Category Archives: kids

I Suck at Moderation

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Since we started this vacation and until reinforcements arrive (T-minus 54 hours until Sheepdog is here!), I have removed many of the standard limits which I usually impose upon my kids.  There have been no bedtimes, they may or may not have showered or bathed, Twizzlers and Smarties have become their own major food group, Kid D has learned two new slang/ curse words, and no one even knows where their shoes are anymore.  And we are all thriving!

Of course I’m kidding.  The first few days were fun and exciting and all “Let’s Eat the Forbidden Fruit!” but now the kids are just overtired, dirty and have stomach aches and splinters.  Many of them fall asleep in public places in the middle of the day and/ or burst out in tears for absolutely no reason.  And one of them is always not talking to another one for some reason.  It’s like the first few days of Lord of the Flies.

This kid's mom must be Super Fun! He fell asleep in the middle of a party.

Apparently, my kids crave order.  They may think that they don’t want rules and limits, but I know that it makes them feel safe and secure and keeps them young for just a little while longer.  And they may think that they want to grow up right this minute, but that’s not what is best for them.  And I see it in their behavior and their language and their demeanor every single day.

See, I have been trying this little experiment for years now.  I may take naturally to being a drill sergeant kind of parent, but I also want my kids to have memories of growing up in a house with a mom who was fun and silly and a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of girl.  So every once in a while (vacation is a great time because everything gets upended anyway) I let Captain Chaos run the show.  And every single time it is fun for a few days.  Until it is not so fun anymore.

So maybe tonight I’ll make a healthy dinner, but we can go for a walk to get ice cream afterwards.  And instead of banning video games today, I can set a time limit so that nobody plays for eight hours straight and gets all crazy-eyed and combative.  But I’ll tell you right now that Kid E is going to bed by 7:30 tonight and every single night thereafter.  Because a grouchy, unrested Kid E is always miserable.  Moderation be damned.

When we lessen or reduce our extremes we are more likely than not heading toward normalcy.  And who doesn’t want to be normal?  Moderation has the best chance of survival in the long run.  It is just so hard for me to put it into practice.  It is one of my Life’s Big Struggles.

What I am figuring out, slowly but surely, is that moderation is the way to go.

Isn’t it always?  [Buzzer sound].  I guess I still have a lot to learn.

Oh!  Now I get the saying, “All things in moderation, even moderation.”

This is not going to be easy for me.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

I Got That From My Daddy

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Big Bob is the man I can lean on for knowledge, advice and support, and tuition for college

Following the rules, crossing my t’s and dotting my i’s, and double-checking my work… I got that from my daddy.

Love of the water, love of boats, and love of big storms… I got that from my daddy.

Playing it close to the vest, having just a few close friends, and a dislike of talking on the telephone… I got that all from my daddy.

Confidence in my position even when I’m not 100% sure I’m right, taking charge when someone needs to step up, and wanting to give my all to everything I do… I got that from my daddy.

Taking care of my yard, keeping my car uber clean (in and out), and having a clutter-free desk… I got that from my daddy.

Freakish strength, big thighs, and a love of anything grilled… I also got that from my daddy.

Always showing affection to my spouse, showering it upon my kids, and embarrassing all of them with public declarations of my feelings… I got that from my daddy.

The desire to take my shirt off and dance like a crazy person after getting tipsy at big, formal family events… Thank Goodness I DID NOT get that from my daddy.

Of course my dad has his faults, but that just makes him human.  He is sometimes socially awkward, dresses like he rides the short bus, and has been known to take a nap in the middle of his own parties.  But he is also brilliant at his job, an excellent provider, gives great advice, and is fiercely loyal to my mom.  He does not open up easily, but I have never once doubted his love for me.  He gives great speeches and is incredibly sentimental.  He is an excellent driver, not afraid to get his hands dirty, and would do just about anything for his wife, children and grandchildren.

