Sloane, Author at The STUFF Sisters

When Mommies Freak Out

When my darling boy was a little over 2 years old, I drove the wrong way down one way streets and sped through red lights after looking both ways.

When my darling boy was a little over 2 years old, I drove the wrong way down one way streets and sped through red lights after looking both ways. Or maybe my husband did that. Can’t remember exactly who was behind the wheel because I may have been freaking out. We got there and parked in under 8 minutes.

My husband and I escorted our young son into Children’s Mercy Hospital way after midnight all those years ago on feet that never touched the floor. A mere few minutes before that, we had been sleeping in our bed when the sound of troubled breathing from the baby’s room woke us both with a start. We knew something was wrong, and it really sounded like he had swallowed something and it was stuck. Stuck right beyond where we could dig it out with cupped fingers. We know, because we tried.

We had been out earlier that night. The sweet boy had been with his favorite sitter in our home. We had houseguests – my very pregnant best friend and her husband were sleeping over while their floors were being refinished a few blocks away. They were asleep as well.

But not for long. When a wheezing sound from another human hits you that hard, you have trouble breathing yourself. I caught my breath enough to wake our guests, call the babysitter, ask a few questions, and dress us all for quality time in the emergency room.

I can still see my friend Cathy – out to there with baby #1 – in silhouette at the top of my stairs telling me to call her. She had the same look of fear in her eyes that I did.

We flew into the hospital, and everyone could hear that something was wrong. Those geniuses knew what it was from his first exhalation in their presence. They are that good. I believe we heard the word “spasmodic croup” before the next inhalation. We answered 900 questions, filed a gazillion forms, and paid a co-pay with a credit card in the exam room. And then our friend Scott walked in the room.

scott & D — Scott and our son on Valentine's Day this year.

How he knew we were there I will never know. He is a respiratory therapist at Children’s Mercy, and he walked into the room in the heat of it all. He was as cool, calm and collected as the other staff. They all seem to know each other at that particular hospital, and they all seem to love their jobs. It is palpable when you meet any of them – in or out of the hospital.

When it was ascertained that there already was a respiratory therapist in the room for our son and Scott was asked why was he there, he simply stated, in true Scott fashion, “I’m not here for him. I’m here for her,” and he swiftly pointed to me.

He made the whole room smile with that line. He made me laugh hard enough to have oxygen reach the bottom of my lungs – at the exact moment our son ceased to struggle due to the vapors coming at him from a crazy machine. He made the whole room relax.

And then he was gone. Back to the children that needed him. He hugged my husband and me, patted our son on the back, and left.

We spent a few more hours at the hospital, and we never laid eyes on Scott again that night. We went home and slept well. Our son never had another episode in infanthood. Or ever.

Lucky us. For having friends who know exactly when they are needed, and for having a son who knows to just have his croup “spasmodically” and not every day.

Lifecycles

Recently a friend posted a photo to Facebook that shook me a little bit. My mind was racing all over the place with memories of my own life.

Recently a friend posted a photo to Facebook that shook me a little bit. My mind was racing all over the place with memories of my own life. Of comments made in the past by strangers and friends. Then I let my mind go silent.

In the spring of 2008, my last grandparent passed away – My Dad’s mom. I hold firmly to my belief that I am a better person having had grandparents who loved me and were alive well into my 30’s and 40’s. Mostly, I am a better person for having had a hand in caring directly for my grandma during her last year.

When her health dictated that it was time for her to leave her Mid-Missouri home and move to Kansas City to be nearer to her family, she embraced it whole-heartedly. Her statement was, “I’ve always wanted to live in the big city!” The day she spoke those words to me, I wrote them down so that I wouldn’t forget that adventure comes at every age.

My father found a place for her to live in south Kansas City that was very near her primary care doctor, but I think he knew that the best medicine for her was to be super close to her grandchildren and great grandchildren. Finally, after all the years of driving to Mid-Missouri to see any of my grandparents, I had one living less that 4 miles from my home. I was a little bit excited.

