It’s that time of year again: sizzling summer heat has been driving people coast to coast into lakes, beaches, and backyard pools.

Drowning deaths can often be prevented.

A child sneaks out an unlocked door and Grandma doesn’t notice for a few minutes.

 A water wing slips off and the child glides under.

It my not be a massive swimming pool — it could be a bathtub, a ditch, a plastic backyard blow-up pool just like yours.

A mother turns her head for a moment to answer the phone, text or go to the restroom.

The responsible aduls beside the crowded pool, lake, or beach take their eyes off the child for just a few seconds.

Usually there is little to no splash, just a slide under the water and a quick gasp for breath as water floods  starving lungs.

It is a silent killer.

A few seconds and you lose your child forever.

What You Can Do To Prevent Drowning:

• Learn to Swim.  The American Association of Pediatrics urges parents of children age one and up to enroll their children in swimming lessons. However, this won’t “drown-proof” a child.  Even when children have had formal swimming lessons, constant, careful supervision is necessary when children are in or near the water.   According to the CDC, participation in formal swimming lessons can reduce the risk of drowning by 88% among children aged 1 to 4 years.

• Do Not Use Air-Filled or Foam Toys.  Never use water wings, noodles, or inner-tubes in place of life jackets (personal flotation devices). These toys are not designed to keep swimmers safe.  They can slip or fall off. A child can easily flip upside down and be unable to right himself.

• Always Supervise When in or Around the Water. Designate a responsible adult to watch young children while in the bath and all children swimming or playing in or around water. Supervisors of infants, children, and weak swimmers should provide “touch supervision” and always be within arms reach.  Adults should not be involved in any other distracting activity (such as reading, talking/texting on the phone, or mowing the lawn) while supervising children. 

• Install Barriers Around Water.  Install a pool fence around an in ground swimming pool.  Make sure waterfront property is fenced in and secured.  Always ensure sliding glass doors,  exterior doors and windows are locked.  Consider pool alarms or a rigid pool cover as another line of defense.   Do not leave toys in or next to a pool, filled tub, or body of water.

• Buddy System. Always swim with a buddy. Select swimming sites that have lifeguards whenever possible. 

• Learn Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation (CPR). In the time it might take for paramedics to arrive, your CPR skills could make a difference in someone’s life.

It doesn’t matter if your kids eat high fructose corn syrup, artificial sweeteners, and drink from plastic water bottles.  They’ll live if they watch too much tv or if they’re addicted to the Real Housewives or watch movies with inappropriate violence or language. Breast vs. bottle, cry it out vs. rock to sleep, vaccinate vs. delay — these over-debated and proselytized issues will not make a dramatic difference in our children’s life expectancies.  But please, please, teach your children how to swim or they can die.

I’ve heard all the excuses as to why parents don’t enroll their kids in swim lessons:

• But they are afraid of the water. That won’t keep them away from it or prevent them from accidentally falling in it.
• They’ll cry/scream. They will get over it.  And so will you.
• It costs too much money and/or we just don’t have the time. If you have the time and money to shuttle your kids to dance, gymnastics, soccer, and karate you can get them to swim lessons.
• But we don’t have a pool.  Chances are there is at least one in your neighborhood or you live near a body of water or you take trips to the lake or the beach.
• We forgot this year but we’ll do it next summer.  You may not have until next summer….

All parents know to teach their kids how to look both ways before crossing the street, not to talk to strangers, to stay away from the stove, not to play with matches. But far too many loving and otherwise competent parents neglect to teach their children one of the most basic survival skills.

Be vigilant. Be safe. I beg you, I implore you, please…you MUST teach your children how to swim.  Give them a fighting chance.
  
