Easter Overdues

So, these pictures took a lot more than three days to resurrect out of their digital SD card tomb. But that makes them all the sweeter. 

The weekend before Easter, we drove to the little hamlet of Hesston, KS to blend our souls with cousins. For five glorious days and nights, we busied ourselves with coffee, routine, unstructured idle parenting. And enjoyed a live-in bartender and Euker tournaments every night.

 (Before we left, my wise and not-so-tactful mother reminded me that "after three days, company starts to smell like dead fish.")

This is a caption waiting to happen.  The longer you look, the funnier it gets. 

Their was an easter egg treasure hunt, complete with easter baskets. 

This might be one of the Courtney Loves. Or maybe Lulu . . .  Liam was trying to see where the eggs come out. 

I believe this is prior to the Great Dye Spill of 2013

Dance, Evelyn Rain, till you wash the world clean with your powerful soul. 

We drove to the happ'nin' city of Hutchinson. In case you are wondering, the Cosmosphere is as good as--if not better than--the Smithsonian Air & Space Museum. In addition to just as many awe-inspiring displays, there was a whole section on female astronauts and only a few items off-limits to touching and climbing on. With six (count them--six) little people in tow, touchable displays were incredible. It was also a bonus that one didn't actually have to walk through the gift shop in order to exit the building.

Posing in front of Apollo 13. Houston, we actually don't have a problem--everyone is smiling. 

The Endeavor. Really! We could even TOUCH it!!! 

The last night, Tyler & Eva spend at least two hours in the sub-freezing garage building a robot out of scraps. There was a welcoming ceremony and commencement exercises complete with sparklers left over from last July. 

Testing the world's first-ever "Cookie-Bot". 

And I was assured we never once smelled like fish. 

Well With My Soul

There are a few places I've been that I return to knowing my soul will find 

HOME.

Home in the timeless sense, that connectedness with the spirits around me who have come before and will come after and BE part of the landscape.

The first time I went to Sand Dunes National Park & Preserve I was 3. I remember it. Even then, I felt like the sand. Shifting, moving, restless permanence. It's a paradox of the soul.

How thankful I am to be able to take my kids there with me, and let them thrive in the expanse with absolutely no agenda except the one they decide. 

When we left, Gracie said, "Bye Sand Dunes! We had really fun!"

Even she knows they are alive. 

Ode to the Overachiever

This is an ode to projects
I'll never get done,
the things I've started
for gifts or for fun.

I have good intentions.
Really, I do.
For remembering birthdays
and calling you.

And for excercise, dusting,
cooking from scratch,
for sewing on buttons
and patching those pants.

There are blankets to make
and cookies to bake
and cards to send
and outfits to mend.

Sometimes, I dream
that my windows and sills;
were polished beneath
fancy curtains with frills;

I'd certainly like
to have the laundry all pressed,
and the children scrubbed clean
and perfectly dressed.

I've an idea for that button
and red ball of twine;
that lens cap might come in handy sometime.

If there's something you need
there's a good chance its here
in the projects I'm planning to work on next year.

I've got such good ideas!
I'd be happy to share
but I know I'll be late to--
well, everywhere.

Before getting my work done,
between loads of laundry,
I just play with my kids
and solve their latest quandry.

I give kisses to toads
and pretend to love spiders,
make peace after fighting,
to make them politer.

So perhaps this ode
to projects only done in my head
is really to what matters most,
instead.

Fate's "Almost"

"Normal Day, let me be aware of the treasure you are.  
Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart.
Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow."    - Mary Jean Iron

Today, we almost lost a colleague.

'Almost'

Had he not been sitting where he was, with whom he was, in the building where he was . . . . 

'Almost'

He--and the rest of us--are extremely lucky. Or at least greatly indebted to the tricks of fate that let him be who, when, where. GEEZ. My heart is still thumping. His almost stopped. 

'Almost'

Quantum theory describes a parallel for every 'almost'. In the simplest descriptions, it states that every time an outcome could've been different, a split in atomic time happens and that outcome DOES happen in parallel to what is actually experienced; and--in theory--the outcomes of a thousand downstream effects change in an instant. 

It's a curious theory, and one that seems to be able to be proven on an mathematic, atomic level, but not on a relational level. If you really feel ambitious, check out the definition on Wikipedia. There is enough blue hyperlink there to keep you busy for a very, very long time. (hint: Don't try it after a glass of wine. You will go cross-eyed. Trust me.)

Sometimes, it is the 'almost' that defines us more than what 'is'. The thought of what might be, or what could have been, galvanizes our focus to our purpose and priority in a way nothing else can. 

You've seen it in the tragic experiences of others, and you've thought it, a thousand times:

"What if . . . , What if . . . ."

There are a bazillion things that pull us from the edge of that quantum question back to actual experience, and reason, and logic, and commitment, and obligation, and . . . and . . .and  . . . and . . . 

Quantum theory has already spoken. You are already doing what your heart really wants, in some parallel. 

Listen to the "what if". Don't wait for that "rare and perfect tomorrow". The "what if" is the "almost" that is calling you back to your heart. 

Lucky Rocketship Underpants, et al

There is a Calvin & Hobbes cartoon that follows Calvin through a day where nothing goes his way, but he is oblivious to the chaos because he is in Superhero Mode. Only because he is wearing his Lucky Rocketship Underpants.

There are days when I can sense I am going to need Lucky Rocketship Underpants, when Alexander's Terrible Horribe No-Good Very Bad Day is going to sit in my back pocket from the get-go.