I tried to visit her two times a week, but some weeks found me there only once. Those weeks were hard for me, because I have inherited from both of my grandmothers a need to not be “cooped up” and to “get out for a little while,” to paraphrase them both. I was always afraid that, when I was unable to visit, she would suffer from this virus we all shared. I called her every day, and we spoke of much. She let loose with a few thoughts she’d been harboring for years, and those utterances left me speechless several times. Deep issues regarding her life with my grandfather and, therefore, my father. I was glad she released them, and, two times in particular when I didn’t respond quickly, she asked if I was OK and I told her I just needed a little time to think about what she said. She replied, “I’ve got time.”

What was amazing to me about my grandma’s last year was that many of my friends and aquaintances were stunned that I would take my son with me to care for his great grandmother. I found no shame in having him help me with her hair, putting away her small amount of groceries, cleaning her bathroom, lotioning her legs, and, on one occasion, trimming her toenails. One person admonished me with this line: “He doesn’t need to see all that.”

Yes, he did. We all do. The lessons that are learned at the end of life are as great as the lessons I learned at the beginning of my son’s life.

He never saw her naked. He never cleaned up the truly messy parts of her bathroom. He sat on the edge of her chair and charmed her with stories of basketball and art class and his younger cousin. He told her about the trials and tribulations of the 4th and then 5th grades. He read her mail to her and described every detail of the art on the greeting cards, because the finer parts were lost to her macular degeneration. He helped her decorate her door and bedside table for the passing seasons and always was a guiding force on how the magnets and photos were displayed on her tiny under-the-cabinet refrigerator.

I was not prepared for the fact that so many people spoke to me about not understanding why I did all this,I talked to a family lawyer from the criminal lawyers Melbourne office. It was more people than those who could easily see why this was so important to me. And why it was important to have my son see the glory of living past 85.

A series of strokes dictated when the time came for her to enter the hospital and never leave. My son only visited her in the hospital once. It was early in the episodes, and she was cognitive and aware, smiling and laughing. She was still his “Gramma Ginny”. He got right up into the bed with her, and her eyes just blazed. I remember thinking he was so comfortable in a place that makes most people ultra-nervous and stiff.

I am amazed at how much he remembers from this year we had with her in The Big City. We showed her a good time, given all the limitations. We made a little magic.

p.s. I want to thank my friend Shelly DeMotte Kramer for letting me share her photo of her daughter with her father-in-law. You can see the second pair of hands to the left in the photo. Shelly has twin girls, and the human caring they share in this photo is amazing. Shelly and her family laid him to rest today.

p.p.s Casey wrote an amazing blog in 2008 about my grandmother. Find it here.

Falling in Love Again

For 17 years, we lived with one dog. He was amazing, and he was cherished. This past August, we let him go into his good night.

For 17 years, we lived with one dog. He was amazing, and he was cherished. This past August, we let him go into his good night. His name was Einstein, and I still miss him terribly. However, a month or so ago, I felt the grieving end. I was able to look at photos and say his name without a catch in my voice or a quick blink.

Einstein was our baby when we brought our bouncing baby boy home. They took to each other instantly, and it had everything to do with the full-face lick our son received when he was 16 hours old and the carrier was set in front of Einstein soon after our arrival home. They were thick as thieves, and Einstein never betrayed his love for our young man.

He stayed true to our son through the perils of toddlerhood. My theory? Because Einstein had spent our son’s babyhood under the high chair and it had been glorious for him. The new parent in each of us knew to be grateful for Einstein’s help in making sure the floor was always spic and span.

He stayed true to my husband and me when daily walks weren’t always achieved in a coordinated and timely fashion. We think this patience with us was direct compensation for spending every night for 17 years in our bed with us.

Then, last Wednesday, I started to fall in love again, and my voice only caught once that day. We were at the shelter, the final decision had been made, and the money had changed hands. We were merely waiting for someone to unlock the cage. When I said to my husband, “Let’s take him home,” I lost it just a tiny bit.

