he doesn't need it and two, that I really am that petty). I put his gloves back onto his hand with two bandaged fingers (he pinched his pinky putting a lid on a marker, therefore bandaid) and go to find my own boots, only to come back to Daniel holding up another finger, outside his gloves, with another invisible owie, begging for a bandaid.
So I do the only logical thing. I snap. In a lovely display of parental restraint, I stomp to the bathroom, grab a handful of bandaids, stomp back, plop down next to him, grab his hand, and, ripped wrappers and wax papers falling around us like snowflakes, put a band aid on every single fingertip. There. Let's see you ask for another bandaid now. He sits there looking at his five bandaids with a baffled expression, then starts to whine. "Nooooo! Not all bandaids! Don't need them!" I shove his hands back into his gloves, his feet back into his boots, jam his hat back on his head, and shove him out the door toward the car that has been running for fifteen minutes already, because I needed to give it about five minutes to warm up. Then I turn around, and Alex has removed his hat, gloves, shoes and double socks.
So I do another highly logical thing. I push him out the door too. Not sure if this is child abuse or just showing him why we need to keep our shoes on when we are walking out the door, and I expect him to stop immediately and ask for shoes, but the snow outside literally does not phase him. He trots barefoot across the snowy porch, down the snowy steps, over the snowy driveway. I follow incredulously and lift him into his carseat. Only then does he seem concerned- his feet have snow stuck to them. "Feet wet? Feet wet!" Feeling remorse, I squeeze his cold little feet in my warm hands, then attempt to put his socks back on. "NOOOOOOO!" Okay, then. Apparently frostbite is fine. As long as it's a dry frostbite.
In the meantime, Daniel has not crawled into his carseat as requested multiple times, but is sitting in the middle of the driveway eating snow we and the dog have been walking in, gloves off and soaking his five bandaids. I yank his hands out of his mouth for about the fiftieth time so far today, then swing him into his carseat. As I am buckling him in, he starts complaining that something is wrong with his socks. I think its actually the toenails, they are horribly separated right now thanks to chemo, detaching from the root side. Its really horrifying to look at, but he claims they don't hurt unless pulled on. I assume his socks are catching on the jagged, split out edges. His boots are already off. I adjust his socks, put his boots back on. They still feel funny. I tell him to try to fix them himself while I drive. He doesn't protest immediately, too distracted by his funky- feeling socks.
The dog, meanwhile, has spun himself into a frenzy, not knowing whether he will be invited to come along, freaking out he won't be, attempting to force his way between my legs and into the car. I finally put his mind at ease by stepping aside and speaking to him that most euphoric of phrases: "get in." He practically levitates, scrambles past and over Daniel and into the back, snow flying everywhere in the car, then sits, grinning a huge, gaping, tongueful grin of pride in his good boy achievement.
The house is already locked, but I forgot my phone inside. I let myself back in, then go to the storage shed for their two little shovels. I can only find one. I get tired of looking, take one and a sled, hoping they wont both think they need a shovel, and drive to the first house, already an hour behind schedule.
No sooner are we driving, then Daniel starts whining about his five bandaids again. Feeling more calm and embarrassed about my earlier display, I tell him to remove the ones he doesnt want. He must do it, because the whining stops and excited chattering about how we were going to ride the "donyoya" starts.
Once we get to the first house, I survey the back of the car, littered with four gloves, four pairs of socks, two hats, and four boots flung into far reaches of the car's interior. I decide they might like to play inside the car instead of outside it, so I unbuckle them from their carseats, pull the keys, and finally, finally start to shovel my first large deck of the day.
Exactly five minutes later, wailing is audible from inside the car. They are beside themselves. How could their mother abandon them like this? I lean my shovel against the house and go to the car, put on all the socks, shoes, hats, and gloves again, and bring them up to the deck with me. Oh, you want your shovel? Um....ok? Oh, great, now you both want it. Did you see the sled? No? Sleds are stupid? Gloves are stupid? Now your hands are cold? Now all your gloves are off as you play tug of war with the one shovel? Now you're both crying? Here, here's another mommy-sized shovel. Look! It's just like mine! It's so big, it's like a bulldozer! What's that? You're not an idiot, you know I'm just trying to get you to shut up so I can work? Yeah, I know the idiot is, in fact, me, for thinking I could do this.
Twenty minutes of hysterical crying, snot and tears and wet snow all mixed together on little red faces, I have exactly one deck half cleared, and I finally call Bobby to see if he knows where the other stinking shovel is. No, he does not. He does, however, pick up on the crazy in my voice, and gathers another clue in the crescendo of bawling in the background, and tells me to forget it. Just take care of your kids. We'll get the shoveling done eventually.
