Sometime around my birthday (January 28, mark your calendar), I telephoned my doctor’s office to make an appointment.  The appointment scheduler informed me that I would be considered a new patient since I hadn’t visited the doctor in awhile.  That is the penalty one gets for being healthy.  (Remember, I have tried in vain to catch the pandemic sweeping the world, however, the Swine Flu eludes me.)

So, the next available appointment for a “new” patient was July 13.  Today.

I dread visiting the doctor because a visit involves two unpleasant realities:

1) Standing on a scale in front of a stranger;

2)  Appearing naked in front of a stranger.

However, I am a grown-up, a grown-up in dire need of some preventative care.  If I were a car, my oil would have run dry and my tires would be totally deflated.  Also?  I’d have no gasoline and my filters would be filthy.

I arrived on time for my doctor’s appointment.

The nurse escorted me to the scale.  Fun times were had by all except me.

Then she said, “And why are you here?”

I couldn’t even begin to imagine.  I said, “Um, I can’t remember.  I made the appointment a long time ago . . . ”

She led me to the exam room and clicked onto the computer in search of information.  Why was I there?  “You are here to establish new patient care.”   I explained that it had been, well, seven years since my annual routine test that all women are required (by law?  by decree?) to get.  She shook her head and said maybe I’d have to make another appointment since the doctor didn’t have time to do a physical exam.

I was pretty sure I just wanted a routine check-up.  I thought that’s what I asked for.  Well.

The nurse kicked my tires, checked my oil levels, took my blood pressure.

The doctor finally breezed in.  She looked at me and said, “You’re listed as a new patient but I know you!”

So I explained that I’m never sick and that I think I last visited the office in 2006–she checked and it was really October 2005, but let’s not quibble.  She was quite alarmed that I hadn’t had my annual test since . . . 2002.  And she asked about that mammogram she told me to get in 2005.  Yeah, well, I never got around to that, either.

That’s how I ended up naked on the exam table getting a physical exam even though I was only scheduled for a chit-chat.   And while she was doing unspeakable things, we began to speak about our church (Mars Hill) and pastor (Mark Driscoll).  There is something a little disconcerting about having a normal conversation while someone is doing that particular thing, but I guess it’s better to pretend that we are both clothed and having tea than for us to focus on reality which is so bizarre, if you ask me.  Please, do not ask me.

I got a tetanus shot.  She declared that everything seemed fine.  No immediate suspicion that I will keel over dead anytime soon of a dread disease.  She sent me down the hall for blood draws.  Two vials, no fainting.

Now, I just need to call to make that mammogram appointment.  I need to do it this week before I let that paper drift to the bottom of the pile of papers that I ignore.

I wish I could just detach them and send them to the lab on their own.  I really, really do not want to escort them to the mammogram place, but since I am the one with a driver’s license, I guess I have to drive them.  (And by “them”, of course, I mean The Girls.  Let us not speak of them again.  They are shy.)

Also?  I am going to pretend that  I did not hear the word “colonoscopy” today.  I am so not interested in getting old enough to require that particular procedure.

Tomorrow:  Taking the 11-year old and 6-year old to the dentist.  I’m telling you–the fun just does not STOP around here.  Don’t be jealous.

Last Monday, I drove to Long Beach, Washington, by myself.  In a car half-full of essentials to get me and my family through a week of fun and frivolity at the beach.  The man I have been married to for almost twenty-two years has finally noticed that solitude soothes me and also, he wants me to finish writing The Novel.  So, he sent me to the beach a full day and a half before bringing the children and meeting me there on Wednesday.

The cabin at the beach has no telephone, no television, and no Internet.  I did have a radio with a talk-radio station which I turned on from time to time.  My husband suggested I not broadcast that our house would be empty (available for robbery, just help yourself) for a week, so I didn’t mention I’d be going.  Did you miss me?

This may be one vacation that doesn’t leave me in serious need of a vacation.  That’s because the children stayed for three days, then left me alone for another twenty-four hours.  Then I drove home alone–and despite the abundance of rain and traffic, I was in the car by myself and thus, did not return home frazzled and screaming.