To find swim lessons near you:
 SwimLessons.com
American Red Cross
YMCA
USA Swimming
Infant Swimming Resource

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 I’m ready to be finished with this whole “out of the home working” gig. I have no idea how mothers do this every day, forever. I don’t know if it’s because it’s an evening/night job, or because it eats my time while I’m still expected to do everything else, or because I miss my family, or maybe it’s just the lack of sleep…

Each weekday is a whirlwind as I cram in all of my normal activities (getting everyone ready for school/work, gym, write, edit, blog, laundry, clean, errands, groceries, bus stop, homework, spend a tiny bit of time with family, eat)  before I run out the door by 5:15, fight rush hour traffic, stare at a computer until my eyes glaze over and I give up all hope for the educational system in this country, drive home, and finally collapse into bed. And even though I’m exhausted, I usually need the help of  melatonin to actually fall sleep because I’m so jacked up on all the iced coffee and candy I’ve practically mainlined to stay awake.

And while I do love the satisfaction of actually earning money again and seeing my name on a  paycheck (as little as it may be) I am relieved it is only a temporary position.

I miss my boys.

While this schedule works better for juggling  writing and family management responsibilities, I’m missing the best time of day, the important times of day, with my husband and son.

I’m missing wine-thirty, the couple time Hubby and I spend together in the kitchen each evening.  While I cook dinner, he makes the next days lunches. We talk about our hectic/productive/good/bad days, catch up with each other, and yes, enjoy a glass of wine. It’s our quiet time, a chance for us to push aside our busy days and reconnect.  It’s our therapy,  and I can feel how both of us have more stress buzzing like an electric current through our nerves without this daily release.

I’m missing family dinners.  Yes, we normally eat dinner together every night at home.  When the weather is lovely (as it has been lately) we dine on our porch, our own little alfresco restaurant.  The pool sounds like a tranquil fountain,  some Jack Johnson, Coldplay, or John Mayer trickles out of the ipod, and we talk. It’s the time of day when Kiddo may finally volunteer some random information about his day, (because you know when I ask how his day went earlier, all I got was a “fine”), when he allows an “Oh, and I’m in the county art show,” or “And when I was sent to the vice principal’s office today…” Time we need to connect.

so little

so big

I’m missing Kiddo’s bedtime. Getting him down hasn’t been an issue for many years, so bedtime isn’t dreaded around here. We snuggle up and read for a half-hour or so. It used to be all me reading to him, but now he reads to me.  Sometimes we trade off, depending on the difficulty of the book.  Lately, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets just sits forgotten on his nightstand. Last night I picked one of our old favorites, Stellaluna. The waves of nostalgia fluttered over me soft as baby bat wings as he curled up beside me. I tried to read it all to him, though I still know most of the words by heart, but he insisted on reading half of it to me.

my shoe vs. 8-yr-old’s shoe

 So big, so fast.  Hot pricks of tears sting my eyes when I realize how little time like this I have left. He’ll be nine in the fall. Nine. Boys don’t want to snuggle with their moms much older than that, do they?  Yesterday I passed along a pair of my water shoes to him.  I haven’t been able to find any in his size.  They were a men’s size small and big big on him, but not by much, a finger width, a pinky toe length.

 I hate missing one night with him, one second that he still wants to spend with me.  I see the sand in our hourglass funneling down at a breathtaking speed.

And, of course I miss quite time with my Hubby after Kiddo is in bed. Being the quiet old farts that we are, we just read (and good God, I miss reading), while the TV mostly provides some subtle background noise. But we are together, beside each other, there for each other. Connected.

I’ll admit, I’ve been taking my Hubby for granted, giving what little time and attention I have to Kiddo. I shouldn’t, I know, but I’m greedy for any moments I can get with my son. I watch him drawing closer to his own independent world, a world without me, and I’m afraid of missing any special moment I can get.  I know my Hubby will always be there for me, right?  I’ve got another 50 years with him, but my son…damn, it makes me weepy just thinking about it, and I’m not a weepy kind of girl…

And then there’s the guilt factor.  Kiddo  hugs me a dozen times before I leave, chases me out to the car with kisses, asks why I have to leave them and go off to a silly old job anyway.  Stay home with us, he pleads, his eyes all puppy dog, his lower lip out pouting, begging.  Please don’t leave me.  Just yank on those heart strings a little more, Kiddo. I can’t tell him the only reason I took this job is because of him. Well, his very expensive mouth, that is. Days before this position opened up we were informed that he’d need round two of braces and oral surgery this summer, another round NOT covered by our dental insurance. {sigh} I’m being proactive, taking care of my family, right? I will not lay that guilt at his rapidly growing feet. Instead, each day I must placate him with more of the many white lies we parents must tell.