I want to wish a very Happy Father’s Day to the best daddy a girl could ask for.  Thank you for setting the bar high, inspiring me and always encouraging me to work hard.  You set a great example for everyone who knows you and we are lucky to have you in our lives.

I love my daddy,
Oh, yes I do-oo.
When he’s not near to me
I’m sad and blu-ue.
I love him truly, I do-oooooo.
Oh, Daddy, I love you!

xoxo,

Daughter A

Wish me luck for tomorrow… (I got that from my daddy too!)

The Toothless Ladies Loved Me

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Not one, but two of the younger kids got up in the middle of one night over our crazy weekend.  They were each complaining of some malady for which I would normally prescribe a simple dose of ibuprofen, so I dragged my still sleeping body to the medicine cabinet and rooted around in the dark for the familiar bottle.  Problem: no ibuprofen.  No big deal, as I can just give them acetaminophen instead.  More rooting.  Bigger Problem: no acetaminophen.

I actually had to turn on the light and check, but I had absolutely no kid pain relievers in my entire house.  No liquid, no pills, no melt in your mouth things.  Nothing.  To their utter dissatisfaction I gave them each a drink of water and said that the problem was probably just dehydration and I sent them back to bed, vowing not to forget to buy every kind of kid pain relief medicine the very next day – just in case.

I did, in fact, forget to buy them the next day, but I remembered that night as we were passing a drug store on the way home from my niece’s birthday party and asked Sheepdog to stop so I could just run in quickly.  I hit the pain management aisle with a vengeance and a hand basket, which I quickly filled with every flavor and style of ibuprofen and acetaminophen that they sold.

Missing a tooth doesn't always mean that you are trashy

At the sole checkout line (which was at least four or five people deep… big rush at the drug store on a Saturday night) people were waiting and bored, so they were checking out the candy display, the magazine headlines and each other’s baskets.  Mine must have caught someone’s eye and a couple of ladies in line behind me started asking me what was up with all of the drugs.  As I looked up to answer I noticed that they were both missing several teeth.  No big deal, but I just wondered how they had each lost their teeth… poor oral hygiene, too much Mountain Dew, bad genetics, bar fights?  Being toothless tends to convey a less than Miss America kind of image to me, but I wasn’t going to be rude or treat them any differently.

Our wait in queue went on, as the clerk was apparently unable to press buttons and put things into bags at the same time, so my conversation with the toothless ladies also continued.  I sneaked a peek at their future purchases and saw that they were buying some kind of ointment, the latest National Enquirer, a couple of tubes of potato chips and a twelve pack of some really cheap beer.  They seemed ramped up for quite a night and based on their shopping haul I had so many great questions on the tip of my tongue, but opted not to ask most of them.  They did tell me that their other friend was coming from a few towns over to hang out for the night, but first she had to settle some things with her boyfriend.

It was finally my turn at the register and the clerk also commented on the quantity of drugs I was purchasing.  Maybe there is a new screening that they have, similar to the one where you have to show your driver’s license when you buy Sudafed because it is used in making crystal meth?  I don’t know.  I explained again that I had completely run out of medicine for my kids and I was restocking.  Then the standard follow-up question to that statement was posed, “Well, ma’am, just HOW MANY KIDS DO YOU HAVE?”

“Five,” I answered, somewhat bored with the common reaction that inevitably was to follow.  I usually hear comments like, “You must have your hands full!” or “That sure is a lot of kids!”  But these folks didn’t say any of that.  I was actually kind of let down by the lack of enthusiastic response to my revelation of having borne an entire basketball team.  I may be tired of the standard responses, but I wanted them to say something.

So, as I grabbed my bags and receipt and walked out the door I looked back at the clerk and the toothless ladies and I added, “…and they all have the same Baby Daddy!”

As I walked through the drug store exit I heard roaring peels of laughter and even a couple of woo hoo’s.  Those toothless ladies sure loved me.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Having a Lot of Kids Will Almost Always Lead to Drinking

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

This past weekend we were heavy two cosmonauts (temporarily).  Sister C and her husband traveled to Jekyll Island for a wedding and her oldest two kids stayed with us.  My nephew is seven and my niece just turned five.  They are good and get along well with my kids.  So we threw them into the pot and told them to hold on tight for a bumpy ride.  Seven kids over three days was gonna be FUN!

