The Saturday Post

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This will be only our second Halloween in this house -- a house ideal for creating a creepy stop for little trick or treaters. We were at Bubby's house last year so I didn't put up the Halloween decorations; it just seemed wrong to lure little kids to our door if no one would be here to hand out treats.

There will be someone here to hand out treats this year ... and I've not yet decorated at all, not even a pumpkin. Today is the drop-dead date for getting up the spooky stuff and I'm trying to get myself in the mood to do it. It's a little hard to muster the enthusiasm when I know absolutely no little ghosts/goblins/zombies or such and our neighborhood is relatively free of little kids, meaning it'll likely be only BIG kids ringing my doorbell.

But I absolutely will do some sort of decorating today, I've promised myself.

So to get myself in the mood -- and you, too -- I found this goofy clip of classic monster movies set to "Monster Mash." Gotta love Gene Wilder and Peter Boyle putting on the ritz AND the woman whose head bursts into flames! If this doesn't do it, I don't think anything will.

Here's to Halloween!

(SORRY... THIS VIDEO LOST IN BLOG MAKEOVER)

Hideaway

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During my recent visit with Bubby, I discovered something we have in common: We both like to hide. Well, I used to like to hide. As a kid. (Although I do hide my head in the sand on several issues, I admit, but that's not really the same thing.)

Bubby loves to scramble under his crib, hidden by the bedskirt, especially when it's time to change his diaper. He scurries into his hiding spot, waits a few moments, then pulls up the bedskirt to surprise anyone wandering around the room saying, "Where's Bubby?" He gets a kick out of being found.

I, on the other hand, never wanted to be found. I hid because I really wanted to be alone. Granted, I was much older than Bubby and playing a game of "Where's Lisa?" would have been a bit absurd at the age of 11 so even if that were my intention in hiding, I doubt my mom or siblings would have participated in the fun. No, I just hid for the heck of it, hoping no one would find me.

Except my friend Norma. Together we'd tuck ourselves up into ridiculous contortions and hang out beneath the lower shelf in the linen closet. With knees up to our ears (did I mention we were ELEVEN?) and little room for anything more than transferring one saltine at a time from the package we'd stolen from the kitchen into our mouths, we'd spend hours hidden in the dark, sharing secrets and shusshing (and stifling giggles) when we heard anyone nearby who may snatch open the closet and try to wrangle us from our hideout.

Another favorite hiding spot at that age, one I didn't share with Norma, was a spot in the living room that actually wasn't hidden from view at all. (Now that I think of it, maybe I was a bit wacko.) I'd "hide" at the end of the cabinet stereo, scrunched into the corner and staring up at the ceiling, imagining THAT was where we lived. In my head, the room was flipped, and I plotted out how the furniture would fit around all the architectural details of the ceiling, if that were the floor. The table'd go here, the couch there. But only I would live in the new place -- no siblings, no parents, no friends. In my head I'd sing  "In my own little corner, in my own little chair...", pretending to be as blissful in my solitude as Lesley Anne Warren -- aka Cinderella -- was in hers (a reference the younger readers likely won't get!). Off in my own little world, oblivious to anyone around me, I felt hidden.

(I'm pretty sure there's some psychological reason for imagining my upside down world making sense ... maybe having something to do with my real world feeling upside down most of the time anyway. Not going to analyze that one at this point.)

This is embarassing to admit, but I continued hiding as a teen, especially when my mom made me so angry I wanted to just run away ... but I was too big of a chicken to walk out the door. So I'd hide under my bed for hours (literally!) hoping I'd hear Mom pacing the floor, searching for me and crying out how sorry she was for being such a mean mom. Didn't happen. I'm pretty sure she knew where I was all along. Eventually I'd shimmy out from underneath the bed, climb on top of it and under the covers.

I don't hide anymore -- except for, like I said, the hiding my head in the sand. But that's more of a self-preservation technique, I believe, than silly child's play.

I don't recall my daughters ever hiding from me, in play as a toddler or in retaliation for me laying down the law and not giving them their way as a teen. So, Balloon Boy not withstanding, is hiding a common thing for kids to do? I'm not sure. 

But I like that Bubby and I share the penchant for sneaking away. And I really like that he so enjoys it when I find him!

Better than ice cream

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It seems that any time conversation revolves around what it's like to be a grandma, there's always a comment made by someone about the advantages of being able to hand the kiddo back to Mom when there's a less-than-perfect moment.

"One of the great things about being Grandma," some say, "is that I can hand him back when he starts crying!"<snicker, snort> Or when he gets sleepy. Or when he's poopy. Or when I just plain get tired of holding him.