Less than three weeks left. I can do it. We can do it.

Today was supposed to be a day like any crazy/normal day: too much to do in far too little time, a new schedule, a new job, and I longed to sneak in some quality time without too much stress or drama.  Our early morning flowed smoothly, and Kiddo and I held hands as we walked down our sleepy street.

Once the school bus pulled away, once we saw all those little hands wave good-bye at us through the tinted windows, a few us exchanged our usual morning chatter. Except today was a little different.

I’m so glad I saw people here at the bus stop. I wasn’t sure any of the kids were going to school today.

But it wasn’t a teacher work day? Spring break had long passed. Why wouldn’t they be going to school?

Well, the shooting…some kid threatened to do a Columbine at the school…

I was suddenly wide awake.

That mom saw something on Facebook last night, just another news thread or rumor flying through cyberspace faster than a speeding bullet.  I hadn’t seen anything yet. I’d been focusing on fixing breakfast and packing lunchboxes, tying shoes and sneaking in some snuggle time.

I hurried home, more curious than concerned. There was nothing on our local newspaper website. Ditto on a quick skim of the television news sites.  My TV screen just replayed footage of the space shuttle flying piggy-back on its final journey and local traffic snafus.  What shooting?

I finally found a snippet, a short one minute video, on some third-rate news site.

 Last fall, a student at our high school threatened to walk into the lunchroom and start randomly shooting. A fellow student told his parents about the threats, the parents called the cops, and the potential shooter was arrested. He said he’d been bullied as a freshman. He’d been inspired by Columbine. The attack was planned for three days before the Columbine anniversary. Today.

The 18-year-old was charged with attempted felony murder as well as written threats to kill or do bodily harm; he was booked at the county jail months before his diabolical plan could come true.  Perhaps that’s why I just glossed over the story — I didn’t hear about it until after he’d been arrested, after he’d been taken out of the picture, and the police swore our children would be safe and protected.

He was subsequently expelled.

However, this morning’s harried research unveiled that prosecutors decided not to charge him with a crime. They decided he never took steps to actually commit murder and they found no weapons or ammunition in his home. They also said that since his threats were not directed at anyone in particular, they did not rise to the level of a written threat.  His neighbor swore he was just an average boy-next-door, just another normal kid living in our quaint little suburbia.

That boy-next-door was arrested again in March for trespassing. He just walked into one of his old classrooms and took a seat. Such a simple act, yet the ease at which he could do it sends shivers down my spine.

He’s free now, today, the day of his proposed massacre.

I’m scared. No, whether rational or not, I’m terrified.

You see, my son’s elementary school is just across the street.

These things aren’t supposed to happen around here.  We bought our home a decade ago partially due to the prime school district, a vital consideration long  before we ever started trying for a child. The highly rated high school looks like a small community college campus, with sprawling brick buildings sheltered below mature oak trees. It’s nestled between a little white church and a shuttered sub shop.  Even with the recession, most of the cars in the student parking lot are far more luxurious than my own. It was supposed to be a good, safe school.

And today, my baby, my only child, will go about his day on his relatively open elementary school campus within spitting distance of this threat.  I’m tempted to go and eat lunch with him, so I can sit with my eyes glued to the cafeteria door, the unmanned door, that squeaky old metal door anyone could walk right through. Anyone. I  mapped out the exits in my mind — would it be better to dash for the restrooms or try and hide in the kitchen, cowering behind industrial cabinets, a la Jurassic Park? Would I shout to save all the children, put myself in harms way to shepherd them to safety, or would I just snatch my own child and scurry away? I’m not a hero; I’m just a mother desperately in love with her son. I don’t want these thoughts, they don’t belong in my protected little world, but I don’t know how to smother them.

