Rachel Callahan

Going Pro in Chick-fil-A.

July 6, 2015July 6, 2015 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Utter Silliness

The struggle is real – every single time.

I coach myself.

“You can do this. You were born for this.”

I do a few warm-up drills.

“Reach to the back seat reach to the front seat reach reach reach”

I breathe deeply, attempting to tune every muscle of my body for the exertion that is to come.

It all happens in less than ten seconds, but therein is the problem. The amount of things that happen in that ten seconds is tantamount to the peak of human ability.

The time has come for the frantic Chick-fil-A pass-off.

One, Two, Three, HUT!

“Hello ma’am I see you have two kids meals with lemonades, a three strip meal with a large iced coffee, and you need Chick-fil-A sauce?”

“That is correct.”

Breathe. You can do this. You do it every week. Way too many times every week.

“Your total is $16.71.”

I hand her my credit card and the marathon begins. Her Ursula-like Octopus arms begin shoving items at my car window in a blur of speed.

Grab lemonade! (“Thank you!” “My Pleasure.”) Pass it back to Ali! Grab other lemonade! (“Thank you!” “My Pleasure.”) Pass it back to Ali as well so Noah doesn’t miss the handoff! Grab kid’s Meals with one pair of fingers and credit card and receipt with other pair of fingers! (“Thank you!” “My Pleasure.”) Set everything down frantically so that she doesn’t toss iced coffee into the car to meet time quota! Grab Iced Coffee! Grab my food! Check for straws and Chick-Fil-A sauce! (“Thank you!” “My Pleasure.”) and DRIVE.

Once again I have completed the feat of the Chick-fil-A Drive-Through Ultra Marathon. All moms in the south are put to this test continuously, as all moms in the south feed their children a diet almost entirely consisting of Chick-fil-A, with a peach thrown in here and there for good measure*.

The drive-thru attendants are finely oiled machines, experts at passing three bags of food into your car while simultaneously swiping your credit card and brewing your fresh and amazingly inexpensive iced coffee. You get the feeling that they’re wearing shock collars under those maroon shirts. If they don’t get all your food out that window within fifteen seconds or neglect to say “My pleasure” every time you say thank you, they will be jolted with a thousand Waffle Watts©, and won’t be able to get that smell of burnt peanut oil out of their hair for weeks.

And then, at some drive-thrus, the pressure has been mounted even further: they now use real, live humans standing in the road to take your order, meaning that you have to know exactly what you want without the aid of the menu board. Sure, they wear a tiny menu written in 4 point font on a thumb ring, but unless you brought your binoculars (and it’s ill-advised to look through binoculars at a woman standing twelve inches from you), it will not suffice.

But ultimately, all of the training, all of the conditioning, all of the physical exertion, all of the mental distress is completely worthwhile: because it keeps you from having to go inside – where there’s a Playplace. Just waiting for your children to climb to the top, get stuck, and panic. Then find half of an abandoned Waffle Fry to eat while they wait on you to slither up to their rescue.

But even that is worth it because of the gift of Chick-fil-A. Or, as my children put it so eloquently,

Ali: “Who doesn’t like Chick-fil-A?”

Noah: “Robbers. Only robbers don’t like Chick-fil-A.”

* Generalizations and exaggerations may be present in this statement. And in this entire blog post. Except about the Ursula arms. They definitely have Ursula arms.

Slip Sliding Away.

July 1, 2015July 1, 2015 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience.

For the past two years, my husband has been the chairman of the building committee at our Church. We’ve been building onto our current buildings to connect them all and put in an elevator – because our property is on a slope, has been built onto several times, and it was all…well, wonky. It needed to be connected and accessible and stuff.

His chairmanship has consisted mainly of late-night emails and after-work meetings and such, and simply being able to understand all this stuff that I don’t grasp at all, since his day job is in commercial construction (the computer parts of it – not the actual building of it.)

Sunday was the grand opening of this new connecting unit.

The children, clearly, were thrilled.

The church had planned a community celebration, inviting the whole neighborhood to church and a party – to eat food from all of the area restaurants, to see the new building, to play on the water slides, to get their faces painted, and all the things such as this.

The church service was a “family service”, which translates into no Kid’s Church – 1st grade and above go to big church. Ali and I planned on attending together, knowing that Chris would be quite tied up with last minute building things and helping set up the post-church celebration.

So when Noah decided that he really wasn’t feeling like attending his nursery class, it seemed somewhat logical to let him come with Ali and I. After all, I already had one child in the service – why not add another?

This sort of logic is what is wrong with America today. Or at least what is wrong with me.

Regardless, I’m positive that the pastor appreciated the dramatically loud and bored yawns from the third row. And the even louder fake snores.

When the service ended, I felt approximately as physically exerted as one would feel after wrestling a medium-sized chimpanzee for an hour. I limped out of the service and onto the ribbon cutting, then to get the children food, force their father to sit with them for a few minutes to retrace my steps and find my sanity, and then I took them out to the waterslides.

Alone, of course, as was expected, Chris had many tasks.

I could do it. I’m a Mom. I handle my own mischief (or two mischiefs) all the time.

No surprise, the kids didn’t want to do the waterslides – after all, “Risk Averse” is written in bold, gothic letters at the top of our Family Crest. But then Ali decided she wanted to, and a few minutes later, Noah did too.