I load them in the car, Alex so hysterical he is almost gagging. I consider nursing him for a few seconds, like I sometimes do to instantly calm him after being put in his carseat, standing on the running board leaned into the car in front of him, but it is blowing swirling snownados around us, I'm warm inside my coat, and my boobs are buried under three layers. "Just let my get out my nipples for you right here in the freezing wind with little shards of ice flying around", said no mother ever.
By the time we get home, he is slightly more calm. I run into the house to get him a hat I hope he wont hate as much as he has decided in the last hour to hate the one with the tails that hang down where he can see them and be reminded of the existence of the hat to which they are attached. I briefly consider driving down to town to pick up the little pair of skis we bought for Daniel the other day, that are still at the ski shop I used to work at, waiting to be DIN tested and adjusted to his boots. No, too complicated, plus with the mood he's in, not an ideal day to introduce him to skiing. Keep it simple, stupid.
We pick up someone walking on the road and give them a ride to the bus stop. I do this quite a bit. The Summit Stage removed the closest bus stop, so it's about a mile walk from the trailer park to the bus stop. Yes, Summit county, in all their free public transportation wisdom, removed the bus stop from one of the few "affordable" housing developments in the area, forcing the humans who live here without cars to walk, hunched into the winter wind, carrying grocery bags or sports gear or backpacks with their nice waitressing shoes inside a whole mile, then a mile back home. Andy goes a little nuts over the intruder, but calms down once determining she is harmless. She is okay with it. She's a dog person, on her way to volunteer at the animal shelter.
We drop her off at the bus stop, then head for Keystone and the dondoya. And now Daniel has decided he wants to eat. An apple. He wants an apple. I have bananas at home, I have oranges, I even have a few ounces of apple juice, but no apples. And the kid wants something fresh now? What gives? Maybe I can run into the Keystone Grocery and pay four dollars for a Granny Smith...I feel under my seat. No purse. Didn't think it would be there, but sometimes I forget to carry it in. No money. I tell him we will try to find some free granola bars and apple cider when we get to the gondola. He isn't impressed, but we are going to the gondola, so he guesses he can hang.
By the time I find a parking spot in Keystone, Alex is asleep. Barefoot. Again. No gloves. No hat. Daniel is in the same state of undress, except awake and excited. I leave them in the car and retrieve a curtesy wagon, rehat, resock, reboot, reglove them, put them in the wagon, and trudge to the base area. We have to go inside the season pass office to get their passes for the season. They are free until they are five years old, but they still need a pass. It was hard to wait when the gondola was so close, but they survived.
And finally, we are able to go get scanned in and navigate the lines and get on the gondola and take off. Totally worth it. We see snow guns and snow cats and kids riding on the ski school magic carpet and other people in other gondola cars. At the top, we watch the skiers and talk about how much fun it looks like to ski. We go into the Summit House and climb stairs until we get to where they have blocked the top levels off. And then it starts.
Daniel: "I need cheese! Where my cheese? I need my cheese!"
Me: "You want cheese?"
"Nooo! My cheese! We go home get my cheese!"
"Are you hungry?"
"No, no, no! My cheese! For my feet! Like the people outside!"
"Ooohhh, your skis?"
"Yeah, my cheese! Let's go get them!"
So much for keep it simple.
I tell him we can go get them, since I do have other errands to run down in town, but they are at the ski store and we will have to stop by home for my purse first. And first, we get to ride the gondola back down. I say this hoping they will go to sleep on the drive and I can take them home and put them to bed, then possibly do some damage to the opened bottle of pinot doing nobody any good in my fridge. Because why take cold medicine when drinking achieves the same goal, right? Except for the congestion. But what would you rather be, a little buzzed and congested, or have a clear nose and no excuse to put off housework any longer?
I put Alex on my back in the carrier, and carry Daniel in my arms, to the amusement of various skiers and snowboarders on top of Keystone. Neither of them wants to walk. About halfway between the Summit House and the Gondola, Alex kicks off his boots. I carry them, too. We get ourselves into a gondola car, I turn to take Alex out of the carrier, turn back around, and Daniel's boots and socks are lying on the floor. No, he will not be putting them back on. Not a chance. No. The boots and socks are off. Permanently. End of story.
I try all my tricks.
"Honey, why dont you want to wear them?"
"I not want to."
"But why?"
"I not like to wear them."
"Do they hurt?"
"No."
"Will you wear them another day?"
"Nope."
"Do you feel sad or mad inside?"
"Nope, I just not want to wear my boots."
I encourage him to stand on the icy, slushy metal gondola floor in his bare feet. He tries it and immediately gives me a story much closer to what I expected out of Alex earlier- dancing from foot to foot, crying "it hurts, mommy. Owie! It hurts!"
