Jet lag is like a fly

Do you know that pesky fly?  The one that swirls around you?  It actually, even though an insect, begins to cause you self-doubt.  About hygiene.  Do you really smell that bad?  I mean, you know that you traveled for basically two days—but you thought you showered.

Or did you?

Or did you dream you showered?

Or were you DREAMING about a shower?

Or did you shower the kids but forget about yourself?

The fly won’t leave you alone and now you wonder if you need a shower!!!!!

#jetlag

It’s killing my sanity.

This is what my last 5 days have looked like:

Day 1:  Airplane (3 to be exact).  I slept approximately 1 hour on all 3.  At the airport, in Munich, I laid down on the benches after having my husband SWEAR on his very life and beard that he would WATCH our children with his 41 eyes and make sure no one stole my purse in the meantime, then I crashed.  For approximately 2 hours.

He has snoring video in public to prove it.

I don’t even care.

Night 1 in Poland:  The 3 and 5 year olds did not sleep.  Nearly at all.  The 5 year old eventually waned off as the sun was rising.  The 3 year old is more stubborn than a mule and beat the sun.  She finally seceded around noon.

The decade plus one daughter was already OUTTA the house and OFF to friends.  Goodbye, my firstborn.  WE LOVE YOU…REMEMBER US!

Yeah, right.  We haven’t hardly seen her since.  One night at Wiktoria’s house (Victoria in English), Oliwia’s a second night, and now Nikola’s.  Yep.  The decade plus 1 missed her little Polska wies (Polish village).

Nights 2 and 3 and 4 also lost to JOJO the GIANT!  She won hands down each and every time.  The sun has NOTHING on the spirit of our 3-year-old.

Night 5.  Ah, lovely Night 5.  My hopes were in you.

You were my precious.  I held you in my hand.  I cuddled you.  I made you feel important.  I knew you had a big job ahead of you.  And I knew you, Night 5, were the one to do it.

And, alas, you won.  At 1am, the 3-year-old fell asleep with me stroking and singing to her.  Yes, I sing in private.  Heck, I sing in public—you people just don’t appreciate it as much as my spawn (smile and wink)…

And with the delicate balance of tiptoeing and delicately stepping over EVERY TOY in Max and Josephine’s room which is currently out so that every single marble and doll will know it is loved even though there was a 6-week-absence, I made it out of the room without any crash.

Voile!

I crawled into bed.  THE FIRST NIGHT I would sleep in bed.  If one in the morning is still considered night—and I closed my eyes.

My respite was sweet.  And short.

Oh so short.

The 3 year old came and told me that she DID NOT WET THE BED but her PANTS were all wet.

Yes.  That is called “Not wetting the bed—it magically wet me” syndrome.  It occurs often with our third.  The other two have bladders that could win Olympic Golds.

So I took the daughter that was victim of the vicious bed to the toilet—hastily cleaned her off and threw her in bed with me.

That’s when my victory became my defeat.

She was NO LONGER TIRED.  She was wide awake.  She jumped, and crawled, and laid, and sprawled all over me.

Could she see my phone?

Could she watch a movie?

Could she hold my phone?

Could she see the lullabies playing?

Could she listen to my ear—after all, my ear was making the SAME noise as a volcano.

No, my dear…That’s MY HEAD!  And you are the cause of that.  (I thought to express this to her—but, come on, she’s three…She wouldn’t even care if I did).

To TOP IT OFF…My husband is on the other side of my daughter shouting in his sleep, “I’m going to get you!” Followed with actual karate chopping motion and sounds, “Katcha-katcha!”

I kid you not.

Somehow, miraculously in the midst of the karate chopping albeit sleeping husband and the “NOT TIRED” toddler, I managed to coax her to sleep—legs on top of my head and all.

By this time, it is now after 3am and DARN HER…Guess who is not tired now?

Me.

And so I sit.  With this pesky night fly swirling around my very head.  Touching my hand and invading all sorts of personal space (I LITERALLY CANNOT STAND FLIES—I have a bubble, flies, respect it!).  Typing. To you.  Because you care, don’t you?

And if you don’t, don’t worry.

I’m still here with my fly.

He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.

Just like Josephine’s jet lag.

Sigh.

I wish I could be like Richard, my sleeping husband, and “Get you, Jet Lag, katcha-katcha!” (insert super karate chopping action here)

Good thing today is Sunday—I need the glorious grace of Jesus to get me through the day and his ultimate gift of forgiveness because I ALREADY know MY FAMILY IS ALL GOING TO NEED IT as this Momma is going on 0 hours of sleep.

Thanks to jet lag…my least friend.

I was Mt. Vesuvius and The McDonald’s Worker Told Me No.

So, I haven’t written lately. Truly a shame. Perhaps not as much for you (maybe for you, too), but definitely for me.

