May I help you? Are you finding everything you need? It looks like the tag was marked wrong, but I can go ahead and honor the lower price anyway. Statements like these are what attract people to a business. Most national chains have very specific guidelines for customer service, but those guidelines are not always sufficient to compensate for every arrogant teenager who dons their cap. If a business really could anticipate what every teenage employee was going to do, they could start a new business selling their secret.
Last night my wife and I stopped by a widely recognized nationally branded coffee shop that for some reason thinks the terms small, medium, and large are inadequate, so they coined new phrases that mean exactly the same thing, but confuse those of us who don’t drink coffee.
In an effort to keep our marriage strong, we go out on a date once a week. In an effort to keep our dates cheap, we use gift cards that we have collected for various reasons whenever possible.
Last night happened to be a gift card night, so we ended up at a coffee shop and ordered some kind of tall venti hot chocolate. (Whatever that means.) As we sat down in one of the overtly trendy lounge chairs I noticed that, with the exception of one other couple, we were the only customers in the store. The drive-thru line was even quiet, so in my head, I envisioned excellent customer service. Then came the bearded high school barista. Shortly after we were nestled into the enveloping cushions of the overtly trendy lounge chairs, our order was ready. Given the sparse clientele, I assumed that the bearded high school wonder would either bring us our drinks, or at the very least, say something like, “Sir, your drinks are ready.”
Apparently, company protocol trumped common sense for the moment and I heard someone call out something about a grande venti hot chocolate or something along those lines. Whatever it was that he said, it was clear that he was describing the drink he was setting on the counter at the opposite end of the store from where we were sitting. After placing the hot beverage on the counter and shouting out its name, he walked back toward the counter area next to us and began to wipe off some imaginary coffee drips from some sort of silvery looking apparatus.
“I think that must be ours way down there,” I said to my wife.
“Must be,” she said looking around to see who else could have ordered something with a concocted name that involves a vent. After the long walk right past the helpful barista, to retrieve our drinks, we once again settled in for some quality time together. After I had sipped my drink down to about a tall status, I glanced out the window and saw a car drive up and park in the closest spot to the door.
Must be a customer, I thought to myself. As she walked through the door, I expected to see her step up to the counter and order some sort of exotic coffee-type beverage with a shot of grape soda, but she had other plans. Stepping behind the counter, she squealed and giggled as she hugged each of the three male baristas before donning a green apron and acting like she was going to do some kind of work. “Did that employee just take the closest parking spot to to the front door? I asked myself in disbelief.
Now granted, I’ve never worked in a coffee shop, but shouldn’t common sense dictate that employees not park in the best spot? That should be saved for the paying customers. Maybe the reason so many of their ubiquitous stores are closing has nothing to do with the economy and everything to do with a lack of common sense among giddy, self-absorbed teenagers who do their bosses a disservice by showing up to work each day.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
My Wife
I have an amazing wife. Despite my best efforts, it is easy for me to take her accomplishments for granted. Fortunately I am frequently reminded of just how well she compliments me. She fills in the gaps that I leave in my wake while juggling a mountain of responsibilities.
As a junior in college, it became abundantly clear to me that this woman who had trickled into my life was worth vigorously pursuing. I had always known that a checkbook should be balanced, and bank statements were a handy tool for doing so, but I had never actually combined the statements with the balancing act. Instead, each month I carefully filed my statements, in their sealed envelopes, intending to one day make sure all my numbers jived. After dating my future wife for several months, she discovered my file cabinet and shook her head. “Why don’t I come over this weekend and straighten out your records for you,” she suggested. There was no harm in that, so the following Saturday, I pulled my truck out of the garage and spent a couple of hours getting it cleaned up while she crunched numbers.
“I found a few mistakes,” she said once she was done.
“Uh-Oh,” I thought.
“You have about $500 more in your account than you thought,” she said.
That’s it, I thought to myself. This one is a keeper. And instantly I had the first $500 saved up to buy her a ring.
A year later when we got married, we determined that she would stay home and raise any kids we may someday have. We both agreed that this would provide a loving and nurturing environment for our children that would easily surpass the level of care and consistency available through commercial means.
Now eleven years and four kids later I couldn’t be prouder of the commitment my wife has to our kids. In addition to providing a loving and nurturing environment each day, she fills the role of a home-school teacher whose students far out-perform their public school counterparts.
The house is usually clean, but not perfect. While I can appreciate a perfect house, I struggle with what that means in the life of a child. My wife has found perfection, however, in striking a balance between maintaining cleanliness and order, while also allowing our kids to creatively express themselves through hours of building, arranging, and playing with simple toys.
While I am inherently a neat person, I have come to appreciate the days I walk in the door and find the couch cushions arranged on the living room floor with blankets draped across chairs and stuffed animals grazing on the carpet. Those are the days when our kids had the chance to be kids and mom got the chance to tend to some of her other motherly duties.
Sure, there are times she gets frustrated. After reading countless blogs written by self-proclaimed perfect mothers who hide their imperfections behind their keyboards, my wife threatened to start a blog about real moms. “Today I sobbed in my cereal while one of the kids pooped on the floor,” she laughed as she contemplated the text of her hypothetical blog.
Regardless of whether it has been a good day or a bad day, my wife makes it a point to learn from her experiences. After years of evaluating herself as a mom, talking to other moms, reading countless books, articles, and perfect-mom blogs, she has come to one logical conclusion. The only ideas worth trying are the ideas that fit within the mold God used to create her. To try and function outside of that mold would be to deny who she is. And it is that mold that I love.
My wife stays at home and raises our kids. She has a master’s degree and the ability to obtain a great job, but her current occupation is something only she can do. No one could love our kids like she does. No one could care for them like she does. No one could meet their needs the way only their mom can. Other working parents wonder why we would give up so much to have her stay home. I wonder how they can give up so much.