Friday was Day One.  I was getting my hair cut and colored (I have the Catch-22 of giant Jersey Girl hair that grows super fast, yet started turning grey when I was only 25 years old) because my sparkles (what I call the evil grey hair when it shines next to my naturally dark hair) were lighting up like a Christmas tree.  My appointment was early, so I just asked Kid B (Kid A sleeps like the Teenage Undead until noon if you let her) to watch them all until I got back.  Sheepdog had made the mistake of deciding to work from home that morning without checking our schedule first, so he got roped in on the babysitting gig too.  Actually, the Wii ended up babysitting three of them, as the boys played video games until their eyeballs were just about to pop out of their heads.  The girls went upstairs and dragged out the $17,000 worth of American Girl Doll equipment, clothes and furniture that we have in a closet and played until their little fingers were bleeding from working those tiny buttons.  I gave them spaghetti and meatballs for dinner and ice cream cake for dessert, then they were off to bed!  Everybody was happy.

Saturday was Day Two.  We had a 1st Birthday Party to attend for my youngest niece later in the afternoon, but it was sunny and hot in the morning so we decided to get everybody dressed and ready for a day at the pool first.  Nine sandwiches, drinks, snacks, towels, bathing suits and eighteen flip-flops (well 17, as Kid E still has the boot on his left foot), and an assembly line of sunscreen later, we headed off to the neighborhood pool for some cooling off.  I was Mama Duck with my seven little ducklings marching behind me along the side of the road.  As we walked I heard the dreaded rumble of thunder off in the distance.  Crap.  We decided we could eat lunch at the pool while we waited the required 20 minutes before being able to go back in the water after thunder and we pressed on.  No sooner did we get to the pool than another boom of thunder rocked our ears.  Double crap.  The skies still looked blue and the clouds were not menacing, so everybody just ate lunch and we hung out for our second penalty.  As it goes, just seconds prior to the end of the waiting period, yet another thunderbolt crashed somewhere far away.  Despite our insistence that it was just a neighbor bringing in his trash cans, the lifeguard went all hard-core and shut us down again.  Third strike and all, we gathered our things and headed back to the house, never having even dipped a single big toe into the cool pool.

After our complete bust of a pool day the kids all complained that they were hot and sweaty and sticky from sunscreen and they all wanted soapy showers before the party.  Sheepdog was adamantly opposed and suggested we just hose them off in the backyard.  But I conceded to their request, mostly because they went straight into pj’s the night before.  By the end we depleted the hot water supply from our not one, but TWO hot water heaters, but everyone was clean, cool and dressed for the party.

Now the party for my other niece was in Kennesaw, which is forty-five minutes away no matter how you cut it.  The big monster truck that I drive all of the kids around in only fits seven (especially with all of the car seats), so we had to formulate a plan on how to get there.  We had the option to take two cars, but after much discussion we opted to take the truck and just put two people in the waaaay back, using body and boyfriend pillows for back support.  Sheepdog and I both grew up in the 70’s and have ridden seat belt-less on the hump in the back seat or in the empty bed of a pickup truck.  Hell, the “infant car seats” from when we were babies were basically laundry baskets that got put on the front seat next to the driver.  And we’re both fine, so we decided to Old School it.

I am considering this for my next car, as they say they were able to fit 13 people into it.

One dumb ass decision by Sheepdog and me, a driver who fell asleep at his wheel and two busted up cars later, we were getting a fire truck escort over to the right shoulder on GA-400S.  Our girls riding in the back saw that the driver was nodding off and called to Sheepdog to PLEASE GET OUT OF THIS LANE RIGHT NOW, DADDY.  He told them that it was fine, yet turned on his blinker and attempted to move over in the bumper-to-bumper traffic.  As the girls continued to let him know that they were frightened and he (and I) countered for them to calm down and that no one would really drive while asleep, but we were moving over nonethele… KABOOM!  He rear-ended us.  Fortunately we were going under 15 miles per hour and not even one person was hurt (the guy’s car is a different story – he lost his entire front end).  Oh there was some screaming at first from the jolt of the impact, but the kids really were troopers.