After I hit the gym this morning, I just couldn’t stop myself: I cruised by the schools. Both campuses looked quiet and serene on this sunny morning.  Though another article I read said local police would be providing extra security today, I saw no hint of anything amiss.  The high school parking lot wasn’t full; how many parents kept their kids home today?  Stopped at the light between the two schools, I fought the urge to march into the front office and whisk my baby home to safety. How could I leave him there just yards from the scene of a potential massacre?  How easy would it be for the devil to march across the narrow street?

How much can we really protect our children?

Not five minutes ago I stepped out of the shower and heard sirens in the distance. It’s lunchtime. Panic welled within; I swallowed it back, bitter as bile. On the TV, smiling news anchors discussed gym memberships and doggie day cares. Nothing devastating could be going on two miles away, just feet from my baby, right? 

No one warns you about this kind of thing before you become a parent. The unthinkable. The unimaginable. When I finally see my baby dash off the bus this afternoon, relief will wash over me like a cool shower on a sweltering August day. I’ll be counting the hours.

My baby has to have surgery. Again.

Oral surgery, and my baby is eight, but it stinks all the same.

Last Wednesday he bounced from the school bus in a pretty good mood, as Wednesday is early release day followed by a park playdate.  While walking home, he mentioned that he had a bump in his mouth. We paused and I peeked. Sure enough, the area where he had oral surgery in September was swelling up again. Again. Freaking Peachy.


(To read why he had surgery to remove his Supernuemray Teeth and the Hell we went through, read here.)

I didn’t write about how Kiddo’s mouth became horribly infected in December. The gums under his incision scar first looked like it formed a blister. Then it swelled up, formed a head like an erupting tooth, and exploded, all in about two days. I took pictures, but I will not gross you out with them.  I was scared to death. The oral surgeon put him on some nasty and hard to find antibiotics, and supposedly he would be fine.

That was a week before Christmas.  The infection has returned. Apparently, he is NOT fine.

As soon as I raced through the door Wednesday afternoon, I called the oral surgeon. We had just been there the week before. We had been at the orthodontist the day before.  I fell into a near panic when the surgeon’s office gave me a run-around, trying to say I needed a new referral and they had to make phone calls and. . . I called the orthodontist, they were right around the corner. Someone had to see my baby, someone had to give us that antibiotic prescription. After some more confusion, we had an appointment for the oral surgeon the next day.

So, Thursday afternoon, after an x-ray and inspection, the surgeon determined that Kiddo’s mouth was indeed infected. Again. And it shouldn’t be.

“You need to give me another sleepy shot and go in and fix it,” Kiddo told him.

 I laughed.

“You know, I think that’s exactly what we’re going to have to do,” the doctor said.

I stopped laughing.

Friday morning, we get to go through it all again. They are going to cut his gums open and try to clean out whatever funk crept into the wound last time. Thank God Kiddo doesn’t remember the last time.  He took Atavan the night before and the morning of the surgery to make him groggy and cause the day fade into a haze. We’ll have to put the numbing cream on for areas for the I.V. — the numbing cream that didn’t do a damn thing last time, because he screamed and cried when they stuck the needle in. I cried as I held him down.  I can only hope I won’t have to carry him out the door after he wakes from the anesthesia, hysterical, unable to understand why he feels that way again. I won’t have to sit with him in the backseat of the car as he pleads for water, though I can’t quench his thirst, for his mouth is numb and swollen.  I know I’ll lay with him in his bed all day, help him through his frustrations as he tries to fight his way out from under the veil of anesthesia, nausea, hunger, and pain.

He is an amazing patient, brave, uncomplaining, and far tougher than I would be.