As a junior in college, it became abundantly clear to me that this woman who had trickled into my life was worth vigorously pursuing. I had always known that a checkbook should be balanced, and bank statements were a handy tool for doing so, but I had never actually combined the statements with the balancing act. Instead, each month I carefully filed my statements, in their sealed envelopes, intending to one day make sure all my numbers jived. After dating my future wife for several months, she discovered my file cabinet and shook her head. “Why don’t I come over this weekend and straighten out your records for you,” she suggested. There was no harm in that, so the following Saturday, I pulled my truck out of the garage and spent a couple of hours getting it cleaned up while she crunched numbers.
“I found a few mistakes,” she said once she was done.
“Uh-Oh,” I thought.
“You have about $500 more in your account than you thought,” she said.
That’s it, I thought to myself. This one is a keeper. And instantly I had the first $500 saved up to buy her a ring.
A year later when we got married, we determined that she would stay home and raise any kids we may someday have. We both agreed that this would provide a loving and nurturing environment for our children that would easily surpass the level of care and consistency available through commercial means.
Now eleven years and four kids later I couldn’t be prouder of the commitment my wife has to our kids. In addition to providing a loving and nurturing environment each day, she fills the role of a home-school teacher whose students far out-perform their public school counterparts.
The house is usually clean, but not perfect. While I can appreciate a perfect house, I struggle with what that means in the life of a child. My wife has found perfection, however, in striking a balance between maintaining cleanliness and order, while also allowing our kids to creatively express themselves through hours of building, arranging, and playing with simple toys.
While I am inherently a neat person, I have come to appreciate the days I walk in the door and find the couch cushions arranged on the living room floor with blankets draped across chairs and stuffed animals grazing on the carpet. Those are the days when our kids had the chance to be kids and mom got the chance to tend to some of her other motherly duties.
Sure, there are times she gets frustrated. After reading countless blogs written by self-proclaimed perfect mothers who hide their imperfections behind their keyboards, my wife threatened to start a blog about real moms. “Today I sobbed in my cereal while one of the kids pooped on the floor,” she laughed as she contemplated the text of her hypothetical blog.
Regardless of whether it has been a good day or a bad day, my wife makes it a point to learn from her experiences. After years of evaluating herself as a mom, talking to other moms, reading countless books, articles, and perfect-mom blogs, she has come to one logical conclusion. The only ideas worth trying are the ideas that fit within the mold God used to create her. To try and function outside of that mold would be to deny who she is. And it is that mold that I love.
My wife stays at home and raises our kids. She has a master’s degree and the ability to obtain a great job, but her current occupation is something only she can do. No one could love our kids like she does. No one could care for them like she does. No one could meet their needs the way only their mom can. Other working parents wonder why we would give up so much to have her stay home. I wonder how they can give up so much.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Subtle Messages
What is invisible, comes in infinite varieties, and can be made by anyone? If you said anything other than “smells” your critical thinking skills probably stink. Smells really are an amazing way of conveying information in very subtle ways.
As a father of young children, one smell tells me that it is time to change a diaper, while another smell tells me that last week’s missing sippy cup of milk is very close by. The kids never have to say a word, yet I know so much about them just by sniffing. And if I know that much about my kids just by absorbing their aromas, imagine how well my dogs must know them. Poor guys.
My wife uses smells to communicate with me as well. She has one smell that says, “I just brushed my teeth, you can kiss me now” and anther smell that says, “my hands are dry and I just put lotion on them.” One of my favorite spousal smell scenarios is the “Welcome home, Honey. Dinner’s ready!” smell.
Outside of the home smells abound as well. One way that I communicate with my neighbors is by running by their houses at dinner time. Last night I was out for a jog just as the sun was setting and dinners were coming out of the oven. As I jogged past, one neighbor told me that he was grilling steaks for dinner. Another informed me that they would be having something spicy with an ethnic flare to it. As I ran, I breathed in the diesel fumes of a passing truck and hoped that guy found a new smell soon. Around the corner, another family was definitely dining on the Mexican side of the menu while another had their trash cans out a day early, and for good reason.
I picked up my pace as I raced from house to house sampling their sensational smells. Soon the sweat was building up on me and dripping down my back. My body responded by giving me a smelly message of its own, “Good thing you put that deodorant on.”
A few miles later, I trotted up my driveway and paced up and down it for a few minutes to cool off. The second I opened the door, my two-year-old daughter, in her usual fashion, squealed out for joy as she exclaimed, “Daddy! Did you take a run?”
“Yup, I took a run.”
“Hold me,” she pleaded, her short arms stretched up longing to cling to her daddy.
“But Daddy’s all sweaty right now.”
“Oooh, you're stinky,” she replied and stepped back. Apparently my non-verbal cues had resonated with her and she suddenly lost her need to be held.
Sometimes smells not only send messages to others, but they can bring back memories as well. Have you ever been stuck at a red light behind an old car? I had that opportunity just the other day. Shortly after flipping a U-turn to compensate for the turn I had just missed, I found myself stuck behind an old Volkswagen with 40-year-old fumes dumping out of its tail pipe. The smell, however, was not much different from the smell of the old Ford station wagon that my mom had when I was young. Oh, the good old days were flooding back. Suddenly I was riding backwards in that flip-up jump-seat, my sweaty legs sticking to the black vinyl as my 1981 vintage shorts stretched only an inch or two below my 6-year-old cheeks.
Then before I could start playing with my game watch, the light turned green and I was all of a sudden thrust back into the reality that I was now driving a modern-day wagon of my own with all sorts of kids in the back wanting to go to the zoo where a whole new array of smells was no doubt awaiting me.