While at the beach I strolled along the shore, scanning the sand for sand dollars.  I always look at Long Beach, even though whole sand dollars are rare–and my patience and determination paid off on the second day just as I told myself that I’d have to turn around and head back.  And there it was:  a perfect, round sand dollar.  I like to think that God tucked it there into the sand, just for me.

I also drove to the end of the Long Beach peninsula to a state park.  I parked in the lonely parking lot, wondered if perhaps I’d be mangled by a crazed killer, told myself that was crazy and took off down the path where I encountered swarms of crazed mosquitoes.   A half a mile into the 2.3 mile trek, I gave up and returned to the parking lot where I was relieved to find my car windows unshattered and the blacktop free of those who wish me harm.

I fired up my computer and added more words to my fledgling novel.  I brought my total up to 28,500 words–far short of the goal, but fortunately I’m not close enough to my deadline to panic.

I rented a DVD for a dollar and watched “Bride Wars.”

I walked on the beach again.  And again.  But I never found another sand dollar.  I did find a shore bird stranded on the shore.  His black body contrasted with his white eyelids which he blinked.  He rocked on his belly as if he were on an exercise ball.  Once, he got enough momentum going that he stretched out his wings and flapped enough to fly six feet.  Then he plopped back onto his downy belly and blinked.

I hope he didn’t die.  I don’t know enough about shore birds to know whether he was running away from home or whether he’d been abandoned or whether he’d fallen from the sky like a meteor.

When my family arrived on Wednesday, I determined to be fully present with them.  So, I did not write while they were at the cabin.  I took them for walks on the beach.  We took them thrift-store shopping, pinball playing, arcade-game playing, gift-store shopping.  I taught them how to play “Spoons” and we played an outdated version of “Outburst.”  (My categories would usually be something like “NFL Superbowl Losers” and “Television Shows from the 1950s that Melodee Has Never Heard of Before.”  They’d get “Things That Start With B” and “Items Found in a Wallet Store.”)

We climbed 69 stairs to the top of a lighthouse.  We climbed a long upward path to a second lighthouse.  We went swimming at an indoor pool.

The last afternoon we carried paraphernalia to the beach for some old-fashioned sand castle building.  The wind blew and blew–more ferociously than any other day of the week.  No matter.  Grace stood in her swimming suit at the edge of the surf.  Zach and Adam dug and rearranged sand into a castle.  I sat huddled in my beach chair, hood pulled over my hair, wind pushing sand into every seam of my clothes and every crevice of my bag.  Magazine reading?  Totally out of the question.  (Oh, and we had kites–easy to fly kites–and it was too windy for them.  The larger kite flew itself right out of my 16-year old’s hands–he ran over to report that he lost it–and then a boy up the beach retrieved it from the grassy dune.)  The boys had a great time with their sand castle–and then we sat for an hour, bundled in our beach towels, waiting for the tide to come and destroy their architecture.  And alas, the tide was too low to damage the castle.  In fact, the next day, the castle still stood.

By the last day, there were two or three extra boys in the bunk room downstairs playing video games.  (A neighboring family in the neighboring cabin.)  Figures.

My family left on Saturday morning.  I cleaned in their wake, vacuuming up sand, finding stray socks under beds, doing laundry, scrubbing toilets, washing floors . . . we stay in a cabin with a great price, but that means we have to clean up for the next guests.  After doing most of the cleaning, I drove into town, bought a potato for dinner, then returned to the cabin for another stroll down the beach.

I read a book and a half, several magazines and enjoyed the feeling of silence and completely empty brain.  Then I wrote another 500 words and slept fitfully.

I cleaned up the rest of the cabin this morning, loaded up my car, found my place in a long string of cars leaving the beach on the two lane road.  Rain and traffic slowed me down, but eventually, I arrived home where I repeated the process:  unload the car, clean and report for duty in the laundry room.

[I wrote this in a hurry because the family wants to play Spoons.  I hope it made sense.]

My husband is one of those enviable people who literally clears off his desk at the end of the day.  Alas, I am not that kind of person.

