A Utah Family Travel Writer's Adventures with Altitude
“Jamie, where on earth did you put the big box of Tide I bought last month? I have been tearing my hair out, looking EVERYWHERE in the storage room, basement and I even checked the bathrooms.”
“Errrrr, did you check the shelf in the laundry room?”
“Why ON EARTH would you put it in such a stupid place?”
“Excuse me, but can you tell me where Lutheran Hospital is?”
[Panicked] “You’re kidding me, right? Is your heart OK?”
“Actually, I broke my arm.”
“Are you serious?”
“No. Hah Hah Hah. I’m just calling to tell you we won the game. Hah hah hah hah hah.”
And the guy is wondering why he is getting tough love over his alleged bruised rib he acquired at the game.
I have been dreading this day for a long time: the day Jamie starts his basketball league. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those overbearing women who doesn’t let her husband do anything fun. It’s just there’s something else factored in there: near-death experiences. Yep, in the past when Jamie has played, he’s been rushed to the ER for a heart arrhythmia.
He’s had a long history with his heart. Shortly after we got married, Jamie’s dad found an old video tape of Jamie playing basketball in high school. Jamie eagerly watched the footage and proudly announced: “Do you see me out there?” Thinking he was trying to show off to his new bride, I scanned the floor, looking for his sexy high-school chicken legs but couldn’t find him. Finally, he let me in on the suspense, pointing to a guy passed out in front of the bench: “There–that’s me having an arrhythmia after playing!” Gee. I couldn’t have been more proud.
It’s only in the past few years that it’s gotten really bad. When I was pregnant with Hadley, he nearly passed out after a game and we had to call an ambulance for him. His resting heart-rate? A whopping 210. He had a repeat performance of this last year, only this time Haddie was able to accompany us to the ER. She had just learned to wave and spent the duration spreading good cheer to all the ER patients. I’m sure she thought it was “Wude” that none of them waved back. Go figure.
After his episode last year, he finally caved and went to see a heart specialist–one who wasn’t part of the “Just let your husband play basketball and quit nagging him club,” like the first doctor he saw. This guy recommended an out-patient surgery, which Jamie opted for versus his other option: never playing basketball again. The surgery was pretty non-invasive. Basically, they went into his heart via four arteries (two in his groin) and simply burned out the bad cells that were causing the arrhythmia.
His recovery was pretty smooth, minus a grotesque and painful bruise he had on his groin for a long time. One day during this process, my dear, sweet husband said to me, “This surgery actually confirmed what we have long suspected about men.” I eagerly awaited profundities and I got ‘em with his mischievous answer:
“The Way to a Man’s Heart is Through His Groin.”
My latest panic attack is involving the stack of photographs I have hidden on the top shelf in the kitchen. Pictures of Haddie from the time she was born. Mounds of them. Sitting. Doing nothing. Telling no stories. Not beautifully displayed
At a past playgroup, my friend Suzy brought scrapbooks of her daughter, Addeson. Her mom has spent hours, days, lifetimes scrapbooking every detail of her granchildren’s lives. The pages that unfolded were gorgeous memoirs of Adde’s first year of life. And all I could think of was sweet Haddie’s collection gathering dust.
This whole crappy scrapbooking craze is making those of us who are artsy-fartsy challenged look bad. Woman around me are obsessed with it. They pull scrapbooking all-nighters, go on scapbooking retreats, and hit scrapbooking conventions. I just don’t get it. Is it abnormal that I’d rather be marinated in sweat while lugging Haddie up a mountain instead of placidly capturing these memories in an album?
I don’t know the answer. Either way, Haddie will probably be in therapy for years just for having me as a mother. With that said, why would I want to memoralize such trauma? Finally, a loophole, a way out!
I feel better already.
I think. I was a bit preoccupied over the weekend. Something about preparing for a 100-person party with little/no help. Go figure. But amazingly enough, it turned out great!
My mother-in-law and I spent Friday making about a gazillion sopapillas as a part of the new and revised Mexican sundae dessert for my Cinco do Marcho celebration. So imagine my delight when Jamie and I went to drop off some supplies at the church that night, only to discover that another congregation had not one but two chocolate fountains. Let’s just say that more than a few feathers were ruffled.
We went over early the next day to decorate. With the pinatas, balloons, streamers, fiesta banners, serapes, sombreros and the gazillion and one tissue flowers I made (whilst weeping away to such quality chick flicks like Pride and Prejudice) the room was transformed into a veritable Cinco de Marcho (or Eleveno de Marcho as I also sarcastically christened it).
The actual event went off without a hitch. At least according to the reports because I didn’t leave the kitchen all night. But the food was devoured and laughter frequent. I was paranoid about how the karaoke would go over with a rather conservative, older crowd and no alcohol. But I saw our congregation in an entirely new [and often disturbing] light as they belted their little off-key hearts out.
The only thing that was missing was Jamie, who was home sick. The only time we’ve ever karaoked was a couple of years ago at a friend’s house. We are not known for our musical prowess but when that boy got up in front of our friends, he started throwing out rock-star moves I never knew he had.