You really can’t even imagine how bad the sleeping driver felt when he learned that he just crashed into a car filled with seven little kids on their way to their cousin’s birthday party.  Why not just run over some nuns and orphans while you’re at it?  But, like I said, everyone was just fine and we went on to the party and had a great time celebrating and visiting with even more aunts, uncles and cousins.

So Sunday comes afterwards.  Day Three was a hot and sunny once again, so we decided to just go balls to the wall and attempt the pool one more time.  Suits, check.  Gear, check.  Food, check.  Sunscreen, check.  You know the drill by now.  Mama duck and baby ducks.  And on this day there was no thunder.  As a matter of fact, it was a fantastic day at the pool all around.  The kids had fun, swam like fish, and Sheepdog and I managed to keep an eye on everybody and we even got to spend some time hanging out together.  By the time we gathered out things almost four hours later we had four or five more kids who came back to the house along with us, everybody a little sunburned and everybody a little worn out.  It was a great end to a (mostly) fun weekend.

After Sister C came to gather her chickens and take them back home, and Kid A took off to go to dinner and the movies with her friends, and Kids B and C were invited to sleep over at their friend’s house, I made a simple dinner of burgers and dogs for Sheepdog, Kid D, Kid E and myself.  As I was standing at the grill I said a prayer of thanks that we were all safe, and I made a promise that no one was ever riding without proper seat belt restraints under my watch again.  And then I came back in the house and opened a giant bottle of wine and I proceeded to drink most of it.  Because having a lot of kids will almost always lead to drinking.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

My Sons and Their Girlfriends

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

During the last week of kindergarten Kid D came home from school and announced with both disgust and pride that, “Two girls in my class told everyone today that they loved (me)!”  He made a sound like he was gagging, but I swear I also saw the faintest hint of a smile.

The other day when we were bowling Kid E  noticed an older woman (she was, like, at least five-years-old) in the lane next to us playing with her family and announced to me, “She’s cute!  I’m gonna go over and say hi to her!”  and then he actually did.  He is still sporting a mohawk and foot cast – he’s rocking the Bad Boy thing so seriously that I’m soon going to suggest he get a tattoo.

And yesterday within minutes of us arriving at the pool Kid D had two different girls come up to him and ask if he wanted to swim with them.  He spent the rest of the afternoon playing pool games and having diving contests with his little girl friends, making sure to come back to me every once in a while to check in and throw me the occasional “I love you” or hug.  Were they genuine or did I sense a touch of obligation?

One of Kid D's first girlfriends. She was such a little tramp.

Good Lord, I can not fathom that I am losing these boys to girls already.

There is a saying that gives me chills and is the root of the fear in my brain with regard to my sons growing up and leaving me forever and it goes something like, “A daughter is your daughter for the whole of her life, but a son is a son until he takes a wife.”  You just know that some pissed off mother-in-law said that first, and she probably muttered “bitch” after she said “wife.”

Now I completely get the irony of the situation because Sheepdog has a mom and, technically, I guess I took him away from her.  But that doesn’t really count because (A) he wanted to move away from West Virginia more than anything, so he left and I just went with him; (2) my mother-in-law and I are completely different people with very different approaches to parenting (we’re talking for this argument’s sake); and (d) Kid E is completely different from Sheepdog (while Kid D is EXACTLY the same, but that doesn’t help my point at all, so I am choosing to ignore it).