I took Noah to Ali’s spot in line and asked the two girls behind her if they minded if Noah broke in line so he could go up with his sister.

They did not.

They should have.

Their turn arrived and they started up the steep climb – Noah in front and Ali helping him up. At the halfway mark, he managed to slip and fall all the way down the ladder – between her legs or off to the side or something. So he started back up the ladder behind her – now with no help.

The thing was Mount Everest to a four-year-old.

It didn’t take him long to panic.

He looked down and tried to climb down, but the steep climb up and down both freaked him out, and he froze. As one does on a waterslide with thirty kids waiting for their turn.

My friend Lydia said “I’ll go get him!”, and of course that would never do. I handle my own mischief, thankyouverymuch, and plus – she was wearing extremely light-colored pants for a waterslide.

“No – it’s fine. I’m going up!”

The other kids shuffled around to let me in front of them. Poor children, looking at the hopelessness of their line-waiting situation.

I kicked my shoes off, handed my phone to Lydia, and started the steep climb up while what felt like the entire church – nay the entire community – stared at my awkward grappling.

I now know: there is actually something worse than A PlayPlace Rescue.

First of all, those ladder rungs were not made to hold adult feet.

Also, they were at health hazard levels of slippery.

My only comfort were the sturdy handles next to each step. I felt as if I were mountain climbing with no proper footholds – hefting myself up by my arms. When I reached Noah, I then began having to support him with one arm while supporting myself with the other. Motherhood should totally be an Olympic Sport.

However, my presence did not diminish Noah’s panic at all. In fact, when he realized I was there to help him up and not down, the wailing really commenced.

This was a crossroads of parenting where every parent must decide: Do you let your kid wuss out and turn around when the whole church is already staring at your butt, or do you heft him up the slide and MAKE the dang kid have fun to prove to him that he can do it?

I decided on the latter. To continue my poor-decision-making trend for the day.

We made it up to about four rungs from the top, him still screaming, me still shoving him up the stairs while he begged for mercy. We were so close.

When my feet slipped and my one-armed grip on the rope did not suffice. And I fell, belly-flopping over each rung of the ladder, all the way down to the bottom.

So thankful that I handed my phone to a friend who didn’t mind using it. Or not.

It was super graceful, y’all.

This did not help my child’s panic, now all alone at nearly the top of the ladder, having lost his mother to a nasty fall down a mountainside.

But what could I do but start all over? I pulled myself up the Cliffs of Insanity yet again.

(This is a good time to note that my arms and shoulders are still sore from that journey. I’m just glad I didn’t have to swordfight a fellow left-hander when I reached the top.)

I made it back to where Noah was and kept shoving him up the ladder and over the edge. Then I went to lift myself up to the top – which is when I realized that those oh-so-handy hand ropes ran out. Right before the top.

I frantically swiped at all slippery rubber surfaces, trying to find something to hold onto, but to no avail. Then I reached a hand up to Noah and said “You’re going to have to help me up.”

It was at the moment that the child actually offered me a hand when I realized that physics were not on this plan’s side and my decision-making for the day was unbelievably impaired. I found the strength within myself and somehow miraculously threw my weight over the edge with nothing to hold onto, grabbed my son, put him in my lap, and went down that blasted slide.

Which of course, my persistent friend Lydia didn’t mind at all recording.

They say life is about the journey and not the destination. But the journey left me sore and the destination left me wet. So I’m hoping it’s about something else entirely.

When the Digits Go Wrong.

June 29, 2015July 1, 2015 Rachel Callahan Weird Strange and True

The Texting society in which we all now exist has changed the appropriation of the phrase “You’ve got the wrong number.”

In the past, when we actually talked on our phones, before you revealed any sort of real information about yourself, you inadvertently indicated that you’d messed up the digits.

“Hi! May I please speak to Wanda?”

“I’m sorry – there’s no Wanda here. You must have the wrong number.”

It was so clean, so whitewashed, so business-like.

But now, there are texts. And texts don’t typically start with a request to text with Wanda. They just jump right in.

As such, I sometimes like to play with wrong-digit texters.

But other times, I am not mentally acute enough to play, such as when I received this melodramatic jewel six days after my tonsillectomy:

I was on pain pills and couldn’t conjure an emo-enough persona to answer her (him?) back, so I just stayed silent.

Two days later, despite my silence, she (he?) was feeling better about our relationship.

STILL on pain pills, I again just let it go. This did not help her (his?) mental state. After five days of agony, I received this addition to our growing one-sided love letter:

At this point, I knew I couldn’t respond – my silence was making this conversation significantly more interesting than words ever would. I hope to hear from her (him?) and her (his?) changing emotional state for the rest of time.

But then, one our of babysitters, Sarah, shared this conversation with me.

And I knew that all of my wrong-numberers would never, EVER hold a candle to Carl.

First of all, Carl, Emoji Eyes always make everything feel more creepy.

ALWAYS.

Sarah is a sweet, kind-hearted human being, so she attempted to let him down gently.

Carl, wrong-number texting is NEVER a meet-cute opportunity. For all you know, Sarah could be an 85-year-old Great-Grandmother of 56 who learned how to text to keep up with all those younguns.

(She is not. But let’s never tell Carl that.)

And Carl, Sarah was nice to you. She didn’t play with your emotions like I would have done. In exchange, you should have thanked her, not continued…as you did….