Instead, within a few inches, I can touch the following items while sitting at my desk, working on my laptop.  (I am one of those people who must work at a desk, even though my laptop is portable.  As it turns out, I, myself, am not portable.)

The Items I Can Easily Reach:

Ziploc bag containing debit card, driver’s license, various receipts from today’s Wild Waves adventure, seasons passes to Wild Waves, coins.

iPhone

Digital camera

Large fake pink diamond.  By large, I mean “the size of an apple.”

Thesaurus.

Coupon for $10 off any item at Famous Footwear, expired yesterday.

Stack of important papers I cannot seem to file, including kindergarten homework, magazines, expired coupons and Pampered Chef catalog.  And more.

Desk calendar.

Candy necklace.

Watch.

Scattering of sticky-notes.

Two painted rocks.

Uni-ball Signo pen, the only pen worth writing with.

Red bandana folded into a square which I use as a coaster so my icy drinks do not sweat on my desk.

Cheap plastic headband from Dollar Store.

Jacks and two rubber balls.

Lid to Snapple.

Basket full of bills.

Pottery full of pens and pencils, Ticonderoga only, thank you.

Beard trimmer.

Expired YMCA cards.

Television remote control.

Pack of thank-you notes.

You should know that all of these items do not belong to me.

* * *

Today I took two of my kids and two of their friends to Wild Waves.   There were easily three times the number of people in the park this week compared to last week.  I blame the gorgeous weather.  My left shoulder is inexplicably sunburned.

Last week, one of the kids I brought with me (not my kid), left his backpack sitting on a lounge chair three chairs away from mine.  Even as I sat there reading, it was stolen.  STOLEN!  I couldn’t believe it.  I had the boys check Lost & Found, just in case.  (I am weirdly optimistic at the craziest, most inappropriate times.)  No backpack.

Some time later, I happened to glance up just as a burly police officer walked by swinging a familiar-looking backpack.  I ran after him and asked about the backpack.  Sure enough, it had just been “found.”  He told me the boys could claim it at Lost & Found.

Which we did, later.  Turns out that someone had been stealing quite a lot of backpacks.  I could not believe how lucky we had been–not only had his backpack turned up without anything but two quarters missing, but during the first hour of the afternoon, I’d left my own bag tucked under a lounge chair–with my iPhone, cash, debit card, and MORE in the bag.  I’d learned a lesson without actually losing anything valuable–other than my belief in the goodness of my fellow waterpark visitors.

Today, fast forward to today.  One week later.

I rented a locker and did not leave my belongings unattended even for a second.

At some point, I looked up from my book and noticed a King County Sheriff and two security guys walk past.  A bit later, I looked up again and saw the same burly police officer from a week ago escorting a handcuffed woman out of the park–the same woman that was said to be stealing the week before.  I have never been so delighted to see someone in handcuffs.  [Insert your own joke here.]  And then came along three security guards and the sheriff who carried a backpack.

All that to say . . . well, you can’t trust anyone.  Also?  What is WRONG with people?

2)  I can see your butt crack.  Pull up your suit.

3)  Your pants are falling down!  Also?  I can see your underpants!

4)  You’re sitting in the path.  Seriously.  That’s the path.  Hello?  Do you park your car in intersections, too?

All in all, another successful outing.  I hope my kids remember this!

Because I deeply love my children, I will be appearing in a bathing suit at Wild Waves tomorrow even though the high temperature is expected to reach only 73 degrees.

Sometimes, I remember that I am a supporting cast member in the story of my children’s childhoods.  True, I am the star in my own life and believe me, if tomorrow were about me, I would lounge around reading a book, not schlepping up a set of stairs with a giant inflatable raft balanced on my head or shivering around the “Lazy River” attempting to avoid the waterfalls.  Tomorrow, I will be appearing as “Mother” in their memories.  And I’m pretty sure that my current weight will not be the thing they remember.

Then again, maybe it will and I will be mortified in twenty years when my grown children say, “Oh, remember the time Mom took us to the waterpark and she was SO FAT?”  And then they will make faces of disgust and I will be mortified.