I know that these boys will all grow up and move out and move on to their own lives someday.  And when that “someday” comes around I will even (maybe) be saying that I look forward to it.  I guess I realize that the boys will go away on their own, regardless of whether or not girls play a part in the decision.  But for now I like having my baby boys close by and I like that they rely on me and occasionally come find me for an “I love you” or hug, even if it is obligatory.  I’m taking whatever I can get.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Hotlanta

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Ask almost anybody who lives here and they will tell you.  Atlanta is awesome.  It is great place to be single or to raise a family.  You can live on a farm or have an exciting city life.  You can go shopping for anything, cheer on all kinds of teams at sporting events, and indulge in every kind of music, arts and theatre.  There are great public schools.  There are great private schools.  There are beautiful mountains, lakes and parks for almost every type of recreation.  And even in cities with huge populations, there are neighborhoods that provide a very strong sense of community (Go Crocs!).

It may be sMARTA, but it is scary as hell to ride at night.

But ask those same people and they will also tell you.  There are two main things that suck about Atlanta… traffic and the summer heat.  Traffic is inevitable because, “If you build it, they will come.”  Word is out that this place is great.  So plan accordingly and allow extra time to get places.  If you want less traffic then go live in South Dakota.  Or take MARTA (Sheepdog does).  But the heat?  Good Lord.  Some days I don’t want to leave my air-conditioned house.  And when I do it is only to spend the day at the pool.  It’s a good thing I don’t have a real job.

It is only the beginning of June and it is already stupid hot here in Atlanta.  We have had temperatures in the high nineties, and even into the triple digits, for a week now.  I am used to cross-winds and ocean breezes, so I have had a really hard time adjusting to summer weather in the South.  Even after almost ten years of living in Atlanta, I still pack up the family every summer and we head out of Dodge to somewhere that has air that moves.

The worst was a few years ago when we had the standard Summer Sauna Experience, but in addition we had state-wide water restrictions.  There was no new rain for weeks.  Under penalty of death you couldn’t water your grass or plants, wash your car, or hook up a Slip-N-Slide.  Conveniently, just before news of the drought broke we had just done some landscaping and wished to water the new plants.  I had to take a test online (similar to the S.A.T.s) and apply for a permit and make a deal with the devil in order to give each new shrub three droppers-full of water between 5 and 5:15 a.m. on the third Thursday after each new moon.

So, even though it is crazy hot here in Atlanta already, there is so much to do, both inside and out.  There are no water restrictions, so the swimming pools are full.  The lawns and plants are green and people are firing up their grills and Green Eggs.  Summer is here in Hotlanta, so let’s all take a turn on the Slip-N-Slide.

Have a great day!

“OK Day”

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Summer may seem endless, especially to a stay-at-home parent who is suddenly one day in May or June each year invaded by kids being all up in your house space.  The survival of all eighty-odd days without incident can seem impossible, especially early on in the process.  I just hang in there, taking it one day at a time (or more appropriately referred to as one Happy Hour at a time) until about day thirty-five, when I then realize that the summer is a few days shy of being half over and whereinthehelldidthetimegoandhowarewegoingtodo allthethingswewantedtodothissummerwithwhatlittletimewehaveleft?

For part of the summer the kids and I travel, mainly visiting both my parents and Sheepdog’s parents.  For another part of the summer we just lounge at our neighborhood pool.  We usually do not participate in any summer sports or activities, although this summer Kid B was planning to do a short soccer camp at a local high school (I just realized that the camp started yesterday and we have already missed two of the three total days…oops! no soccer camp this summer either).  We all seem to enjoy not having schedules and just doing our own thing and lounging around, watching movies, playing with friends and each other, reading books and magazines, and perfecting our tans and Triple Lindys.

I am really up for most suggestions of things to do from the kids, as long as they don’t inconvenience me too much (e.g. interrupt my intense summer schedule of playing Zuma on my laptop, or of watching HGTV or MTV shows from my extensive DVR queue) or cost an arm and a leg.  So when somebody suggested each kid having a day during which they call the shots, I was certainly up for it (within reasonable limits, of course).  Everybody tossed around some ideas about fun stuff to do on their days, but most of them are playing it pretty close to the vest and not sharing details until they reach the limit of the required 48-hours notice so I can plan meals, supplies, travel and details.