At this point, I again slip back into logic, which in this case, consists of arguing with a three year old. "Of course it hurts! It's freezing cold! We do not take our shoes off in the gondola! This is a freaking ski hill! It is winter! You are wearing full ski gear, on a ski lift, and you are barefoot! I will not carry you, you can wear your shoes. Put them on."
"Nope."
"Put. Them. On."
"No."
"Here. I'll put them on for you."
"Nooooooo!"
I do think his chemo causes sensitivity to hot and cold, which manifests as actual pain. I've heard older kids going through the same treatment say this. It makes sense. Nerve damage is a real concern with Vincristine. What makes no sense is that he refuses to wear his shoes. Did I mention, in a snowstorm? On a ski hill? He's choosing the pain of being barefoot over wearing his shoes, pain that for him is probably magnified? And not because his shoes hurt, but because he just decided not to wear them.
And the doors are opening at the bottom, so I grab Alex, whose boots I have finally gotten back on, and Daniel's boots, lead Alex out of the gondola, turn around expecting to see Daniel behind me, only to see him sitting resolutely on the gondola seat as it moves past the boarding platform and prepares to go back up the mountain. I drop Alex's hand and sprint back into the car, grabbing Daniel and pulling him out after me, in his bare feet. Then run back to Alex before he decides to dive under the moving gondola cabins, pull him over to Daniel, then ask Daniel again to put his boots on, to a loud "NO!"
At this point, we are definitely the scene of the hour. I look at the lifties and shrug my shoulders, palms up, head tilted and eyebrow raised with an ironic smile, like, "Kids. Whatcha gonna do, amiright?" Not one twitch in return. Like until that point I thought maybe they were thinking, "This kid is experiencing a natural consequence of being a little jerk, because this is the way your world works when your parents care about you." But I'm now pretty sure lifties have about the same sense of humor as the Colorado State Highway Patrol. I even thow in an admittedly condescending, "Daniel, honey, we keep our shoes on in the gondola because gondola rides don't last forever and eventually we have to get out and walk in the snow." Not a flicker from our scowling lifties.
So, all the way out of the maze of ropes that only directed a few lines of skiers, we limp.
"Owie!"
"Put your shoes on."
"NOOOOO!.....Owie!"
"Put your shoes on."
"NOOOOOO!"
Once outside the line, I kneel down, pick up Daniel's feet, and put them inside his boots. He cries, but it is more mournful than angry. We find a wagon and I pull them back to the car. We drive home, stopping long enough to give a ride to someone walking home from the bus stop, and by the time we get there the crying has stopped and they are asleep. I get them carried inside and they sleep for twenty minutes, then Daniel is awake, hitting Alex, yelling, "Alex, wake up!" Alex does. I consider crying, both for naptime that isn't to be and the pinot that also isn't to be. But I lie down between them with my shirt pulled up and attempt to stifle my aversions and redirect my attention to writing instead. It doesn't really work. Alex wakes up more, demands lunch. It is noon, I cant blame him for being hungry. I ask Daniel if he wants lunch. He says no. He isn't hungry. He wants da boobies long, he says, as opposed to da boobies a little bit. He has learned that sometimes I will cut him off by counting to ten if he doesn't specify and get me to agree to boobies until he is done. I tell him he can have boobies long, but first Alex needs some lunch. By the time Alex is fed, Daniel is sleeping again.
I let Alex watch TV, a toddler singalong show, while I write and ponder my failings of the morning, and wonder what I didn't see, what little thing I missed that made them seem like such little jerks. Maybe they were just trying to express something I wasn't getting. Likely they were as frustrated with me as I was with them. Daniel was likely hungry but didn't realize it. Would that I could have had that apple available when he wanted it. He probably chose to walk barefoot in the slushy snow due to low blood sugar, due to the lack of an apple, the one and only thing that sounded edible to him, and he couldn't identify, let alone express this confusing concept.
Now Daniel is up too, has finally consented to eat something (that something was ice cream, I am not proud of that, but it was ice cream or nothing and I am hoping ice cream will be the gateway food that will make him willing to eat better things), and I finished this post while Alex was in the tub, because his own lunch was messy and required more than just a wipe-down. He's now running around the house naked, perfectly willing to fight for his right to never wear clothes or a diaper again. The last thing he did before climbing out of the tub was try to rinse himself off with a Big Gulp cup. Except he tipped it the wrong way, poured it outside the tub and all over my lap. I'm now soaked in bathwater from the waist down. Kids. Amiright? The day is young. What could we do with the rest of it?
Oh. We've moved from ice cream to a banana smoothie. Which has now been spilled over several hundred Legos.
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