I hear it often enough that I've thrown it in the category of comments such as those I get when walking my (big, powerful, hyper) dog: "Wow! Looks more like he's walking you!" passersby say. <chortle, chortle>

Those comments bug the hell out of me, to be quite honest. I have a pet peeve about hearing something again and again. Same goes for watching movies over and over or reading the same book several times or listening to most "classic" rock. I go for novelty. "Say something original!" I want to scream. "Maybe then I'll give you a sincere giggle in response!"

I mention this because I realized Sunday that I'm definitely not one of those grandmas who are ready and willing to "hand the baby back" as soon as things get uncomfortable.

Because we allowed more than enough time when arriving at the airport on Sunday -- ya never know how security will be at an international airport! -- Jim and I ended up with time on our hands as we waited for our flight back to the mountains. So we visited the Cold Stone Creamery counter. We grabbed our goodies -- sweet cream and raspberries for me, chocolate decadence (of course!) for Jim -- and settled into the relatively comfortable armchairs scattered along the airport aisles.

We didn't talk much. We just kicked back, savored our sweets, got in a good round of people watching and enjoyed the relaxed finale to our whirlwind weekend with Bubby. It was a nice moment.

As we finished then made our way through the security line, I got a text from Megan. She, Preston and Bubby were still driving the 40 or so miles back to their house after dropping us off at the airport. Her text: "We just had to pull over and clean poop off of Bubby. His feet were up and it shot right out of the side of his diaper. YUCK!"

Sheesh! "Yuck!" I replied back, keeping it short because I was dealing with getting my shoes off and into the bin.

For sure, that seemed disgusting, yucky work. My first thought was "Good thing they dropped us off before that happened!"

But ya know what? I didn't really feel that way.

Even though Jim and I were kicking back with a cold one at the time that Megan and Preston were likely swearing under their breath and trying to keep from freaking Bubby out more than he already was at the poop all over his hands, legs and car seat, I honestly would have rather been cleaning up that mess than sitting at the airport, peacefully eating ice cream. I wouldn't have claimed grandma-status that leaves the mess to Mom.

Yeah, I'm sure I'd be holding back a few "holy crap" comments or two, but I'd do it. I would have gladly gone through the ream of baby wipes to swipe the poop off the little boy if it meant I got just a little more time with Bubby.

Because that, to me, is better than ice cream -- even the sweet cream and raspberries from Cold Stone!

Home birth?

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As I write this, I'm praying like crazy. Brianna left the house around 11 p.m. last night to help out her friend, who was having a home birth. Dad would be there, as would a midwife and Brianna. Her friend had been having contractions all day, they were finally pretty close together come late evening, and Brianna left her job at the hospital early in order to head over to her friend's house about the same time the midwife was scheduled to arrive.

This is the second friend who has asked Brianna to be there when their baby is born. Dad was at the first one, too. Brianna's not a birthing professional; she's a phlebotomist who draws blood and works in the lab at the hospital. But she's a top-notch friend, and these gals wanted her alongside at one of the biggest moments of their lives.

I had no qualms about her being at the first. The second, the one taking place right now, had me worried from the get-go because her friend had chosen to have a home birth. And because I'm a paranoid person who reads too many horror stories of things that don't happen often ... but are horrific for the small percentage of folks they do happen to.

I'm not a huge fan of the medical industry, have certainly had my share of doubts and lack of confidence in doctors who have treated me and my loved ones. But I still think that a hospital is the place to have a baby -- because you just never know what can go wrong. Hospitals have the staff and the equipment to handle life-threatening situations. I realize that a lot of people don't agree with me.

Because of my fear of what could go wrong, when I came across the following video online, I asked Brianna to watch it, to please discuss it with her friend -- without freaking her out -- and to keep it in mind during the birth process just in case anything were to come up that made it seem like a trip to the hospital would be the best course of action. Brianna watched it and mentioned it to her friend.

And something did come up. At 5:30 this morning, Brianna sent me a text: "Not gone well. Taking her to (the hospital). Call later." I was sleeping when the text came through; I got it about 30 minutes ago. A prayer for mom and baby has been running non-stop in my head ever since. There's really nothing more I can do but wait for Brianna's call.

Here is the video. Yeah, the media hype things up. I get that. But I still think it's an important video, an important topic -- and I hope the outcome for Brianna's friend is far better than the one highlighted in this clip.

(SORRY! VIDEO LOST IN BLOG REDESIGN)

Update: Brianna just called from the hospital. Mom is exhausted and has very reluctantly decided to have an epidural in hopes it'll get the process moving. The baby's vitals seem to be fine. I'll keep you posted. And I'll keep on praying.

Update

on 2009-10-20 19:48 by Lisa Carpenter

HAPPY ENDING: Just after 12:30 p.m. MST, a precious little girl arrived safe and sound, with nothing more than a blue foot as evidence of the trauma she'd gone through! Mom and baby (and Dad!) are relieved and resting. Thank you for all the thoughts and prayers you sent their way.