But just in case you thought I disappeared, here I am:

No way!  You proclaim.  That can’t be you.  I remember you—you used to look like that woman on the FBI’s Most Wanted poster (see post here: http://and2makescrazy.com/2013/09/22/confessional-sunday-i-am-not-gisele-bundchen-say-what/ ).

Why, yes!  I was that woman.  She still exists.  Except, nowadays I am also this woman.  No longer fat, pregnant, and have enough energy to get up in the morning, get dressed, and walk 3 flights of stairs to go to work.

My hot husband and baby daddy approves 😉

On top of that, I have been busy doing something that I NEVER thought I would really get around to doing in my entire life…Planning.

Menu planning.

Grocery planning.

And rice milk making.

What does rice milk have to do with planning?

Well, when your son’s milk costs $3.00 per 1 liter, you better start figuring out how to make it or start planning how to file bankruptcy.   Yowzers.  Having a Nutty Kid will really kick you in the toosh called your grocery pocket.

That’s all fine and good, Brooke, but what does all of this have to do with Mt. Vesuvius or the lady at McDonald’s.

Oh, yes…

Well, I have been a volcano lately.  Literally, the other day I erupted.  It was a terrible sight in our home.  It was tragic and sad, and Mommy (me) went all crazy eyes ballistic on my husband and oldest child.  The 2 year old and 10 month old were spared as they were too young to understand.

I ranted.  I raged.  I stomped the halls.  My hands flailed wildly.

It.Was.Horrible.

My poor family.

It was one of my least fine moments in my life, and I am very sorry that I got to the point where my top blew.  I really think that self-control should be a big net around my body.  God, however, gives us the ability to practice self control.  And I did not heed his gift of free will in the best of ways.  I demolished my daughter and husband in one, big, bubbling, lava flow.

My.Poor.Family.

Well…That’s not all.  The lady at McDonald’s.  No, don’t worry.  I was not unkind to her.  Sometimes, it’s extremely sad, but we reserve our worst behavior for those we love the most.

The McDonald’s lady.  This has to do with being perhaps an Expat living in a foreign country.  But it was Wednesday a week ago.  On Wednesday evenings, my daughter has French lessons.  After French, we go through the McDonald’s drive thru for dinner, and then we all head to daddy’s office///Adelyne’s stationary library, and we pick daddy up for the evening as well as allow Adelyne to check out her books for the week.

Well, I got all the way to the window where you pick up the food at McDonald’s.  This is a miracle, because often they call us to the window where you pay to get your food since they can’t ever understand our Polish nor accent over the intercom.  But this visit was turning into a huge success.

I had been understood.  My order had been received.  I had paid at the first window, and then I pulled up to the second window.

And that’s when it hit me.  I forgot to order Adelyne’s ice cream that I told her I would get for getting a 5 on her spelling test (in Polish—this is a VERY big deal).  So, I politely said, “Oh, I am sorry Ma’am.  I forgot to order my daughter’s ice cream.  So, please also a large ice cream with chocolate sauce.”

“No!”  She replied.

Say what?

“What?”

“No!”  She said again.  “You must go around again!”

Say what?

“What?!”

“No!  You must go through the drive thru again!”

Oh please!  Sometimes I want to blow my cap.  That was the most ridiculous thing that I have ever heard, and then it reminded me of something I read Madonna saying once…What she missed living outside of the United States.  Customer service was her reply!

I could not believe the absurdity of the lady.  Go around again.  I am sorry—but JUST SOMETIMES!

Now, for those of you that live here and think, “What is wrong with that?”

Pretty much everything!  First of all, it was an accident.  Secondly…Customer Service.  Simply help a mom out.  And, really?!  How long does it REALLY take to make an ice cream.

Whoop.  Fill the cup.  Add hot chocolate.  Let lady pay while doing so.  And voile.  You are done.  30 seconds.

Me.  I was Vesuvius with my family.

The McDonald’s lady—she became my nemesis.

All in all, however, we are surviving.  Doing well.  Loving life.  And having fun.

It’s just that sometimes it is not always fun.

And I am not always nice.

And sometimes my daughter does not get the ice cream I told her I would get.

But, folks, I’m planning.  And making rice milk, and tonight is cauliflower soup.

Yep.  I am alive.  But I am not always the best example of Jesus.

Let’s end with a hashtag, shall we.  #thankfulforforgiveness

Have a great upcoming weekend folks, I now hear both of my babies.  Nap time is obviously over for this momma.

xoxox

b

*Well, nap time ended and obviously dinner ended.  And bedtime has ensued.  And Daddy is finishinghomework with the 8-year-old and I am just now getting ready to post this.  Life with kids. Oops.  Baby is now crying wildly.  Must post fast!