Carl. If Candace wasn’t answering you, a new phone isn’t going to help the problem.

But then we find out you might have bigger problems.

Carl. Wow.

Just.

Wow.

But did you quit?

No.

You continued to text Sarah, finding solace in her over-friendliness and fine acting job of not being completely skeeved out by you, you who found it necessary to triple your Creepy Emoji Eye count.

Based on the header on the screenshots Sarah sent me, Carl might have been thanking her in vain.

But then.

Did Carl quit?

Of course Carl didn’t quit.

Candace the Sonic Girl should be flattered.

Or should consider moving to Vanuatu immediately.

Modeling is a Dog’s Life.

June 24, 2015June 25, 2015 Rachel Callahan HauteLook, Photographical Oddities, Uncategorized, Weird Strange and True

A few months ago, I shared with you the inner thoughts of indignant models. Their expressions said it all – we felt their sadness, their resentment, and their rage over what they’d been forced to wear.

Two days after publishing that post, all of the model’s heads were mysteriously cropped out of the new batch of HauteLook photos. Do I think HauteLook read my blog and made a procedural change to rid themselves of the negativity emanating from their models? Probably not. Is it a very strange coincidence? Most definitely.

However, they do occasionally still let the faces of their models be experienced.

And last week, I met a brand new set of models. Models that seemed no happier at where their career had led them than the first batch.

Yet these models were dogs. The happiest creatures on earth. Supposedly.

But you know how to depress the happiest creatures on earth? Dress them like humans – the saddest creatures on earth.

Strip them of their canine pride and castrate them into short and overly hairy humans and watch their effervescent joy vanish instantaneously.

To further add to the humiliation, dress the dogs in the least flattering categories of human garments in existence today – Bridesmaid Dresses,

And scrubs.

Even the dogs that were “blessed” with the Hot Topic options looked ashamed of their forced trans-species status.

All of the poor souls looked much more like they were auditioning for an ASPCA commercial than trying to sell us these adorable outfits.

In the arms of an angel… (Or a Bedazzled Monster Shirt)

Fly away from here… (And from this potholder called a “tank”)

From this dark, cold hotel room…. (And this studio where they shove shirt after shirt over your oversized and most likely quite sensitive ears)

And the endlessness that you fear… (What you really fear is crapping on your train and not being able to rub it off when you scoot across the studio flooring)

You are pulled from the wreckage… (Or from pajamas that let your junk hang out)

Of your silent reverie…. (We all know “misery” would have been a better word than “reverie” right there but Sarah had to be all artsy and stuff – just like this clever Hawaiian-themed tank is all artsy…and stuff)

You’re in the arms of an angel…. (Or in the grip of a – what the crap is that thing?!)

May you find some comfort here… (Because nothing has ever looked more comfortable than this Blossom relic)

Some comfort here. (Unless you try to pee into your dress and then everything is going to get all moist and uncomfortable really quickly.)

After the clothing shoot, they attempted to give the dogs back their dignity in a collar photo shoot.

But it was too late. The damage was too deep, too cutting to the core of who they were.

Spend all your time waiting for that second chance… (While praying to God for deliverance from these flashy-bulb humans)

For a break that would make it okay… (Does she look like this makes it okay? She does not.)

There’s always some reason to feel not good enough… (Like the memory of all. those. dresses.)

And it’s hard at the end of the day… (Because your belly is chafed from all the wardrobe changes)

I need some distraction, oh beautiful release… (Seriously release me so I can go eat grass until I vomit)

Memories Seep from my veins… (Of hoping desperately that the bright light would be a UFO coming to rescue me)

Let me be empty…. (Seriously I’ve had to pee for hours)

And weightless and maybe… (Maybe I’ll find a Cone of Shame to wear to feel better about myself)

I’ll find some peace tonight… (Or at least a pack of feral dogs to drink gutter water with until I forget this day)

In the Arms of an Angel. (Or this Skull and Crossbones Sweater Vest. Because all humans who wear sweater vests also just LOVE skulls and crossbones.)

For just sixty cents a day, you can rescue one of these dogs from the misery of a modeling career.

What’s that Sound, Volume Six: The Questioning Edition.

June 24, 2015June 25, 2015 Rachel Callahan Kids: The Experience., What's That Sound

Noah has solidly entered the 437 Questions a Day phase. It’s high time that I get Chris’ lap counter out for a day of objectively counting them as I did for his sister. I suspect he’ll break her record by lunchtime.

He sees questioning me as something akin to an eternal game Keep Off the Ground.

The rules are as follows:

1. Questions must start upon waking and end upon falling asleep.

2. Questions must continue in a steady stream with zero pauses or you immediately lose the game.

3. If Mommy doesn’t answer the question within two seconds, another question has to be posed or you lose the game.

Game Strategy Tips:

1. When running out of questions, choose new ones based on your line of sight, such as “Why do we call these ‘floorboards’?”

2. Obvious questions are never bad questions. For instance, “Why do we call that house with the water wheel the waterwheel house?”.

3. When obvious questions are followed up with a question by the parent such as “Why do you think?”, you can immediately volley it back to them with “I don’t know why do you think?” to keep the game going.

These are just what I’ve gleaned, but Noah is a savant and could write the Expert’s Edition of the Strategy Tips.