As a father of young children, one smell tells me that it is time to change a diaper, while another smell tells me that last week’s missing sippy cup of milk is very close by. The kids never have to say a word, yet I know so much about them just by sniffing. And if I know that much about my kids just by absorbing their aromas, imagine how well my dogs must know them. Poor guys.
My wife uses smells to communicate with me as well. She has one smell that says, “I just brushed my teeth, you can kiss me now” and anther smell that says, “my hands are dry and I just put lotion on them.” One of my favorite spousal smell scenarios is the “Welcome home, Honey. Dinner’s ready!” smell.
Outside of the home smells abound as well. One way that I communicate with my neighbors is by running by their houses at dinner time. Last night I was out for a jog just as the sun was setting and dinners were coming out of the oven. As I jogged past, one neighbor told me that he was grilling steaks for dinner. Another informed me that they would be having something spicy with an ethnic flare to it. As I ran, I breathed in the diesel fumes of a passing truck and hoped that guy found a new smell soon. Around the corner, another family was definitely dining on the Mexican side of the menu while another had their trash cans out a day early, and for good reason.
I picked up my pace as I raced from house to house sampling their sensational smells. Soon the sweat was building up on me and dripping down my back. My body responded by giving me a smelly message of its own, “Good thing you put that deodorant on.”
A few miles later, I trotted up my driveway and paced up and down it for a few minutes to cool off. The second I opened the door, my two-year-old daughter, in her usual fashion, squealed out for joy as she exclaimed, “Daddy! Did you take a run?”
“Yup, I took a run.”
“Hold me,” she pleaded, her short arms stretched up longing to cling to her daddy.
“But Daddy’s all sweaty right now.”
“Oooh, you're stinky,” she replied and stepped back. Apparently my non-verbal cues had resonated with her and she suddenly lost her need to be held.
Sometimes smells not only send messages to others, but they can bring back memories as well. Have you ever been stuck at a red light behind an old car? I had that opportunity just the other day. Shortly after flipping a U-turn to compensate for the turn I had just missed, I found myself stuck behind an old Volkswagen with 40-year-old fumes dumping out of its tail pipe. The smell, however, was not much different from the smell of the old Ford station wagon that my mom had when I was young. Oh, the good old days were flooding back. Suddenly I was riding backwards in that flip-up jump-seat, my sweaty legs sticking to the black vinyl as my 1981 vintage shorts stretched only an inch or two below my 6-year-old cheeks.
Then before I could start playing with my game watch, the light turned green and I was all of a sudden thrust back into the reality that I was now driving a modern-day wagon of my own with all sorts of kids in the back wanting to go to the zoo where a whole new array of smells was no doubt awaiting me.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
A Hairy Day
What do you get when you mix a hair, a toe, and four hospitals all together? It’s hard to even know where to begin, but the short answer is: A very long day. Such a day belonged to our family yesterday. The story is complicated and may seem to last forever, but the majority of these events occurred within a twelve hour period.
The morning had been hectic. We had been packing, cleaning, and scurrying about since the crack of dawn. It was the Saturday of a three day weekend and we were preparing to head out of a town for a camping trip. Since we would be camping, dirty kids were inevitable, so we decided to make sure they were all clean before we left. The three older ones were all bathed sans incident. As I cleaned up the breakfast dishes, my wife bathed the baby.
“Honey,” my wife called to me from the bathroom. “Come look at this.” Not really wanting to be distracted from my task at hand, I reluctantly made my way toward my wife. Upon arrival in the bathroom, I saw one very clean baby boy wrapped in a towel with his little feet sticking out. “Look at his toe, I think there is something wrong,” my wife said.
I glanced down at the questionable digit and quickly deduced that she was indeed right. The best way to describe what I saw was a toe that was falling off. A closer examination revealed a fine strand of hair wrapped in a figure-eight pattern around two toes. On one of the toes, the hair was digging in so tightly that it had sliced through the skin and was nearly to the bone. The brave little guy had never uttered a peep about it to this point, so we had no idea how long it had been in such a condition, but the situation was dire. Parts of the toe were the wrong color and it looked as if the toe would be lost.
Grabbing a pair of scissors and a flashlight, I tried to snip the hair, but the scene was complicated. “I can’t tell exactly where the hair starts and the toe ends,” I said. “It’s too deep. I’m going to call the doctor, but I think we need to get this guy to the ER.” After a brief conversation with the nurse hotline, I was instructed to get to the nearest hospital, as long as it wasn’t Hemet hospital. “But that is the nearest one,” I said.
“That’s not good,” she replied. Hemet’s reputation in the local community is less than stellar, and clearly our health insurance plan agreed. After pecking around on her keyboard for a few seconds, the nurse advised me to go to Rancho Springs, about 40 minutes from our house. Our home hospital, Kaiser Permanente, was about an hour drive and the nurse clearly agreed that time was of the essence.
Fortunately the older kids were mostly dressed, so we threw them in the car and took off for a friend’s house around the corner. As I unloaded my two daughters from the car, I realized that neither had bothered to put shoes on as I had instructed them, but that was the least of my concerns. The beauty of having friends with kids is that there was sure to be an extra pair of shoes laying around the house that would fit them. I pushed my speeds as far as I thought I could without getting pulled over and causing a delay and arrived at the hospital in just under 40 minutes. Fortunately, it was a Saturday morning which also happened to be Valentines day, and the weekend of President’s day. All of these factors combined to create an empty waiting room in the tiny hospital. We were quickly ushered into triage and then assigned an open bed. When the doctor arrived, he asked about the situation and I quickly summed it up. He responded by saying, “Ahh, a hair tourniquet. Well, let’s cut the hair.” That seemed simple enough, so a team quickly assembled to provide light and to restrain the baby. Within seconds, the shrill sounds of a baby in agony filled the small emergency room. The doctor snipped and picked at the injury for about 10 excruciating minutes before informing us that he was going to give the little guy a break and then go back in. “I got a lot of it out and released some of the pressure, but there is still more,” he informed us. After a second round of digging and snipping, he turned to address me and my wife. “Sometimes in these cases,” he said “we have to take them in to surgery and open it up further to make sure we get it all out. It looks like it has gone all the way to the bone and there is a possibility that the tendon has been cut.” Surgery for a hair and a toe? This was indeed getting bizarre. “Since you are with Kaiser, we’ll need to send you there for the surgery,” the doctor informed us. “The good news is that at least it’s not on his pee-pee.”