Part of Kid D's plan was for his siblings to create and play a reality TV game show with him. He, of course, got to win.

“Mom, can I have cake for breakfast?

“OK.”

“Mom, can I play Wii all day long and go first every time and pick the teams and pick the games and win every time too?”

“OK.”

“Mom, can we go bowling after we go to the pool?”

(bowling – really?  ugh, but…) “OK.”

“Mom, can I have cake for lunch…and dinner?”

(you are so gonna vomit, but…) “OK.”

“Mom, can we set up an elaborate reality game show in the house, complete with video instructions, painted poster and challenges?”

(speechless) “OK.”

“Mom, can I take a shower with my clothes on?”

(weird, but…) “OK.”

See, that’s all innocent enough.  We are only on our first Special Day (the honor went to Kid D based on recent good behavior), which has now been re-named “OK Day” (obvious explanation above).  I love hearing their ideas and plans and what they choose to do when they have very few limits.  So far I have not had to say no even once.  But Kid B hasn’t gone yet, so give it time.  As the kids get older, their ideas will no doubt become more ridiculous and I will be wishing for the end of summer and start of a new school year, schedules and all.  But for now, we’re all doing OK.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Dance Recitals are Torture

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

The other six of us all got dressed up this past weekend and we headed out to watch Kid A dance ballet in her studio’s recital.  It was held at a local high school that has its own performing arts center.  I just love watching Kid A dance.  Her movement is so precise and controlled and just peaceful to watch.  But the dance recital just kills me.  I don’t care how beautifully it is done.  Dance recitals are torture.

Let’s start with the preparation of the dancer.  Even the youngest of them (most studios have dance classes for kids as little as three-years-old) get full stage make up.  I understand the reason for needing it (stage lights are very bright and they drown you out), and I guess some people find it cute to play drag queen with their toddler, but it seems so very wrong to have these kids wearing six times more make-up than most strippers wear to work.  Then there’s the shellacked hair bun, which requires seventeen-thousand pins plus a net to hold it in place and a rocket scientist’s mom (because even the rocket scientist needs a mom’s help with this thing) to assemble.  And they don’t make enough chemicals to remove this stuff, so you’d better just get used to it.  Your dancer is going to look this way for most of the summer.

"You will TOTALLY were these again!" said their dance teacher.

Let’s move on to the costumes… they usually come in several parts, none of which I can ever figure out how to put on in the right order.  And they never come with assembly instructions, and I end up trying to put it together like it is a 250-piece play kitchen and I’m panicking at midnight on Christmas Eve.  It’s a good thing that Kid A is paying attention.  Oh, and you’ll need to buy new tights for the show.  The kind that you’ll never use again, and they cost half of a week’s worth of groceries.  The really great thing is that you get to keep the costumes!

Then there is the sales portion of the recital.  There are professional photo sessions (individual and group), DVD sales, poster sales, flower sales, and sometimes even keepsake sales to remind the dancers of the particular experience (As if the actual digital footage of the whole show to the tune of $40 a copy would not remind them enough.  No, they need a stuffed polar bear in a tutu made in Taiwan by a six-year-old who gets paid three cents a day to truly remind them).

Finally, we get to the day (or days! with multiple showings! like Broadway!) of the dance recital.  The performance is usually held in the middle of some unincorporated town, at least six hours away from the studio.  On top of that, your dancer has a call time that is three hours prior to when the doors open to the public.  Until then, no one is allowed to come in out of the sweltering heat and sit down in an auditorium that never has enough seats, and then only the very front row has an unobstructed view.  Most of the time the air conditioning in the theater will crap out about an hour into the first half of the performance.  By Intermission (yes, the show is long enough to justify an intermission), you are so sick of watching all of the variations of “kick ball change” and dancers cross leaping across the stage that you consider encouraging your dancer to try Chess Club instead next year.