Sometimes, his questions can also get a bit..personal. While out to dinner with someone not long ago, she got pounded with:

“Why are your teeth so brown?”

“Because when you get older, that happens.”

“Wow. How old ARE you?”

If you follow up an insulting question by making it even more insulting, it’s definitely double points.

Here are some of the questions I’ve got asked recently…

“Mommy, why do you NEED kids?”

“uh. What? Don’t you want me to need you?”

“I want to be Gramamma’s kid.”

“Hey Momma!!”

“What?”

<silence, as he realized he didn’t have a question prepared>

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“You said Hey Momma!”

“No, I said Hey Zomma.”

“Can we call Batman?”

“I don’t know his number.”

“That’s because he can’t have a phone unless the fairies make him one.”

“Well then we can’t call him, I guess.”

“When the fairies make his phone we can call him then.”

“Hey mommy when I’m a grownup can you come get me and drive me to The McWane Center? Because I think the backseat is the best seat.”

“Can we go to the outlet mall? I want to go to the outlet mall to buy puppets that aren’t in a box but have tags on them.”

…Clearly, he has diva tendencies.

“Mommy when are we going to sail up the river in a canoe? Because I really want to go to Iceland.”

Pointing to cemetery…

“When will I be dead? Because I wanna go there. And run around.”

“When can we buy daddy a taco?”

“Why?”

“I want to see one.”

“Let’s all go get tacos tonight!”

“No way! I am not old enough for tacos.”

“You’re totally old enough.”

“I am not old enough for lettuce.”

“Why?”

“Because Giann [the babysitter] told me all about it.”

And now for a blessed break from the questions, here are some other recent quotes…

Noah’s Sunday School Report, first take: “Two of the cars were wrecked today – we didn’t know if people were within them or not.”

“Wait – what? There was a wreck outside your classroom?”

Take two: “NO, Mom. Two of the cars in Sunday School were WET today. We didn’t know if people were LICKIN’ them or not.”

“I had a very bad dream.”

“Oh no! What was it about?”

“There were some Tiki Trees being mean.”

“What did the Tiki Trees do??”

“I don’t remember.”

From the back seat, Noah explained to me the facts of life.

“I might get a baby in my tummy. I probably won’t eat it. I’ll just grow it and stuff.”

I’ve never been less comforted by a probably in my life.

After getting back from a run {with Noah in the jogging stroller}, he made me wait while he stretched.

“OOooOhh! That sure was a long run, Mom.”

All that riding must’ve been hard on his joints.

Heard from the backseat: “If I was made of chocolate, Ali, I’d just be…lickin’ myself.”

“Thank you for rubbin’ me with your toe, Mommy.”

…If I hadn’t already figured out his Love Language was Physical Touch…

What happens when your husband smokes pork….your toddler incessantly begs, “I need a bath because I smell like meat!!”

“I’m gonna have to get a new mother!”

“Why?”

“Because you’re old!”

“Who are you going to get?”

“Gramamma!!”

Clearly I didn’t inherit my Mother’s youthful glow.

After telling Noah no, he suggested thoughtfully, “You could pretend to be a babysitter – THEN we could do it…”

I need less agreeable babysitters.

“Hey Look! That traffic cone is SMILING at me!!”

“Smile, Mommy!”

“Nope – I need to take another one. Smile for REAL this time.”

And, one bonus quote from Ali: “There are way too many restaurants that you don’t believe in, Mom. Waffle House, McDonalds, Burger King. Daddy believes in ALL of the restaurants!”

A Burning Question About Toilets.

June 22, 2015June 22, 2015 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Weird Strange and True

Last week, my husband bought us a new toilet. During the process, I felt like I earned a “Low Maintenance Wife of the Year” Award:

I MEAN. I don’t care whether the toilet paper rolls from the top or the bottom, and I don’t care about the geometric shape of my toilet. I’m a catch, y’all.

The timing for a new toilet was ideal, as our master bathroom currently looks like this:

Yes, the toilet is unhooked from its pipes and still has water in it. No, I don’t know why. No, I wouldn’t recommend flushing it.

Last time we redid a bathroom (the kid’s bathroom that time), I did not replace the toilet, and I’ve highly regretted that heinous oversight since that day – especially since their toilet was what caused the problem.

So I remembered my past mistakes and was determined not to repeat them.

I asked the construction crew leader about it.

“Hey – I’d like to get a new toilet while everything is ripped up. Can you make that happen?”

“Sure. I figured you’d want one. You know, one of the past residents in this house was a smoker.”

“What? What’s that got to do with my toilet?”

“Oh – you know those brown spots on the rim? Smokers often put their cigarettes on the toilet seat.”

…………

…………………….

…………………………………

“WAIT. WHAT?”

“Yeah. Come here. I’ll show you. See those burn marks?”

“Smokers do that all the time. They have burns on their sinks, burns on their toilet seats…”

“Okay. I get the sink thing. But the TOILET SEAT?!”

“Yup. See it all the time.”

“Do they put the cigarette back in their MOUTH after resting it on the toilet seat?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I’m not a smoker.”

“WHY the toilet seat??”

“I couldn’t tell ya.”

I was astounded.

Life didn’t make sense anymore.

What was I to do with this information?

And how exactly could he be so certain about this practice but then have no further details? You can’t just drop that bomb and give me nothing to my follow-up questions.