Soon enough, we were on our way to Riverside, another 45 minutes away. Upon arrival there, we were again quickly given a room and a team of doctors, nurses, and P.A.s all gathered around to see the kid with the hair tourniquet. The orthopedist who had been contacted by the first hospital evaluated him and came to the conclusion that surgery was the best option. “Unfortunately,” she said, “we don’t have a pediatric anesthesiologist on staff here, so we are going to need to transfer him to Fontana.” Okay, another 40 minute drive won’t kill us.
Thirty minutes later, she returned again and informed us that Fontana didn’t have the necessary team of a pediatric orthopedist, pediatric anesthesiologist and pediatrician, so instead we were being transfered to Loma Linda. “I know he is hungry, but don’t feed him anything until after the surgery,” the doctor said before leaving the room one more time.
By this point it was around 2:30 in the afternoon and the last time he had eaten was 1:00. For a two-month-old, this was going to be a long time without so much as a snack. “Does he take a pacifier,” a nurse asked?
“He does now,” I replied. And amazingly, for the first time, he didn’t reject the cork and gladly sucked away. As Justin enjoyed his newfound plug, our wait as interrupted by an announcement on the hospital PA system. “Code Blue, First Floor, Podietry.” From my vantage point, I could see the ER nurse’s station and I have never seen so many confused looks in one place before. “Did they say ‘podiatry’?” they took turns asking each other. “How can you have a code blue in podiatry?” “Sounds like someone’s foot fell asleep again,” one of them said as they all rushed out the door toward the podiatry unit. “Does anyone know where podiatry is?” another asked as the door closed behind him.
An hour later the ER had settled back to normal and Loma Linda had rejected our case. Now the doctor was trying to find a team at Kaiser’s facility in Los Angeles and at Children’s Hospital in L.A. as well Children’s Hospital of Orange County (CHOC). “As soon as we hear back from one of these hospitals, we will send you over,” the nurse told us. Another hour passed and CHOC finally accepted the case.
By now the shift had ended and we had a new nurse. “The ambulance will be here within an hour,” he told us.
“But it is only a 30 minute drive,” I said. “Can’t we just take him ourselves?”
“It’s faster by ambulance,” he replied. I’m good at math, but not a genius, but I think thirty minutes is less than an hour. Fortunately, this guy did have a sense of humor. A few minutes later her returned to the bedside with two cups of red Jell-O. It was close to dinner time, and he must have sensed that we were hungry. “Happy Valentine’s day,” he said. “I figured red was appropriate.”
As with most hospital timelines, the ambulance arrived promptly an hour and forty minutes later. The baby and car seat were strapped to the gurney and my wife went along for the ride while I took our car. After beating the ambulance to the next emergency room, I proceeded to park on the fourth floor of the parking structure and still made it to the ER doors before they took the baby in. So much for the ambulance being faster.
CHOC has an arrangement with a neighboring hospital, so the emergency room and operating rooms are actually at St. Joseph’s hospital. After a brief evaluation by numerous doctors, nurses and residents, each proclaiming the one before a nut, the pediatric orthopedist finally arrived and wheeled little Justin off to surgery. The procedure itself was only about 30 minutes, so it wasn’t long before we were rolling the little guy through an underground tunnel connecting the operating room at St. Joseph’s hospital to the recovery room at CHOC. In case you are counting, this is the fourth hospital of the day, not counting the other four that rejected the case.
Of course, given that our two-month-old son had just been completely knocked out for surgery, they wanted to keep an eye on him overnight. Hospitals are notorious for one thing: not letting anyone sleep. In addition to the baby on the other side of the room crying and nurses coming in and out, someone thought it would be fun to play loud piano music on the PA system from 12:10 a.m. until 12:20 a.m. Sleep was apparently not on the agenda for the evening.
Finally, after a very long night, the doctor came back and gave the nurse permission to start disconnecting the wires and tubes and proclaimed our little guy fit to go home.
After this whole ordeal, I realized the Indians were on to something when they pick their baby names. Maybe it was time to make a slight change to our son’s name. My sister called him Justin Hairy Toes, but I kinda like Just-Ten Toes. I’m sure something will stick.
The morning had been hectic. We had been packing, cleaning, and scurrying about since the crack of dawn. It was the Saturday of a three day weekend and we were preparing to head out of a town for a camping trip. Since we would be camping, dirty kids were inevitable, so we decided to make sure they were all clean before we left. The three older ones were all bathed sans incident. As I cleaned up the breakfast dishes, my wife bathed the baby.
“Honey,” my wife called to me from the bathroom. “Come look at this.” Not really wanting to be distracted from my task at hand, I reluctantly made my way toward my wife. Upon arrival in the bathroom, I saw one very clean baby boy wrapped in a towel with his little feet sticking out. “Look at his toe, I think there is something wrong,” my wife said.
I glanced down at the questionable digit and quickly deduced that she was indeed right. The best way to describe what I saw was a toe that was falling off. A closer examination revealed a fine strand of hair wrapped in a figure-eight pattern around two toes. On one of the toes, the hair was digging in so tightly that it had sliced through the skin and was nearly to the bone. The brave little guy had never uttered a peep about it to this point, so we had no idea how long it had been in such a condition, but the situation was dire. Parts of the toe were the wrong color and it looked as if the toe would be lost.