Business Idea: Figure out how to get approved for a temporary liquor license inside of a school to provide a mobile cash bar for dance recitals.  Offer theme drinks, such as “Ballet Bombers,”  “Jazz Hands Off My Drink,” and “Beer Straight from the Tap Shoes.”  Provide special honorary seating for dads and grandfathers who got dragged there by the moms trying to relive their own unfulfilled hopes and dreams.

Nevertheless, we all went to watch and support Kid A while she performed in her annual recital.  I sat next to someone who reeked of cigarettes and Sheepdog sat near someone who needed more deodorant.  We all smiled and clapped and cheered, especially when Kid A was on stage – and she danced so beautifully – but mostly we cheered when it was over.  That is just what you do.  You support the ones you love, even when it is complete torture.  Because that is how childhood dreams and memories are made… on the proud shoulders and empty wallets of the parents who love them unconditionally.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Beware the Silence

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Drowning can be deceptively silent.  People who are drowning in real life don’t look like they do on television.  There is no splashing, no screaming, no flailing about.  There is usually no noise at all.  Just eerily silent suffering.

I almost can’t bring myself to write this post, as the recall of memories still brings tears to my eyes and a physical pain to my heart.  But I am doing it to remind everyone to be vigilant this summer… at the pool, on the beach and on the lake.

At a community pool, with both Sheepdog and I right there, Kid C once almost drowned.  She had just turned four years old and she did not know how to swim on her own, so she wore one of those swim vests that zipped up the front and snapped under the crotch.  It kept her afloat while she learned the mechanics of swimming and developed strength in both her arms and legs.

She was sitting on a towel off to the side of the pool snacking on some fresh berries, and she had taken the vest off to be more comfortable.  When she was done she went back into the pool, forgetting to put the vest back on first.  She descended the pool steps, quickly – and oh so silently – she was submerged under the water.  A mother nearby noticed that she was perfectly still and miraculously yanked her out of the pool in time to keep her from drowning.  As she vomited strawberries and pool water all over me, I couldn’t believe how quiet everything had seemed.

I can tell you that this all happened in a matter of seconds and that, even in hindsight, both Sheepdog and I felt like we were being watchful.  You will most likely presume that we were distracted socializing with other parents or that maybe our attention was drawn elsewhere by another child.  Neither of those things is true.  I have gone over those seconds in my head more times than seems humanly possible and I still don’t have all of the answers.  I can tell you that I grew up with a pool in my backyard, and spent countless summer days at the beach and on a sailboat.  I know infant, child and adult CPR and have even taken lifeguard training courses.  I certainly thought I was an attentive parent, especially when my kids are around the water, but that day taught me otherwise.

Just this past Memorial Day weekend a three-year-old girl silently drowned in a community pool on the Main Line in Philadelphia, with her parents only a few feet away.  The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention site says that fatal drowning remains the second-leading cause of unintentional injury-related death for children ages 1 to 14 years.

The Atlanta forecast over the next few days is currently “hot,” along with several days of “very hot,” so there will certainly be an increase in water activities.  Please be reminded to watch your children carefully at all times.  Remember to always listen for the noise of them playing in the water.  And beware the silence.

Kicks and Moans and Broken Bones

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

On a beautiful spring afternoon in 2005, Good Friday to be exact, Kid A and Kid B were out in the front yard of my mom’s house kicking a soccer ball around.  Sheepdog was at work, but my mom and dad and some sisters and brothers-in-law and nieces and nephews were there.  I stepped inside the house to breastfeed Kid D, who was only four or five moths old at the time.  My dad was doing yard work outside where the girls played.  Then any moms’ nightmare happened – an ear-piercing scream of pain reached my ears.  Even though it was louder and more intense than any I’d heard up until that point in her life, I knew it was Kid B’s cry.  In the twenty seconds it took for me to yank Kid D off of my breast and my dad to carry Kid B (a mother’s instinct is usually right!) into the house and lay her down on the couch I had run every horrific scenario through my mind about what had happened to cause her to create such noises.