Clearly not all people who choose the pastime of smoking also opt for the hobby of setting their cigarettes on the toilet seat. OBVIOUSLY. But that did not stop me from asking all of my smoking friends and family if this was a norm. They all adamantly said that it was definitely not normal and that they’d never heard of it.

But I had so many questions.

1. Is the point of putting a cigarette on the toilet seat because you also are sitting on the toilet seat and don’t want to smoke and poop simultaneously?

2. If so, is it because it makes the cigarette taste like poop like when you have to change a dirty diaper in the middle of chewing your first bite of breakfast?

3. If so, doesn’t the cigarette still end up tasting like poop?

4. Do you ever worry about an explosion happening while combining your cigarette with the creation of methane gases? And should you really be moving your cigarette that much closer to the source of those gases?

5. DO YOU PUT THAT CIGARETTE BACK IN YOUR MOUTH. The answer to this question could (and probably will) change how I view humanity.

6. Is the smell of burning toilet seat helpful or harmful to the relaxation of your bowels?

7. Are you a bathroom smoker because you’re hiding your habit and if so, are you a current resident of my house?

I just don’t know what to do with this information. If you do, by all means – let me know.

Tonsillectomy: The Procedure.

June 19, 2015June 18, 2015 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Storytime

When I first posted about my upcoming tonsillectomy, I was shocked at how many of you also had experienced this lovely procedure as adults. My second shock was how many thought it was the worst thing that ever happened to them.

This was not exactly, shall we say, encouraging. But I appreciated the heads up nonetheless – I often prefer to plan for the worst and be pleasantly surprised if I never make it there.

(And for the record you all also said that it was totally worth it and you never get sick anymore, too, so you weren’t complete Debbie Downers. Thanks for that.)

I was going to share about my surgery and the recovery all in one post, but a) it got too long, and b) the recovery still lingers on like the unwelcome odor after changing a poopy diaper. So first, the procedure.

May 21.

Chris woke me up at a ridiculous hour that should not exist, as we had to be at the hospital at 5:45. I played loud music all the way there, feeling unusually pumped for being awake before sunrise and imminently close to what all promised to be two weeks of mouth hell.

We arrived and I watched the sunrise through the dirty hospital waiting room glass.

The receptionist rudely interrupted my photo op to give me my paperwork and ask for my insurance card and driver’s license.

“Oh crap! I didn’t bring ANYTHING with me…<insert panic>…OH wait – my husband handled all that.”

Seriously. Marry a man who plans ahead on your behalf. It is SUCH a good choice.

Chris dug my wallet out of his backpack and handed it to me silently.

The receptionist asked why I was having a tonsillectomy.

I explained.

I filled out all of the paperwork, which asked me why I was having a tonsillectomy.

I wrote my explanation.

A nurse came and retrieved me to hook me into a super fancy hospital gown that has a backwards vacuum attached to it to fill me with warm, tingly air (I guess they got tired of keeping all of those hot blankets around in recovery. What HAS happened to southern hospitality?) While attaching my blowers, she asked why I was having a tonsillectomy.

I explained.

She then asked me to take a pregnancy test, to which Chris said, “If it makes a difference, I’ve had a vasectomy.”

She looked at us both in the eyes, then said “No, it doesn’t make a difference.”

I appreciated her vote of confidence in me.

The anesthesiologist came in to talk about all of my knock-out needs and asked why I was having a tonsillectomy.

I explained.

Another nurse came in to hook me up with the drugs that my anesthesiologist wanted me to have pre-anesthesia, and asked why I was having a tonsillectomy.

I explained.

The surgeon came in – the one who told me I must have a tonsillectomy one month prior, and asked why I was having a tonsillectomy.

I began doubting my presence in the hospital at that moment and wondering if I could unhook my own dress from the vacuum and if I did, what exactly would be visible through that large circular hole.

Instead, I explained.

Finally, just when I thought the explaining would never end, they took me back to the OR and knocked me out. At least when I woke up I wouldn’t be able to talk to the recovery nurses who would, I was positive, want to know why I chose to have a tonsillectomy.

(Because I am certain that my graceful Uvula will look better without my ugly bulbous tonsils crowding her out. There. I explained.)

I woke up to offers of popsicles and ice chips, but seeing as how I couldn’t hold my eyes open, thought all of these options were severely premature.

I worked on my eyeballs while listening to the conversations in the curtained-off recovery areas around me, trying to remember them all because they were SO bloggable.

(I remembered none.)

Finally, they brought Chris in to sit with me. After a minute, he informed me that I was way too lucid to record me coming out of anesthesia.

He sounded slightly disappointed.

He also told me that my voice hadn’t changed.

He sounded slightly relieved.

Then he told me about his conversation with my surgeon – that he told Chris my tonsils were “full of stones and seeds of infection” and that they would have kept getting me sick if we hadn’t gotten them removed.

I mused out loud that Tonsils are just like Jedi. They protect you and keep you from getting sick…unless they go to the dark side. Then they make you sick and you find out that they are your Daddy.

The only thing that really hurt were my calves. I asked the nurse if the knife slipped and WHAT WAS GOING ON WITH MY CALVES, and she said something vague about the effects of anesthesia. I was pretty sure they’d been doing some sort of experimentation on me and I wasn’t happy. I’ve done a lot of running work on those calves in the past year for them to get messed up during a MOUTH surgery.