Grabbing a pair of scissors and a flashlight, I tried to snip the hair, but the scene was complicated. “I can’t tell exactly where the hair starts and the toe ends,” I said. “It’s too deep. I’m going to call the doctor, but I think we need to get this guy to the ER.” After a brief conversation with the nurse hotline, I was instructed to get to the nearest hospital, as long as it wasn’t Hemet hospital. “But that is the nearest one,” I said.
“That’s not good,” she replied. Hemet’s reputation in the local community is less than stellar, and clearly our health insurance plan agreed. After pecking around on her keyboard for a few seconds, the nurse advised me to go to Rancho Springs, about 40 minutes from our house. Our home hospital, Kaiser Permanente, was about an hour drive and the nurse clearly agreed that time was of the essence.
Fortunately the older kids were mostly dressed, so we threw them in the car and took off for a friend’s house around the corner. As I unloaded my two daughters from the car, I realized that neither had bothered to put shoes on as I had instructed them, but that was the least of my concerns. The beauty of having friends with kids is that there was sure to be an extra pair of shoes laying around the house that would fit them. I pushed my speeds as far as I thought I could without getting pulled over and causing a delay and arrived at the hospital in just under 40 minutes. Fortunately, it was a Saturday morning which also happened to be Valentines day, and the weekend of President’s day. All of these factors combined to create an empty waiting room in the tiny hospital. We were quickly ushered into triage and then assigned an open bed. When the doctor arrived, he asked about the situation and I quickly summed it up. He responded by saying, “Ahh, a hair tourniquet. Well, let’s cut the hair.” That seemed simple enough, so a team quickly assembled to provide light and to restrain the baby. Within seconds, the shrill sounds of a baby in agony filled the small emergency room. The doctor snipped and picked at the injury for about 10 excruciating minutes before informing us that he was going to give the little guy a break and then go back in. “I got a lot of it out and released some of the pressure, but there is still more,” he informed us. After a second round of digging and snipping, he turned to address me and my wife. “Sometimes in these cases,” he said “we have to take them in to surgery and open it up further to make sure we get it all out. It looks like it has gone all the way to the bone and there is a possibility that the tendon has been cut.” Surgery for a hair and a toe? This was indeed getting bizarre. “Since you are with Kaiser, we’ll need to send you there for the surgery,” the doctor informed us. “The good news is that at least it’s not on his pee-pee.”
Soon enough, we were on our way to Riverside, another 45 minutes away. Upon arrival there, we were again quickly given a room and a team of doctors, nurses, and P.A.s all gathered around to see the kid with the hair tourniquet. The orthopedist who had been contacted by the first hospital evaluated him and came to the conclusion that surgery was the best option. “Unfortunately,” she said, “we don’t have a pediatric anesthesiologist on staff here, so we are going to need to transfer him to Fontana.” Okay, another 40 minute drive won’t kill us.
Thirty minutes later, she returned again and informed us that Fontana didn’t have the necessary team of a pediatric orthopedist, pediatric anesthesiologist and pediatrician, so instead we were being transfered to Loma Linda. “I know he is hungry, but don’t feed him anything until after the surgery,” the doctor said before leaving the room one more time.
By this point it was around 2:30 in the afternoon and the last time he had eaten was 1:00. For a two-month-old, this was going to be a long time without so much as a snack. “Does he take a pacifier,” a nurse asked?
“He does now,” I replied. And amazingly, for the first time, he didn’t reject the cork and gladly sucked away. As Justin enjoyed his newfound plug, our wait as interrupted by an announcement on the hospital PA system. “Code Blue, First Floor, Podietry.” From my vantage point, I could see the ER nurse’s station and I have never seen so many confused looks in one place before. “Did they say ‘podiatry’?” they took turns asking each other. “How can you have a code blue in podiatry?” “Sounds like someone’s foot fell asleep again,” one of them said as they all rushed out the door toward the podiatry unit. “Does anyone know where podiatry is?” another asked as the door closed behind him.
An hour later the ER had settled back to normal and Loma Linda had rejected our case. Now the doctor was trying to find a team at Kaiser’s facility in Los Angeles and at Children’s Hospital in L.A. as well Children’s Hospital of Orange County (CHOC). “As soon as we hear back from one of these hospitals, we will send you over,” the nurse told us. Another hour passed and CHOC finally accepted the case.
By now the shift had ended and we had a new nurse. “The ambulance will be here within an hour,” he told us.
“But it is only a 30 minute drive,” I said. “Can’t we just take him ourselves?”
“It’s faster by ambulance,” he replied. I’m good at math, but not a genius, but I think thirty minutes is less than an hour. Fortunately, this guy did have a sense of humor. A few minutes later her returned to the bedside with two cups of red Jell-O. It was close to dinner time, and he must have sensed that we were hungry. “Happy Valentine’s day,” he said. “I figured red was appropriate.”
As with most hospital timelines, the ambulance arrived promptly an hour and forty minutes later. The baby and car seat were strapped to the gurney and my wife went along for the ride while I took our car. After beating the ambulance to the next emergency room, I proceeded to park on the fourth floor of the parking structure and still made it to the ER doors before they took the baby in. So much for the ambulance being faster.
CHOC has an arrangement with a neighboring hospital, so the emergency room and operating rooms are actually at St. Joseph’s hospital. After a brief evaluation by numerous doctors, nurses and residents, each proclaiming the one before a nut, the pediatric orthopedist finally arrived and wheeled little Justin off to surgery. The procedure itself was only about 30 minutes, so it wasn’t long before we were rolling the little guy through an underground tunnel connecting the operating room at St. Joseph’s hospital to the recovery room at CHOC. In case you are counting, this is the fourth hospital of the day, not counting the other four that rejected the case.