And I totally don’t want to put him through this again.

On the surface, he is thrilled he gets to miss school next Friday. He missed school last Friday because I was afraid his gums would rupture, and the school wouldn’t know how to deal with it/drain it before I could get there. It didn’t pop. We waited all day Saturday. No pop. Sunday. Still nothing. Picked him up early from school Monday. Waited. Watched. Finally got some action (at bedtime, of course). We’ll see how it goes.

Can you tell he didn’t want to go to school?

Oh, and did I mention that sometime in the not so distant future he is going to have to have surgery AGAIN?  And braces? Not for teeth straightening — that set is still a few years away. I can’t think about that yet, we just have to get though this week. Again.

Sometimes being a parent is gut-wrenching and harder than ever imagined. Sometimes it’s grand. My guts are exhausted and sore today, still recovering from a rough week.

My  baby had surgery last week. Granted, it was oral surgery, and my baby will be eight in a few weeks, but scalpels, sedation, stitches, and extractions are serious enough business in this house to liquefy my insides with worry.

Surprisingly, this story starts not long after Kiddo was born.  He had a little notch in his lip, like a small dent or scar, which was sometimes very noticeable and sometimes not.  Occasionally people would ask what he did to his lip — a fall? Toddling accident? Slip in the tub?

The answer was none of the above.

As his teeth came in there was a slight gap right behind the lip notch and a faint line on his gums. His pediatrician finally diagnosed it as a slight cleft lip, the result of an amniotic band. Nothing to worry about, he said, it could have been MUCH worse (a cleft palate), and he could refer us to a plastic surgeon to fix it up.

When I looked up the plastic surgeon’s websites, all I saw was ads for breast enlargement and face lifts. I decided to wait and see what happened as he grew. I made the right choice, and now it is barely noticeable. If he wants to undergo surgery for a faint scar someday, that will be his choice, but I was NOT about to put my toddler through unnecessary surgery.

Flash forward five or so years…

An x-ray during a routine dental cleaning reveals severe crowding on Kiddo’s top jaw with no room for an adult tooth to come down; we get an immediate referral to the Orthodontist. After $1000 we leave the ortho’s office with an appointment to get an expander put in his mouth and a referral to an Oral Surgeon: the panoramic x-ray showed  two extra teeth on his bottom jaw. These supernumerary teeth were crowded in together, like shark’s teeth.

And they would have to come out.

And get this: even though this surgery was the result of a birth defect, it is not covered by medical insurance. Yes, I called and begged and tried. I got some sympathy, but no coverage.

Our dental insurance would pay for part of the surgery, but not the $350 CAT scan x-ray the oral surgeon insisted upon, and, get this, NOT the anesthesia.  It is not considered “medically necessary” to knock out a 7-year-old when cutting open his mouth, digging and ripping out at least two teeth well below the gum line, and stitching him up. I disagreed. The surgeon did as well (and would not attempt the surgery without Kiddo being out cold) yet insurance said we had to cough up the $500.

Have I mentioned that I hate insurance companies?

I did my best to stay calm and optimistic around Kiddo in the time leading up to the surgery. He knew he was going to get a “sleepy shot” then wake up and it would all be over. He stayed pretty calm (partly because he was excited to miss two days of school). I was a wreck. I bought every soft food I could think of: five flavors of smoothie mix, a dozen soups, mashed potatoes, pudding, mac & cheese, ice cream,  apples sauce, yogurt.  I couldn’t sleep I was so riddled with worry, but I kept smiling in front of the patient.

The night before we gave him the prescribed Atavan, supposedly to make him foggy and not tense. They should have prescribed one for me.

The morning of surgery he was loopy and happily watching t.v.  I rubbed the Tergaderm cream on his inner elbows and tops of his hands, to numb the areas for before the “sleepy shot.” I gave him another Atavan.  He seemed fine — this was going too easy (for him) — then he started crying and pleading with us not to make him go.