(A couple weeks into recovery they started hurting again and I was certain I would die from blood clots due to anesthesia. I did not.)

She wheeled me to the car, and Chris took me home. I was surprised at how well I could talk and how not horrific my throat felt. We took a nap together that afternoon, me propped up in a sitting position and snoring like a bullfrog in heat, him laying next to me and pretending not to hear.

That afternoon, we talked about how not-so-bad I felt, yet how foreboding the whole thing was. Everyone had said that a different day that was the worst for them – Day 3, Day 5, Day 8….I felt as if I’d been pushed off a cliff and I was currently enjoying the ride down, but there was no way to stop the imminent fall. Or like I’d just stepped foot in a haunted house, and I would never know whether the next scary thing was the worst or if the worst was yet to come.

Foreboding. It’s my least favorite movie quality.

(Right after train wreck.)

Good thing I didn’t know that I would experience a buttload of both in the next month.

Ten Types of Runners.

June 17, 2015June 17, 2015 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Running, This is TONGUE IN CHEEK People - Don't take me Seriously.

I’m no trailblazer when it comes to running – although I’ll take a new path for an adventure, on my normal runs, I prefer the most favorable locations. Minimized elevation changes (difficult to find in Birmingham), close to my house, running trails or sidewalks, and a clear route.

As such, I pass and am passed by an abundance of other runners and walkers. And I’ve begun noticing trends in runner behavior. Some are just boring runners running by, but a few have quirks. And it’s watching for the quirks that keep me entertained.

1. The Leap-Frogger. This runner cannot, or chooses not to, run at a steady and reasonable pace. You will first see him (or her) because you will run by them while they’re walking. Then, 60 seconds later, they will fly past, nearly knocking you over with their upsetting of the air around you. 90 seconds later, you will pass them walking – perhaps even limping. 60 seconds later, you will get sprayed with their sweat as they abuse the trail with their elephant-like sprint-thuds.

You cannot escape this runner. You might as well quit or forge your own path.

2. The Phone-Talker. This walker can only walk while carrying on animated phone conversations. And apparently, phoning while walking makes one extra-gossipy. Be sure to catch whatever phrases you can as you run past – they’re always juicy.
”With the PRESIDENT!”
”Then she found out he was also her step-brother!”
”He stole my favorite copy of 50 Shades of Grey!”
”Then returned it – highlighted.”

3. The Boobouncer. This vigorous running lady is either too largely gifted to be contained by or has never heard of The Sports Bra. As she comes running toward you, you will witness her receiving approximately 94 chin bruises (left and right sides) and you will weep when you think about how excruciatingly sore her chest will be tomorrow. Avoid the temptation to stop her and hand her the sports bra off your back. But feel free to run with extras to hand out en masse.

4. The Red Rover. This group of runners or walkers feel the need for togetherness and camaraderie. As such, they will run or walk in a beautifully straight yet completely impenetrable line. They will take up the entire trail as well as the passing lanes on either side, and their conversation will be so loud and in depth that they will not acknowledge your presence. You will need to know (and scream) the secret password to earn your way through.

5. The Thigh Gapped. You will look at this woman in envy – not because you necessarily want thigh gap, but because of how nicely her thighs are not destroying the inner seam holding together her leggings. Wait – Leggings?! Then you will become infuriated because the only reason you’re wearing legging capris on this blasted 99 degree July day is to save the skin on your inner thighs from being chafed into raw steak (Body Glide or no Body Glide.) If you had thigh gap you would SO be in shorts right now. Why isn’t she celebrating her lack of curves and wearing shorts?? Avoid the temptation to rip her unnecessary leggings off of her media-applauded body.

6. The Dog Tangler. This person has already been discussed at length here, but they’re worth mentioning again. She (or he) is unable to run without their dogs, and are careful to obey leash laws. However, they don’t mind at all when their dogs use those leashes to create, just for you, an instantaneous hurdle. Or worse, completely wrap their leash around your legs as you run by in order to make you fall to certain death. Dog Tanglers are one of the greatest perils to running – right behind unforeseen cliffs and poisonous dart frogs.

7. The Announcer. This guy (it’s always a dude) quietly runs up behind you and yells, right in your ear, “PASSING ON THE LEFT!!!” right before he passes on the left. With plenty of clearance to do so. One can only assume he enjoys being responsible for making you pee a little in your leggings.

(This dude is also often on a bicycle. And you better believe he uses correct arm turn signals as well.)

8. The Loudspeaker. This person enjoys running to music. They do not, however, enjoy headphones. Each time you pass him (because he’s also often a Leap-Frogger), you’ll get 3-6 more words to random lyrics stuck in the head.
“Cause Baby You’re a”
”So we’ll set the world on”
”Took effect to Ferg”

9. The Odiferous. This person stinks. Badly. But you’re running and they’re running so the smell won’t last long enough to be annoying – you’ll just be impressed.

10. The Blogger. This person will watch all of the other runners and then secretly write about them later. This is the worst type of runner indeed.

How Spiderman Wasn’t Made.

June 15, 2015June 14, 2015 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Boy Child = Bizarre., Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience.

Once upon a time, a spider got trapped in my son’s underpants and attempted to eat his way out.