#wouldnthaveitanyotherway #superlonghashtag

xo again and again.  b

There is no comparison…

When my son stopped breathing and had to be rescued, and yet, once again, was left without any help…I sat next to him.  I had already spent all evening, from 9pm until 5am, shaking him every 10 seconds so that he would be reminded to breathe.  And, yes, I was in the hospital.

But then it happened.  He stopped.  Completely.  He had no more breath left in him.

And I had to run into the halls screaming, while his alarms were going off, because no one was coming.  I had to run into the halls and yell, “My son!  My son!  He is not breathing.”

Finally two nurses came and got him breathing again.  They did not call a doctor.  They never did.  They got him breathing and then left me alone, again, with my son.

And I saw his light begin to disappear.  He had already been fighting for three days.  And for three days, very minimal was done to keep him alive.  When we told the doctor the night before he wasn’t breathing, she looked at him, shook him, and said, “Oh, it’s sleep apnea.  It’s common in infants.”

And she left again.  For the entire night.  From 9pm until the moment I ran into the hall screaming, not a single medical professional came to check on my premature, listless, graying baby, who also hadn’t eaten in 3 days.

No one.

And so I knew.  I knew as I sat next to him that he had very little time left here on earth.  I called my husband to see if we could Air Vac him out of Poland, but they said that the medical doctors would have to declare that they were unable to care for him.  If you have ever met a Pole, there is no way one will declare that they are unable to do anything.  At all.  They are a country of great pride.  In many, many, many areas, they should be.  But not in the care of my son.

Then we debated going to the US Embassy in Warsaw and demanding help.  But that would take 3 hours one way.  And he didn’t have 3 hours left.

We were tired, dejected, and left without anyone fighting on our side.

I sat.  I sat next to my son and I watched as he began to slip away.  And I could only cry.  And cry.  And cry.

My mom and dad had gotten to meet him.  But the rest of our families had not.  And I knew now that they would not.

My heart was broken.  My sister called this baby, Maxwell, her baby-and she had never met him.  But she prayed for him from the moment of our announcement, she ran a Triathlon for him, she wept for him.  She was his biggest champion.  She loved him.  And yet she never had the chance to meet him.

And I knew that day.  I just knew she never would.

So not only did my heart break for my son that was lying next to me with mere moments left to fight for his life.  But my heart broke for the fact that my family would not get to meet our son.  Our beautiful and miraculous baby that we had to fight to even bring into the world.

And I did the only thing I had left in me to do.  I sat there touching my baby and weeping.

Then she entered.  A miracle.  An angel.  The new doctor on shift.  The nurses, they tried to explain away my baby, but she wouldn’t let them.  She didn’t even listen to them.  She took one look at Maxwell dying and said, “There is nothing I can do!”

An ambulance was called, and my son was escorted down 4 flights of stairs, into the waiting ambulance and brought to the nearest ICU.  I was kicked out and he was intubated.  He was put on 100% ventilation.  His body was put into a full coma.  And he was put on antibiotics to now fight the pneumonia that was also ravaging his body as well as congestive heart failure medicine, because the hole in his heart had doubled in size—the lack of oxygen caused his heart to work overtime, resulting in a heart that was also now at risk of failing.

He was given a blood transfusion.  And we were given the news.

It was bad.  There was no news if he would make it.  It was now a waiting game.  A waiting game for life.  A waiting game for death.

And my sister.  She again took charge.  An ocean away, and yet she was able to somehow help lead me through this time in my life.  We were only allowed to see our son from 11am-7pm.  Otherwise, we had to wait.  Every evening, we were allowed to call at 10pm and ask if there was a status change.  And every morning at 8am we were allowed to call and ask if he made it through the LONG hours of the night.  If he was still alive.

And my sister, God bless her soul, she would wait for our evening and morning calls, her phone bill, I am sure, ran into the 4 digits of expense, and we would give her the status update.  He was alive.  He was getting a blood transfusion.  His ventilator quit on him and they had to bag him for about 6-10 minutes.  He squeezed his daddy’s finger today, and so forth.

Every morning and every night she called so that she could share with the rest of the world if our baby was alive.  If there was progress.  If he was going to make it.  And, as she shared, the rest of the world prayed.

After all, she considered our baby her baby.

My sister…There is no comparison.

She is the woman I wish I was.  The woman that I would like to be.

Compassion never fails her.  Money never stops her.  And love never leaves her.  Even if an ocean separates her.

Today is her birthday, and I couldn’t wish a more deserving person 100 years, Sto Lat!  I couldn’t wish a more giving person a life of health, happiness, and love.  And I couldn’t ask God for a greater friend and supporter.

And so I’ll leave you with this…our son did fight with all that was within him. And he did conquer every demon that wanted to keep him from us here on earth.  And he did survive.

And because of it, he finally got to meet my sister.  His auntie.  And my best friend…

Happy birthday, Darby.