Lost in the moment, I threw my rock-star groupie self at his feet with a rather memorable dive that would have scored me at least a 9.5 in competition. Too bad I was five months pregnant with Hadley at the time, thereby explaining the indentation on her head when she was born. I call it her groupie birth mark. Ahhh, a repeat performance this time around would’ve brought down the house. Nothin’ like a tone-deaf rock star with his pregnant groupie….
If anyone would have seen us last weekend, they would have thought “Ahhh, what a cute little family going to fly a kite on a windy day.” But if they would have listened in a very different story unfolded.
We requested kites for Christmas two years ago. And being ambitious, we didn’t just ask for any kite, but expensive stunt kites. You know–the kind that thrillingly pierce the sky as they whip and whirl under the command of their master. It was our first time taking them out to the field in front of our house. And possibly the last.
It’s been many years since I’ve flown a kite but a distant memory that permeates my mind is simply throwing the kite up, catching wind, and then blissfully standing there as the kite does all the work while you give it the occasional tug.
Our experience was very different. For those unfamiliar with stunt kites, they are considerably more complicated. They have two different lines to manoeuvre and figuring out which line to pull at the exact moment the wind takes it is about as easy as passing college physics (hence the reason why I took it three times).
Every time we’d toss it in the air, it would crash almost instantly. Haddie, who was initially excited for our outing, looked up at us expectedly each time, as if to say “That’s the best you can do?” It got really exciting when we finally got the kite airborne for 20 seconds, only to have it dive-bomb, barely missing Haddie. I could just imagine defending our actions to child services about how it wasn’t really our fault….the kite just attacked!
After an hour of witnessing the kite’s suicide attempts and a memorable timeout with tantruming Haddie because we wouldn’t let her play with the passing cars in the street, we called it quits. The highlight was when we were winding up the string and Hadley went over to our kite, sang her version of “Ring Around the Rosy”…and well, you all know the drill. I just never knew that they fell down on $100 kites. That’s one pricey Rosy.
Next week, we’re going over to Target and buying a $5 one…with no strings attached.
Errr…at least I think it is. Just as Fiddler on the Roof’s Motel gave birth to a new sewing machine, Jamie is proud to announce his latest addition to our family: an old-fashioned soda fountain!!!!!!!
Yep, my honey has always dreamed of having one in our basement and this wish was granted today by the internet stork (ebay). Sure we blew most of our tax refund on it but hey, why would we want to buy something practical like a much-needed car or a double stroller for the kid? Pat will be walking in no time at all; why not start him/her from birth?
Now, if we could just figure out how to haul our 300-pound baby from Georgia. Any tips on freight companies? Last I checked, the stork does free shipping?….
Photo: Our New Addition. Rumor has it he’ll sleep through the night from birth.
Ohhh, the suspense. According to our ultrasound yesterday, the child shall be christened–
Pat.
Y’know, that thoroughly confusing androgynous Pat of Saturday Night Live…that’s the winner of the gender contest. HUH?? That’s what we were saying during the entire ultrasound when the kid conveniently had his/her leg over the region of inspection. We tried everything. Jumping, poking, head-standing and nothin’. Jamie and the ultrasound lady swear they caught a quick glimpse of a third leg but Pat certainly did a good job concealing him/herself. This kid, for some reason, has a modesty complex.
And so in faith, I shall plan for a boy. I shall decorate the nursery, buy boy clothes, boy toys. And in so doing, I will inevitably give birth to a girl….
“Every time I walk into the room, there’s clapping!”
Sickly Hadley has been graciously preparing us for the newborn that will soon be entering our home. Translation? She has been up howling all night this week. Two nights ago, we got three hours of sleep, last night, it was two. In our world, being sent to the couch to sleep is not a sign of punishment but rather mercy. I finally sent Jamie downstairs both nights to get at least some shut-eye. So I’m sorry if I haven’t been too responsive lately….
Today is my mother-in-law, Linda’s, birthday. As far as they go, she is the best. Seriously. I’m not just saying that because she bought me eight new maternity outfits the day before her birthday. Or the fact that she takes Haddie every Wednesday afternoon and whenever we need a babysitter. She’s just one of those genuinely gracious and generous people. You know: the kind who make you feel like scum for even thinking an ill thought about another person.
We’re going over to their place tonight to celebrate but she still offered to watch Haddie for me today. I thought it would be a kick in the pants to have Haddie show up with balloons and treats so we stopped by the store this morning. On the way over to Linda’s house, I tried to teach her how to say “Happy Birthday!” Note: I said tried.
Even though Haddie is picking up new words every day and even says a few profound phrases such as “There he is!” whenever she’s able to locate Mr. Journey to Ernie himself on Sesame Street, she still has a long way to go. When she is unfamiliar or unable to say a word, she just falls back upon one in which she is already familiar i.e. “Open” somehow morphs itself into “apple” every time. “Bagel” into “Big Girl” and “Mommy” into “Hot Babelicious Lady.”
As we tried to learn the word birthday, I said it several times and waited for her to repeat after me. Delightedly, she exclaimed, “Boobie!” Noooooo. I tried again. And again, and the same response. I decided to give up on birthday and move to happy. She had no problem there. So we put ‘em together and what’ve you got? Happy Boobie…to you!
Needless to say, Grandma got quite the greeting this morning. Too bad it’s not Daddy’s birthday. Thems are the kind of well-wishes he’d like to receive….
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. Learn More