But I hope they will only remember having fun.

We returned home from church at about 2:00 p.m.  I immediately set about cleaning up my kitchen.  Once the dishes were all washed, I peeled potatoes in preparation for dinner so we could have mashed potatoes with the roast cooking in the Crock Pot.  Then I decided to cut up the cantaloupe.  Then I thought I should clean and cup the tops off the strawberries.  I followed that by washing and chopping a head of iceberg lettuce and two bunches of Romaine lettuce.  I boiled three eggs.  Then, as a final flourish to my exemplary homemaking, I decided to bake banana bread using my Martha Stewart cookbook.

My husband suggested that I go to a movie while he took the kids to football conditioning.  We talked about it and I decided on a 5:00 p.m. showing of “The Proposal.”  (I had to work tonight at 9 p.m.)  Perfect.

While the bread was baking, I rushed upstairs to help my daughter clean her disaster of a bedroom.  It was truly horrible, but we managed to find a place to stash all her stuffed animals.  My secret hope was that I would find her missing Nintendo DS.  Which I did.  Because I rock.  It was zippered into a small backpack which was shoved into the bottom of a toybox under a dozen stuffed animals.  It’s been missing for weeks, maybe months.

The stove buzzer rang.  My son hollered upstairs to let me know.  I ran downstairs, pulled out the banana bread.  It looked perfect.  Then I lost my mind.  Completely.

I lost my mind because I looked at the clock and it was 4:30 p.m., the time I had intended to be already on my way to the movie.  So, without further ado, I got out a cooling rack so I could let the banana bread cool.   Then I stupidly decided to remove it from the pan by dumping it upside down.  The loaf fell into a steaming clump of banana bread onto the rack.  The bottom of the pan retained the bottom of the bread.  Oops.

Then I realized I hadn’t boiled the potatoes to accompany the roast.  In fact, I had no idea it was so late.  I’d been lost in a time warp of stuffed animals and old stickers and markers and doll clothes and blankets.

So, in one fell swoop, I lost my Suzy Homemaker badge.  I ran upstairs to inform my husband that I didn’t get the potatoes cooked or mashed and that I ruined the banana bread but just leave it because it might be okay anyway and bye I have to run or I’m going to be late and sorry I didn’t get dinner quite done.

The movie (“The Proposal”)  was good.

When I got home, I cut the banana bread into chunks.  I made mashed potatoes.

Another weekend gone in flash.  And I handled it with my usual measure of grace and competence.

This is our first week of “no school” but it’s been full of activity.  My teenagers leave for camp on Saturday (at 7:00 a.m.!) and I have the responsibility for gathering and packing the odd assortment of items on the packing list.  (Cowboy outfit?  Mask and masquerade outfit?  Outfit which can get so dirty it can be thrown away?  Formal outfit?)

It’s almost like sending them away to a pageant or something!

Also, the camp is in Canada, so because of the laws regarding border crossing, they each had to get a photo identification card at the Department of Motor Vehicles–which is swamped because of the border crossing rules–adults in our state can get an “enhanced” driver’s license, but only at certain DMVs . . . which are the same ones which issue photo identification cards.  When I entered the building with my four children, our number was 74 . . . and they were on 34.  To my utter shock, the kids were well-behaved (and incredibly friendly to an older lady who passed them hard candies–“Nips”) and the boys got their cards within ninety minutes.

I’m vaguely worried about them going to camp for a whole week.  They’ve never been away from home for that long.  I worry that everyone at the camp will be “cool” and they will be excruciatingly uncool and mocked and tormented.  I went to camp only once in my life and found it a socially unpleasant experience.  Plus it was boring.  The camp my boys are going to is gorgeous and luxurious (!) and their youth pastor and friends will be there, too.  But I worry anyway.  It’s in my job description.

Meanwhile, my younger kids are out of school and endlessly bickering.  My daughter has perfected her ability to burst into convincing tears at the slightest provocation.  Today, I said, “What is wrong?” and she lamented through her tears, “Zachary said I was disrespectful and disobedient.”  Earlier in the day they were fighting (she crying, him looking nonchalant) about whether or not she stepped on an ant or a rock.  “Zachary says I stepped on a rock, but it was an ant!”