Once upon a time was last week.

I woke up Friday morning to a text and two emails from my husband, who, despite happening upon a middle-of-the-night crisis, feels strongly that all crises are best handled if I am able to get a full night’s sleep. He’s not wrong.

The two emails, particularly the extraordinarily long one he sent me upon discovering this traumatic male situation after a 2:30am crying bout, were not as calm.

(Noah was crying, not Chris. Although from the tone of his emails, it’s possible that he, too, was crying.)

The first one ended with the tag line “God have mercy on us!” and informed me that he might be taking Noah to the ER if it got worse. The second one used the phrase “His penis is not well!”, and instructed me to take him to the doctor when we woke up.

This particular Friday morning fell the day after Ali had been stung by a completely unprovoked wasp, the day of our scheduled bathroom demolition thanks to the flood, and on a day where my voice was struggling due to tonsillectomy scar tissue, so I was conveniently already operating under Emotional Martial Law. However, my two replies above were while Noah was still asleep. When Noah roused and I surveyed the hazardous situation that had come to pass, my reaction was slightly less calm.

It was bad, y’all.

It was a suspicious package indeed. Looking as if there might be a grenade lodged in there, I worried that things might erupt into a shrapnel cloud of doom at any moment. And it didn’t help AT ALL that I had just published a story about a 2-liter-sized penis that ended up killing a man. Both Chris and I had Witch Doctor Penis on the brain as we mentally worked our way through our own crisis.

Thanks to the light of day and a full night’s sleep, I had a better guess than Chris was able to formulate: A spider bite.

Noah had gotten a nasty one a couple of weeks before (four nights after my surgery when I was barely lucid), so I was recently familiarized with the look of a spider bite. And on this particular morning, he had a similar new bite on his upper leg, along with a few other small bites around the area in question.

…Not that I was excited about my son being the recurring feast of a Brown Recluse or something similar, but at least knowing what I was dealing with helped my level of hysteria, and our Pediatrician had previously told me that 99% of spider bites are a non-event.

…Except that I was now having visuals of a Black Widow’s nest underneath his bed with thousands of tiny baby monsters that most likely WOULD HAVE been eaten by the considerable bat population that I’d evicted from our attic. I began contemplating whether I could ask the demolition crew at my house to just go ahead and take the whole thing down while they were at it.

But if it were a spider bite, it is summertime in the south – so the thought of blaming it on climate change or El Niño or a playground or some other such scapegoat helped hold me back from requesting that my residence be wrecking-balled.

I decided that Ali should not attend the doctor’s visit with us and took her to Chris’ office. After all, it was a “private” visit, and Ali did not need to be traumatized, as the other three of us were going to need counseling and a considerable amount of memory-blocking therapy after seeing what we had seen.

Plus, Chris offered his services to my day.

His description of the situation was fairly accurate,

Except that it was somewhere between this size,

and this size.

A Nurse Practitioner student saw us first at the Pediatrician’s office.

I carefully explained to her that Noah’s penis was quite swollen and that I suspected a spider bite, but was not positive what was going on.

She calmly asked me more details and took notes….until Noah pulled his pants down.

At which time she had a minor meltdown.

Following a gasp and a look that clearly communicated this was her first blimp-sized penis experience, she began asking him questions in an urgent and somewhat frightened tone.

“Have you been able to tee-tee?”

“Did it burn?”

“Do you have any blood coming out?”

Then she turned to me with wild, scarred, penis-rookie eyes and said “I will be RIGHT BACK with the doctor.”

A minute and a half later, Noah’s pediatrician came in alone, leaving me to assume that the NP was retching in the bathroom.

Before the doctor even saw it, she smiled and said,

“Don’t worry. Penises tend to react rather dramatically.”

Noah pulled down his pants.

“Believe it or not, I’ve seen worse.”

She and I carefully moved things about, found the fang marks, and confirmed that it was indeed a spider bite. She gave me bulging-penile care instructions (all over-the-counter) and sent us on our way.

I went to Target and bought two of everything she told me to use, plus every spider spray they had. It was as much retail therapy as I could muster while escorting a boy who was dragging around a ten-pound penis.

Noah was curious about all my purchases.

“What’s that Minion for?”

“It’s an ice pack. To put in your pants.”

“Then what’s the Froggy?”

“Another ice pack. To put in your pants.”

“What’s that red stuff for?”

“It’s medicine.”

“So my penis will quit being blowed up?”

“Exactly.”

The rest of the day consisted of a continuous regimen of Benadryl, a generous dousing of Hydrocortisone, and ice packs.

It wasn’t easy on Noah, as things were quite sensitive down there. During one of my dozen hydrocortisone applications, he looked at me and said gravely, “I’m going to need to cuddle after this.”

None of it seemed to help. I saw no progress in the size of things, but at least I was allowed to keep Noah in a double-dose Benadryl daze so he wasn’t fully aware of his risky business. And after all, the Pediatrician had seen worse. He’d be fine.

Thankful that Noah wasn’t headed for the Sunday night TLC lineup alongside Tree Man and Conjoined Quadruplets, Chris made the best of it. We dressed Noah in Spiderman PJ’s, told him how Peter Parker became Spiderman, and put him to bed.

The next morning, Noah came in my room to get his medicinal treatments.

We checked it out together, and were both filled with glee.

Noah expressed it best, though.