Of course, given that our two-month-old son had just been completely knocked out for surgery, they wanted to keep an eye on him overnight. Hospitals are notorious for one thing: not letting anyone sleep. In addition to the baby on the other side of the room crying and nurses coming in and out, someone thought it would be fun to play loud piano music on the PA system from 12:10 a.m. until 12:20 a.m. Sleep was apparently not on the agenda for the evening.
Finally, after a very long night, the doctor came back and gave the nurse permission to start disconnecting the wires and tubes and proclaimed our little guy fit to go home.
After this whole ordeal, I realized the Indians were on to something when they pick their baby names. Maybe it was time to make a slight change to our son’s name. My sister called him Justin Hairy Toes, but I kinda like Just-Ten Toes. I’m sure something will stick.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Little Helper
Help is a very valuable thing. We can all think of countless times when we have been in trouble and had to ask for assistance. I actually had this down to a science when I was in college. Our dorms came furnished with a two standard-issue metal framed beds, but no one ever used those. Instead we all built our own loft beds out of lumber from Home Depot. The beds usually consisted of four-by-four posts and two-by-six rails, so they were sturdy beasts.
The drawback to these monsters was that they had to be removed each summer. Predictably, disassembling the bed was often too big a job for just one person. Unfortunately, everyone was so preoccupied with moving their own things out that there was little time to help someone else. I quickly learned, that in order to get enough attention to warrant help, one had to create an emergency. So I would begin the process alone by propping my door open so that I could be heard in the hall and then I would take apart the heaviest, most cumbersome pieces first. Inevitably, I would get something heavy stuck over my head while another piece was tumbling down. This would create quite a racket. It was at this point that I would yell for help and wait for the entire floor to come running to my aid.
Other types of help are appreciated as well, but with trepidation. Perhaps the first time you offered to take your dad’s credit card and fill up the gas tank in his car for him, he was thankful, but nervous. Or maybe you were thankfully scared the time a neighbor got your car running for you with a hammer.
Today, I got some help help that caused me to fear. It all started while I was home from work to grab a quick bite to eat during lunch. I have two beautiful daughters and the four-year-old is quite the mother hen when it comes to her little sister. My ham sandwich had been delicious and I was just about to head out the door when the girls walked on by and Maddie announced that she was going to change Cami’s diaper for us.
“What did she say?” my wife asked me.
“I think she is going to change Cami’s diaper,” I replied. We both stared at each other as the same thought flooded both of our heads at the same time: It sounds nice, but is it a good idea? We must have reached the same conclusion because neither of us moved as we waited anxiously for the result. Deep down inside, we both wanted this idea to work. Just think of the possibilities that could follow if this endeavor were to be a success. We could never have to change another diaper again!
I really needed to get back to work, but I wanted to know how this whole episode would turn out. I didn’t have to wait long. Only moments after the announcement, a voice rang out down the hall. “Mommy! Cami’s poop fell out of her diaper and it’s on the floor!”
“Bye, Honey!” I said. “I really should get back to the office.”
“But, I have to hold the baby,” she stammered as she cradled our newborn and gave me an irresistible look that convinced me to stick around a few more minutes.
Carefully watching my step, I made my way down the hall and found the offending pile. “That was a lot grosser than I thought it would be,” Maddie said to me with a twisted face.
“You’ll get used to it with practice,” I said as I ruffled her hair and got out the carpet cleaner. “You’re a good little helper.”
The drawback to these monsters was that they had to be removed each summer. Predictably, disassembling the bed was often too big a job for just one person. Unfortunately, everyone was so preoccupied with moving their own things out that there was little time to help someone else. I quickly learned, that in order to get enough attention to warrant help, one had to create an emergency. So I would begin the process alone by propping my door open so that I could be heard in the hall and then I would take apart the heaviest, most cumbersome pieces first. Inevitably, I would get something heavy stuck over my head while another piece was tumbling down. This would create quite a racket. It was at this point that I would yell for help and wait for the entire floor to come running to my aid.
Other types of help are appreciated as well, but with trepidation. Perhaps the first time you offered to take your dad’s credit card and fill up the gas tank in his car for him, he was thankful, but nervous. Or maybe you were thankfully scared the time a neighbor got your car running for you with a hammer.
Today, I got some help help that caused me to fear. It all started while I was home from work to grab a quick bite to eat during lunch. I have two beautiful daughters and the four-year-old is quite the mother hen when it comes to her little sister. My ham sandwich had been delicious and I was just about to head out the door when the girls walked on by and Maddie announced that she was going to change Cami’s diaper for us.
“What did she say?” my wife asked me.
“I think she is going to change Cami’s diaper,” I replied. We both stared at each other as the same thought flooded both of our heads at the same time: It sounds nice, but is it a good idea? We must have reached the same conclusion because neither of us moved as we waited anxiously for the result. Deep down inside, we both wanted this idea to work. Just think of the possibilities that could follow if this endeavor were to be a success. We could never have to change another diaper again!
I really needed to get back to work, but I wanted to know how this whole episode would turn out. I didn’t have to wait long. Only moments after the announcement, a voice rang out down the hall. “Mommy! Cami’s poop fell out of her diaper and it’s on the floor!”
“Bye, Honey!” I said. “I really should get back to the office.”
“But, I have to hold the baby,” she stammered as she cradled our newborn and gave me an irresistible look that convinced me to stick around a few more minutes.
Carefully watching my step, I made my way down the hall and found the offending pile. “That was a lot grosser than I thought it would be,” Maddie said to me with a twisted face.
“You’ll get used to it with practice,” I said as I ruffled her hair and got out the carpet cleaner. “You’re a good little helper.”
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Decisions, Decisions
Life really is a lot like a cartoon. We have all seen the little red devil squatting on one shoulder while a white angel hovers over the other. It is the classic struggle between good and evil that lives within each of us.