I might not survive the summer. (Did I mention that last week my son kicked a basketball into the kitchen window?  And that replacement window panes cost $145?)

I have washed so much laundry this week but most of it is unfolded.

Tomorrow, I have to:
Pick up my 11-year old’s yearbook from school (they were delivered a week after school was out);

2)  Exchange some shorts for correct sizes at Old Navy;

3)  Meet husband at Escrow office to sign paperwork;

4)  Wash clothes, pack everything and get boys completely prepared for camp;

5)  Work eight hours;

Summer vacation . . . so relaxing.

At our private pool the other day, six-year old Grace asked me for $1.50 to buy a snack from the vending machine.  She likes the process of choosing a snack and putting in the money more than eating the snack.  Feeling generous, I gave her the dollar bill and two quarters.

She was in the snack shack housing the two vending machines for so long that I finally put down my novel and went to check.  Sometimes the snacks get stuck in the spiral dispenser.  But no, she was just pondering the choices.  She’d been in there about ten minutes.

About five minutes later, she approached my table, clutching two quarters but no snack.

“Where’s your snack?”

“Well, these girls pressed a number and it wasn’t what I wanted and I told them not to but they did.”

The vending machines are the kind where you press the letter and number combination that corresponds to the snack you want.

“They pressed the number after you put in the dollar?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t seem upset, but surprised.  And bewildered.

I, on the other hand, was angry.  “Show me,” I said.

So, we went into the snack shack and she told me again what happened.  I went over it again:  “So, you put in the dollar and then the girls pressed a number?”

“Yes.”

“Where are the Cheetos?”

“They put them on the microwave.”  Sure enough, there behind me were the Cheetos.  I picked them up.  Grace doesn’t even like that kind of Cheetos.

Just then, the girls came into the snack shack doorway.

Two girls, about eight years old.

“Which one of you has a parent here?”  I asked so I would know which one was a member and which one was a guest.

The girl on the left said, “I do.”

“And are you the one who pressed the number after Grace put in her money?”

“It was an accident.”

“An accident.  You just happened to press the number after she put in her dollar?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Well, Grace would not choose this snack.”  I waved the Cheeto package.  “She doesn’t even like this.  She put in the money and you pressed the number just to be mean.”

“No, I wasn’t trying to be mean.”

“Yes, you were.  It was a mean trick to play on her.”

Grace pipes up.  “Mom, it’s okay with me.”

“It’s not okay with me.  Go swim.”  Off she went.

To the culprit:  “Do you want me to go talk to your mom?”

“No!”

“I think you need to apologize to my daughter.  What you did was mean and NOT okay with me.”

I stalked off to my table, deciding not to tell her mother what she’d done.  I would have if the girl had been lippy with me and not repentant.  The little girl came right over to my daughter (who was in the pool) and apologized.  My daughter came up to me a while later and said, “You didn’t need to be so mean to that girl.”

I wasn’t the slightest bit mean.  It would have been mean if I’d taken that child’s money, plugged it into the machine and purchased her something she hated.  It would have been mean if I kicked her in the shins.  But scolding her for doing something that was out of line was my job.  And I take that job very seriously.

My job?  Protecting my kids from bullies, even when they are cute little girls with big eyes wearing swimsuits.  Don’t mess with my kid.

I have a tale to tell.  But I’m too tired.

My daughter “graduated” from kindergarten.  Although it was so sweet, I don’t quite understand kindergarten graduation.  Seems like a newfangled milestone to me.  Was I supposed to get her a car?  Or a pony?

I never had a kindergarten graduation.  I think I’m all right.  Well, okay, maybe that’s an overestimation of my mental health, but still.

Ah, I kid.  I kid because I can.  Also?  I’m going to bed.  (Tomorrow is my son’s last day of fifth grade.  And he doesn’t get to “graduate” from fifth grade.  That seems unfair, right?)

Then I intend to sleep in until September.