It turned out that Kid A had kicked Kid B square in the shin (I told you before… graceful ballerina, clumsy athlete) instead of kicking the soccer ball.  By now the whole family had gathered around to see what was causing the ruckus and everybody was adding their two cents.  There was already bruising and some swelling, but no compound fracture and nothing that was a clear indicator of anything obvious.

“There is no way that a little kid could break her bone from a frontal kick like that,” said both of the brothers-in-law, each of whom played a little high school football.  (To be clear, one B-I-L played a little college ball at Georgia Tech, but that’s not what today’s story is about).

“My leg is broken.  My leg is broken.  My leg is broken.  My leg is broken, ” chanted Kid B.

My dad was so busy hugging his favorite grandchild (let’s just call a spade a spade here) that I almost couldn’t hear him say that he thought it was indeed broken.

So I packed up the four kids and drove back home.  I called the pediatrician’s office, which was closed for the weekend, and I was referred to an after hours urgent care for x-rays.  Sheepdog met us at home by then and he tried to lighten the mood by betting Kid B that she did not have a broken bone.  She was still busy chanting, but she shook on the bet nonetheless.  Sheepdog and Kid B headed out for a long night in the emergency room.

This x-ray earned Kid B five bucks

It turned out that Kid B was right, because she was diagnosed with a Z-shaped spiral fracture of her right tibia.  She got a splint and a visit to a pediatric orthopedic specialist to get fitted for a cast.  And did you know that a five-year-old will not fare so well using crutches (their coordination is just not developed enough), so they get to be issued a pediatric wheelchair for the duration of their broken bone healing process?  Question: Where do you put an infant’s car seat in order to push around a pediatric wheelchair (recall that Kid D is only four or five months old at the time)?  Answer: Sucks to be you, lady.  You sure have a lot of kids.

Ha!  And I wasn’t even done yet.

So Kid B got to spend Spring Break and almost the rest of her kindergarten year in a cast and a wheelchair, getting waited on and shuttled around and catered to.  I’m sure she was in pain in the beginning (mom recall of those screams… I still get chills), but I would bet it was a tad more painful for me at one point or another during the whole six to eight week process.  By the end, Kid B was a Rock Star in her school and I was getting phone calls from moms who said that their daughters wanted to have broken bones just like her.  Um, that’s really disturbing and I don’t even know how to respond to that information.  I was never more happy than the day she got her cast removed and had confirmation that the break healed well and should not affect her subsequent growth.  P.S.  She is only twelve and already about five feet six inches tall.

So why am I posting about this story today?  I’ll give you a hint… it is not Good Friday.  Nobody got hurt playing soccer.  There’s not even anybody being breastfed in this house.  I’m sure you guessed it, though.  Yep… somebody broke a bone.  On the First Official Day of Summer Vacation.  Classic.

Kids C, D and E were playing in the basement (it is a nicely finished basement, not some death trap).  There are two things that frighten a mother to her very soul… complete silence when a group of children are gathered together to play and the ear-piercing screams of pain I mentioned earlier.  Out of the blue I heard the latter  – this time from Kid E.  He had tripped on a toy and smacked his other foot against a door as he fell.  One of the coolest parts of this story was Kid D’s slo-mo re-enactment of the fall so I could see exactly what happened.  He was really good at it.

Kid E was limping and wincing.  He’s a tough little man, so I figured something was wrong.  Again I was sent to the same urgent care center for x-rays.  Again Sheepdog bet me that nothing was broken.  Again Sheepdog owes somebody five bucks.  The diagnosis was a fracture of the fifth metatarsal bone on his left foot, which would require a cast for at least four weeks.  When I asked if they made pool and beach-friendly casts, the doctors and nurses all laughed heartily and told me to have a nice summer.

Nothing says "white trash baby" better than a kid with a mohawk in the E.R. for a broken bone

My texts to Sheepdog were as follows:

Broken foot.

Call u in a bit.

Motherfu*ker.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…