As a child we usually give in to the devil without even glancing at the angel. As we age, more thought goes in to the decsion-making process and we learn new ways of coping with the devil on our shoulder, and given even more time, we learn to actually focus on the angel. Unfortunately, that does not mean the devil doesn’t still try to make an appearance now and then.
For the last several months, my wife and I have been dealing with one stressful situation after another and, as a result, have gotten lazy about cooking. Quite often, the simple solution has been to grab some kind of take-out dinner or to head out to a restaurant. Unfortunately, this type of lifestyle can’t continue indefinitely as the cost tends to add up.
Yesterday had been a busy day of cleaning up the post-Christmas mess that was consuming our house. The tree was taken down and all the pine needles vacuumed up. The lights were removed from the front of the house and all the decoration were returned to their boxes. In addition to all of that, four hungry children was fed. Four dirty children were bathed and the countless messes they all made throughout the day were tidied up. As the last of the boxes was being closed up, the little devil found a perch on my wife’s shoulder and the ugly urge to head out to dinner struck.
“What do you want for dinner?” she asked.
“I don’t really care,” I replied as I continued taking care of the task at hand. Thinking the discussion was over, I assumed she would fix something, but ten minutes later, the question returned.
“You never told me what you wanted,” she said.
“That’s because I don’t really have a preference,” I replied.
“If you were making dinner, what would you make?” she persisted.
“What do we have in the refrigerator?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Why don’t you take a look?”
“It sounds to me like you are trying to get me to take care of dinner. And you know that when daddy cooks we just end up going out,” I told her.
“I know. It’s a bad decision. That’s why I want you to make it,” she replied. And there it was, the little devil hopped right off of her shoulder and onto mine.
“Let me finish putting this stuff away,” I said, “then we will decide.” Now the little devil was on hold, living in limbo. He was still there, but he had no control for the moment. I busied myself taking care of the last of the Christmas decor and pondered the dinner options. I knew my wife was right, going out was a bad idea. I also knew that, as a minor neat freak, the last thing I wanted after a day of cleaning was a messy kitchen. Maybe we could just get something cheap. I could even drink water. After all, it’s the soda where all the profit is anyway.
The debate raged in my head as I packed. A few minutes later, I re-emerged to find my decide-aphobic wife on the phone. “Who is that,” I mouthed to her quietly.
“My mom,” she replied. I quickly realized what she was up to. “Oh, just trying to decide what to do for dinner,” she said to the phone. After a short pause, she again spoke to the phone. “I guess we could do that if you really want us to.”
“You are so conniving,” I whispered to her.
“So we’ll be there in about a half hour,” she said before hanging up.
And thus the devil that had been bouncing from shoulder to shoulder fell off and landed on the floor. I think one of the kids stepped on him as we all marched out to the car to go to grandma’s house for dinner, but I am sure that he will be back someday soon.
As a child we usually give in to the devil without even glancing at the angel. As we age, more thought goes in to the decsion-making process and we learn new ways of coping with the devil on our shoulder, and given even more time, we learn to actually focus on the angel. Unfortunately, that does not mean the devil doesn’t still try to make an appearance now and then.
For the last several months, my wife and I have been dealing with one stressful situation after another and, as a result, have gotten lazy about cooking. Quite often, the simple solution has been to grab some kind of take-out dinner or to head out to a restaurant. Unfortunately, this type of lifestyle can’t continue indefinitely as the cost tends to add up.
Yesterday had been a busy day of cleaning up the post-Christmas mess that was consuming our house. The tree was taken down and all the pine needles vacuumed up. The lights were removed from the front of the house and all the decoration were returned to their boxes. In addition to all of that, four hungry children was fed. Four dirty children were bathed and the countless messes they all made throughout the day were tidied up. As the last of the boxes was being closed up, the little devil found a perch on my wife’s shoulder and the ugly urge to head out to dinner struck.
“What do you want for dinner?” she asked.
“I don’t really care,” I replied as I continued taking care of the task at hand. Thinking the discussion was over, I assumed she would fix something, but ten minutes later, the question returned.
“You never told me what you wanted,” she said.
“That’s because I don’t really have a preference,” I replied.
“If you were making dinner, what would you make?” she persisted.
“What do we have in the refrigerator?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Why don’t you take a look?”
“It sounds to me like you are trying to get me to take care of dinner. And you know that when daddy cooks we just end up going out,” I told her.
“I know. It’s a bad decision. That’s why I want you to make it,” she replied. And there it was, the little devil hopped right off of her shoulder and onto mine.
“Let me finish putting this stuff away,” I said, “then we will decide.” Now the little devil was on hold, living in limbo. He was still there, but he had no control for the moment. I busied myself taking care of the last of the Christmas decor and pondered the dinner options. I knew my wife was right, going out was a bad idea. I also knew that, as a minor neat freak, the last thing I wanted after a day of cleaning was a messy kitchen. Maybe we could just get something cheap. I could even drink water. After all, it’s the soda where all the profit is anyway.
The debate raged in my head as I packed. A few minutes later, I re-emerged to find my decide-aphobic wife on the phone. “Who is that,” I mouthed to her quietly.
“My mom,” she replied. I quickly realized what she was up to. “Oh, just trying to decide what to do for dinner,” she said to the phone. After a short pause, she again spoke to the phone. “I guess we could do that if you really want us to.”
“You are so conniving,” I whispered to her.
“So we’ll be there in about a half hour,” she said before hanging up.