Today started last night, knowing today would be one of THOSE days. Unfortunately, I don't have Lucky Rocketship Unders.

I DO, however, have Lucky Herioine Shoes. These are Superhero shoes, the kind that say I'm smart and sassy and tall enough to reach the top shelf. These are comfortable enough I can chase the villains all day and look good doing it. These say, "Why, yes, Mr. CEO. That WAS my idea and original presentation. When can I share this with the rest of the C-Suite team?"

And. They sparkle in the sun. What more could a working girl want?

Crashing into Reality

At church this morning, one of my good friends commented on how, even with my busy schedule and frenetic pace, I always "have it together". I was, honestly, floored. I can count on one hand the number of days in the past year I have felt "together". Either I underestimate my ability, or I am really good at faking it. Probably both. 

This week at work, I found out the facility I work for had finalized a contract with THE thoracic surgeon in town, which means our program will be exploding (in a good way) and I get a front row seat in the peanut gallery. My opinion has been sought out on a number of levels. Even when on the spot and not expecting it, I can usually manage something resembling intelligent conversation. At least anytime after 8 am. Before then, it's a crap shoot.

When I ran into a fellow RN a few weeks ago who was having trouble getting a catheter in a patient, I offered my assistance (I am the Foley QUEEN). After nearly four years of not practicing, I still threw the line in on the first try. 

So, when my li'l Miss Gracie hurt her arm tonight and I was pretty sure she had fractured it, I marched right in to urgent care with confidence that I was in the right place. I am a nurse, after all. 

Just when I thought I could add another day to my "together" list. HA!

She was honest-to-God crying and holding her arm after falling. She wouldn't let me touch it and didn't seem like she could bend her elbow, rotate her wrist or hold anything without pain. 

We checked in and sat amidst all the infected masses for nearly an hour (I swear my next suggestion to our urgent care clinics is to please have a 'sick' waiting area and a 'hurt' waiting area). She was content--I wasn't messing with her and she was watching Sponge Bob. ("Bunge-Spob" as she calls it. Sorry, Justin Bieber. You got nothin' in comparison.) 

We went back to triage and she let the tech check her vitals without so much as an "I am the most pathetic thing ever" frown. As we sat back down, I reached around her and felt an ever-so-slight click in her arm. She fussed a minute and settled down again. 

Then Dr. Campbell came in. She looked at him, held out her arm and showed him where it was hurting. He started to mess with her arm. No flinching, no fussing, no frowning--nothing. I was starting to feel awkward and like a dufus helicopter parent. 

She looked him dead in the face and said, "Mommy fix it. You not fix it, Mommy fix it all better. I poopy wet. You poopy?" Then singing, operatic style standing on the chair conducting with both arms, "Poopy-poopy poopy-poopy wet wet poooooooo-pyyyyyy wet!" 

Uhhhhhnnnggg. 

There is nothing like a small child to bring one's pride crashing right back down to a more manageable level. Thank you Gracie. Sorry, Dr. Campbell. 

Mayhem

Not really, but it is a really cool word. Mayhem. And one that describes how my desk looked when I left work every day this week. I hope I don't die this weekend, because no one--NO ONE--will be able to come in to my office and have a freaking clue what I was doing with any of it. 

But, that's life.

I have decided to go back to school for my masters degree in Strategic Healthcare Leadership & Management. Which is a fancy and overblown way to say, "I like looking at processes to improve our fractured healthcare system and move to more streamlined and cost-effective processes that actually are acessible to average human beings and that won't leave everyone completely bankrupt every time we have to ask a health provider a simple question because getting advice from WebMD is like asking my two-year-old to manage my finances and will a HUMAN BEING PLEASE ANSWER THE PHONE I'VE BEEN ON HOLD FOR TWO HOURS! And don't you DARE transfer me again." 

Ah. I feel better. 

So, I'm doing this online course about communication in healthcare. (Perhaps I should enroll every insurance company on the face of the planet in the next term. I'd be doing the Universe a favor.) The topic of discussion this week is "Health Care Literacy", and where the responsibility of teaching health literacy lies. It is an interesting discussion, with some really good stories. 

However. 

Because the course is online and I've never met anyone in person, I must be mindful and professional of what I'm typing. Which means that you, dear reader, get to find out what I'm really thinking. 

So the question, then, becomes thus: Who is responsible for teaching common sense? As in, if you are allergic to peanuts, don't eat peanut butter. And not all white round pills are the same medicine. And perhaps the actual correct dose isn't, in fact, the entire bottle. And just because your ex-boyfriend's step-mom's neighbor's dog's groomer kicked that nasty bug in North Dakota by eating raw duck egg in yellow snow last winter, you probably should still get a second opinion. From, say, someone who is qualified to carry a stethoscope and stab your ass with a needle. And who knows what a Sphygmomanometer is. (That's a different font because I had to look up how to spell it. But I know what it is and how to do paradoxical pulses with it. See, I gave you a clue. It's a noun. You get bonus points if you know how to pronounce it.)

To be fair, it's an incredibly complicated issue. Health care in this nation is complicated beyond recognition. It's almost as complicated a brain surgery or rocket science, and it's waaayy harder than cursive. 

So, who's responsibility is it? And what do you think is the FIRST step? 

(I will delete any comments deemed offensive or inappropriate all by my bad self, so don't be too obnoxious. You are, however, allowed to be sarcastic.) I saw a quote on FB yesterday that said, "If I eliminate sarcasm as a form of communication, interpretive dance is all I have left." Perhaps that applies to me in this post.