“LOOK HOW TINY MY FIRE HOSE IS!!!!!”

It may be the only time he ever says that, but in that moment, nothing could have been more exciting for him.

Later, we asked him, “So are you Spiderman now?”

He jerked his hands out in front of him, attempting to shoot some webbing.

“Nope,” he replied.

“Oh well, better luck next time.”

The Shirt of Summer.

June 12, 2015June 11, 2015 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year

Style is extraordinarily important to Noah – in a way that it never has been for Ali.

All shorts must possess six pockets – back pockets, front pockets, and cargo pockets. The cargo pockets cannot be too low on his leg or they’re tragically unacceptable.

He has three pairs of sunglasses that he has with him at all times, and they are used differently for specific situations. Green sunglasses are for the front yard, orange sunglasses are for the backyard. The third pair is a bit of a narrower cut, and he calls them his “regular glasses”. He can often be seen wearing these under another pair of sunglasses because he wants to be like Nana, his grandmother, whom he has spotted wearing regular glasses with sunglasses over them.

Color is important, as well – all clothing must be teal. Thankfully, “teal” is comprised of a wide range of shades that includes green and blue and everything in between. But not just one piece of clothing needs to be teal – all pieces of clothing need to be teal. Which often leads to a color situation that is neither cohesive or pleasant to look at.

His current favorite shirt is his Alabama Outdoors shirt. The fact that he can be seen on a billboard in this shirt coupled with its perfecting the teal-on-teal layering that he seeks in all things, it is his ideal go-to summer choice.

Except for one detail that is very disturbing: The big tree is on the back, and there is just a tiny tree is on the front.

This is not okay.

If you’re going to have a big tree on a shirt, shouldn’t it be on the front where you can see it?

Or so says Noah, who has requested that either a) I let him wear the shirt backwards or b) I special order him a shirt with a big tree on the front. He’s like a Hollywood Socialite Diva yet he’s a four-year-old boy in Alabama. It’s out of control.

We had to stop by Alabama Outdoors on Monday afternoon, and Noah was immediately drawn to the racks and racks of his favorite shirt in all the different colors (albeit none having the BIG tree on the front as it should be.)

He fell deeply in love with the brightest most florescent yellow shirt ever made. I’m pretty sure the fabric was woven from firefly buttocks.

Perhaps he was drawn to it because he was wearing two pairs of sunglasses and therefore it wasn’t burning his retinas as it was mine. Or perhaps he wanted me to be able to see his glow from anywhere in the city.

But I saw it as an opportunity.

(Not literally “saw” since my eyes were temporarily disabled. My mind’s eye was clearer than ever since my eye’s eyes were rendered inert.)

(And not as an opportunity to have something that wasn’t teal in his wardrobe, although that was a definite perk.)

Noah had been a bit trying that day so far, with 32 whines, 28 That’s Not Fairs, 55 Can we go/do/haves, 54 But why can’t we go/do/haves, and 35 When are we going to quit going/doing/havings.

But now he wanted something.

Badly.

So I bought it. And I explained to him the rules of engagement.

“If you are polite, nice, not whiny, and pitch no fits for two whole days, you can have this shirt. If you are unwise, whine, argue, or fuss, the two day clock starts over, and you have to be wise for two more days to get your shirt.”

The effect was immediate.

It was as if I’d gone to Wal-Mart, returned my grainy Great Value television, and exchanged it for a 60-inch Sony LED Smart TV with a lifetime subscription to Netflix built in.

He was a gentleman.

He was cheery.

He didn’t ask for anything.

He napped and bedtimed happily.

He didn’t whine.

And I didn’t even ask for this but all of a sudden every question was answered with a “yes ma’am” or “no ma’am” or “I’ll go find my shoes, ma’am.”

That evening, I overheard him explain the rules to Chris. “…and if I am unwise, the two days starts ALL over, sir.”

It was the most amazing 48 hours of my parenting career.

On Thursday morning, I told him that he had earned his shirt. I think he wanted to savor the moment, because he responded “I’m not ready just yet. I’ll put it on in a sec.”

An hour later, when we were outside playing, the moment had arrived.

He went inside, retrieved the shirt, found an acceptably-pocketed pair of shorts to pair with, brought them out to the porch, and stripped.

(Because we’re classy like that.)

The prize was everything he’d hoped for.

I shielded my eyes from the glare and took multiple pictures to savor this moment in my parenting brilliance. And began calculating the cost of giving him a new shirt every two days until he got married and wasn’t my problem anymore.

Because I really, REALLY enjoyed this version of my kid.

…the version which instantaneously vanished as soon as he was wearing his prize.

He returned to the whiny, when can we, why can’t we, that’s not fair four-year-old that I know and adore.

There was even a bout of crying.

Unfortunately for Noah, he didn’t realize that I don’t take a Once Saved Always Saved T-Shirt-Earning Theological Position.

And after he pitched a mini-fit when we were leaving the pool because it was thundering and the pool was closed and it was about to start down-pouring and I’d explained this to him four times, I felt it was time to take the beloved shirt back into my possession.

“If you’re wise for one whole day, you may have the shirt back. If you are unwise, the day count starts over.”

….Which explains why this season may be forever remembered as The Summer of The Endlessly Traveling Shirt.

And that’s okay.

Because parenting is all about whatever works.