And thus the devil that had been bouncing from shoulder to shoulder fell off and landed on the floor. I think one of the kids stepped on him as we all marched out to the car to go to grandma’s house for dinner, but I am sure that he will be back someday soon.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Toys and Tools
Oh, to be young again. Can you recall those carefree days of your youth when a toy was anything you put your hands on? As a child your imagination ran wild. Toilet paper tubes were made into binoculars. As you got older, you graduated to the paper towel tube and made it into a telescope. Later yet, you discovered the wrapping paper tube and sword fights ensued. Blankets and chairs were tents and hideouts, and cardboard boxes were a free-for-all.
As an adult, I occasionally revert back to my childhood, but on a much more mature level. Now anything can be made into a tool. I remember a decade ago when my new bride and I were living in our first apartment. It was a two story affair with the bedrooms upstairs and everything else below. My tool collection was limited to a hammer and a set of socket wrenches.
“Honey,” she said to me with a loving glance. “The light bulb above the stairs is burnt out.” Putting on my hero hat, I rushed to the rescue. From the front door, I could see straight up the stairs and quickly found the offending light fixture.
My face must have revealed my quandary. “You can fix that, can’t you?” my loving wife asked.
“Of course I can,” I replied, not one to disappoint the love of my life. All the machismo in the world couldn’t change the fact that the light was securely fastened to the ceiling about twelve feet above the landing halfway up the stairs. “Let me just get the little step stool out of the closet,” which, incidentally, was the tallest thing we owned at the time. Perching the stool on the landing, I climbed aboard and used all five-feet-eight-inches of me plus my tip toes, plus the length of my arms, and still I came up about three feet short.
It was time for Plan B. And toilet paper tubes weren’t going to help now that I was grown up. But an ironing board, now that might help. Before you panic, understand that I used every precaution I could think of, which was pretty close to none. In order for the plan to work, I also needed a chair. The chair was the point of stability that would hold the plan together. With the chair perched on the landing, the ironing board, with its legs still folded up, could form a bridge from the seat of the chair to one of the steps leading up the stairs. This contraption now formed a bridge upon which I could place the step stool. This might sound unstable to the untrained professional, but to the newly minted husband, it was manly scaffolding.
Within a few minutes, I was balanced on the stool which was balanced on the ironing board which was balanced on the stairs. Fortunately, if I stood on my tip toes, I could now reach the offending light bulb. After carefully taking care of the bulb issue, I returned everything to its rightful place.
This evening I realized that my son was just like his father. The kids were in the family room playing around and having a great time when I saw my six-year-old boy carrying a couple of pillows from the living room into the family room. “Uhh, what are you doing?” I asked with trepidation.
“I ‘m getting my candy cane,” he replied very matter-of-factly. It was then that I began to follow him, knowing that he was up to something. Rounding the corner, I saw exactly what he was up to. There in the middle of the family room was the ottoman from my big, comfy chair. On top of that were two pillows from the couch. On top of that were two more pillows from the living room couch. On top of that was my son on his tip toes with his arms reaching upward. What was he reaching for? Why the candy cane, of course. Just out of his reach the lonely candy cane hung by its hook from the light fixture on the ceiling fan.
Knowing he was his father’s son, I feared what he would come up with to bridge those last few inches. “How ‘bout I help you with that,” I offered reaching up and unhooking the candy cane. “Here you go, Buddy.”
As an adult, I occasionally revert back to my childhood, but on a much more mature level. Now anything can be made into a tool. I remember a decade ago when my new bride and I were living in our first apartment. It was a two story affair with the bedrooms upstairs and everything else below. My tool collection was limited to a hammer and a set of socket wrenches.
“Honey,” she said to me with a loving glance. “The light bulb above the stairs is burnt out.” Putting on my hero hat, I rushed to the rescue. From the front door, I could see straight up the stairs and quickly found the offending light fixture.
My face must have revealed my quandary. “You can fix that, can’t you?” my loving wife asked.
“Of course I can,” I replied, not one to disappoint the love of my life. All the machismo in the world couldn’t change the fact that the light was securely fastened to the ceiling about twelve feet above the landing halfway up the stairs. “Let me just get the little step stool out of the closet,” which, incidentally, was the tallest thing we owned at the time. Perching the stool on the landing, I climbed aboard and used all five-feet-eight-inches of me plus my tip toes, plus the length of my arms, and still I came up about three feet short.
It was time for Plan B. And toilet paper tubes weren’t going to help now that I was grown up. But an ironing board, now that might help. Before you panic, understand that I used every precaution I could think of, which was pretty close to none. In order for the plan to work, I also needed a chair. The chair was the point of stability that would hold the plan together. With the chair perched on the landing, the ironing board, with its legs still folded up, could form a bridge from the seat of the chair to one of the steps leading up the stairs. This contraption now formed a bridge upon which I could place the step stool. This might sound unstable to the untrained professional, but to the newly minted husband, it was manly scaffolding.
Within a few minutes, I was balanced on the stool which was balanced on the ironing board which was balanced on the stairs. Fortunately, if I stood on my tip toes, I could now reach the offending light bulb. After carefully taking care of the bulb issue, I returned everything to its rightful place.
This evening I realized that my son was just like his father. The kids were in the family room playing around and having a great time when I saw my six-year-old boy carrying a couple of pillows from the living room into the family room. “Uhh, what are you doing?” I asked with trepidation.
“I ‘m getting my candy cane,” he replied very matter-of-factly. It was then that I began to follow him, knowing that he was up to something. Rounding the corner, I saw exactly what he was up to. There in the middle of the family room was the ottoman from my big, comfy chair. On top of that were two pillows from the couch. On top of that were two more pillows from the living room couch. On top of that was my son on his tip toes with his arms reaching upward. What was he reaching for? Why the candy cane, of course. Just out of his reach the lonely candy cane hung by its hook from the light fixture on the ceiling fan.
Knowing he was his father’s son, I feared what he would come up with to bridge those last few inches. “How ‘bout I help you with that,” I offered reaching up and unhooking the candy cane. “Here you go, Buddy.”
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