We had to carry him to the car, and I sat in the back seat with him, attempting to distract him and wiping away his tears of fright.

Once in the office he sat curled in my lap like an over-sized infant until we were called back. The dental chair DID look scary. He started getting hysterical, begging us to take him home. We had to hold him down while they injected the IV. Then were escorted out. My heart broke.

After an hour of waiting, we were told the surgery went very well, and he was awake and ready for us. I expected a groggy boy. Instead I found a hysterical mess. I scooped him up and carried him to the car as he begged for water. His mouth was numb and the drugs were not agreeing with him. He couldn’t understand what was going on. My insides twisted like a dish towel watching his misery and confusion.

He was drugged  up, nauseous, and miserable until about six o’clock that day.  Then, as if some good witch waved her magic wand, my strong, funny little boy emerged from his fog.  He begged for some food and stories. He turned chatty and full of swollen smiles. I was able to exhale. He was going to be okay.

The tooth fairy got fleeced at our house that night. Five teeth netted Kiddo enough to buy a few Lego sets the next day. My fridge is still loaded with mushy foods he rejected, but that’s just fine.

Today he goes back to school. At the bus stop he started a heated game of tag, all smiles and full of energy. My baby is back. He will be fine.

And so will I.

Today, parenting will be grand, right?

Her name was Ava Grace, and she wasn’t meant to be…

The name was not definite— it could have been Mia or Sera or Julia or even Jack—but from the moment I felt her blooming within me, I imagined her every detail. Strawberry blond pigtails bounced as she giggled at tickly belly kisses; a smattering of inevitable freckles danced across her nose; dimpled hands grasped a pink blanket, her fingers working the silky fabric as she drifted of to sleep. She was radiant…and she was mine.

My vintage Barbies, Cabbage Patch Kids, and even an antique Betsy-Wetsy doll would decorate her nursery. Below her ruffled dresses, Band-aids would plaster her constantly scraped knees, for after she spent hours lost in magical storybook worlds, she’d tear through our garden searching for faireis hidden amidst the sunflower stalks and rose blooms.

She was real—the tangible, thriving child of my dreams—then she was gone.

Three times I let her slip away. My body failed her. My love wasn’t strong enough to bind her to me, to keep her alive. Somehow I just couldn’t make her be.  Though technically it was never my fault, my guilt is a scar that will never truly fade.

When you have one healthy, amazing child no one seems to understand that fortune may not fall on you again. An uncomfortable shrug and downcast eyes became my only response to the constant questioning about when we were going to provide our son with a sibling. Losses were brushed aside as savage words bit to the bitter core.

You already have one child—there’s no reason you can’t have more. It’s just not in God’s plan right now. There must have been something wrong with it. You don’t really want another mouth to feed, do you?  It’s for the best. God will give you another baby when you are ready.  It’s so early it’s not a big deal. It’s not like it was a “real” baby you had held or anything…

The wait consumed me each month. Days ticked by in a blur as I obsessed about recreating her, dreamed I was worthy of breathing life into her tiny cells. Fertility drugs sent me teetering to the edge. Prayers went unanswered. What little faith I once held was washed away in a tide of blood.

Constant failure beat me down until I could no longer withstand the jabs of frustration, the gut-punches of hearbreak and grief. I finally broke. A dull husk shivering on the bathroom floor was all that remained. I surrendered while my shattered spirit still had a chance to piece itself back together.

Life goes on, forever fluid as a river, at times flooding my heart with joy, yet occasionally still receding, leaving me brittle and barren. There will always be a lingering part of my soul adrift. A glimpse of a shy smile on a little girl in a crowd, graceful laughter carried in on the breeze—that could have been her.

In time, I chose to declare peace with the past so I could embrace my family’s future. I chose to find grace in the bounty of beautiful moments life granted me instead of lamenting what had been denied. Our threesome may not be all I had longed for, but it is complete, and it is enough.

Her name was Ava Grace, and her soul was not meant for this world.