Here’s why:

Falling in love again has been easy. Edison is wonderful, and we will all grow a little bit older together. To me, it’s the beginning of another perfect love story,

p.s. Should you want to read more about Einstein, click here.

Photo Credit: These shots were captured just this afternoon by Joy Albright. I owe her one.

Love Affair

I fell in love tonight with a naked man in a museum.

With my 14 year old son standing by. I was not embarassed by my behavior.

I love Friday nights at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art because there are never crowds of people and it always has a hint of a festive mood – that “end of the week” buzz. The guards are a wee bit chipper and make more than eye contact. The rooms hum with the feeling that, although the weekend will be busy, this is the real calm before the storm. This is when the “real” stuff happens. This is when the art sings to you in a quiet room and sinks in a little deeper.

That’s exactly what happened between me and “Man Falling” by Auguste Rodin. He sang to me and I fell in love.

Tentacles

The holiday season brings out the best in me. Well, in my ability to handle many, many things.

The holiday season brings out the best in me. Well, in my ability to handle many, many things. As a self diagnosed “Type A Control Freak”, I enjoy this time of year. My only regret is that, with so many places to be and things to get done, I feel like I need more arms to hold it all together.

Which brings me to this photo:

I have very little time to read when my day ends, and reading is one of my favorite things in the world. My husband will account for the fact that, right now, there are very few minutes between the shower, me hitting the sheets, and me closing my eyes. Like everyone I know, my days in December are long, multi-faceted and demanding.

Two days ago, I found time to look through one of my favorite monthly treasures – National Geographic – and found this photo. It left me mesmerized and silent. Look at all the subtle colors. Look at the peacefulness.

I hope to feel like this in January. Contained. With all my tentacles in tact.

p.s. This photo must be credited to Jeffrey de Guzman. He captured it on a nightime dive in the Philippines. The octopus has found a place of rest inside a broken bottle. This little bit of magic was not part of an article but merely a favorite of the editors from photos received from readers. Check out December’s National Geographic Magazine here.

Indian Love Affair

I have loved saris for years. I’ve even wanted to own one …

I have loved saris for years. I’ve even wanted to own one and wear it. And for more than costume parties. I think this may be my true style. The authentic Sloane.

Tonight I went trolling on Google and Pinterest for images and was befuddled. All the women shown looked like hoochie mamas.

The woman to your left has not spent day one in India, I’m pretty sure. She’d be laughed off the continent.

Where’s the woman who was at Costco a few days ago that I followed down the main aisle totally mesmerized by her grace?

She walked at a full stride – on shorter legs than mine, which made my gait a bit crumpled as I walked behind her – and never once fussed with her clothes. She was older than me, darker skinned than me, sporting the most amazingly mixed shades of watermelon and salmon, and wearing not very attractive sandals, but I was in the throws of a full-on girl crush. I was a stalker, if only for a few minutes.

And then, tonight I found her again as she lives in my mind’s eye. Right here on my screen:

Isn’t she incredible? What’s not to love?

p.s. “Hoochie mama” is a coined phrase I lifted from my sister Casey. Make of it what you will, but know that she cracks me up. Here are a few more hoochie mamas.

Never Say Never

Today I stooped to a new low, even for myself.

Today I stooped to a new low, even for myself. I answered – and sent on! – a chain letter via the Internet. But only to eight people, who I’m sure now think seriously less of me. In my defense, it came from a reliable and trusted source, and the message was sincere and did not involve a scheme of any flavor.

I had not sent one of these since I folded six letters in the 7th grade and sent them on with quarters taped to them. I was going to be rich. The letter said so.

I told my 12-year-old self – when the money failed to roll in – that I would never do that again. I asked myself, “How could you be so stupid?”

My 46-year-old self answers, “because you followed your heart and threw caution to the wind.” This wiser me remembers recently thinking, “I’ll never do Facebook. Who has time for that? Pinterest? There’s not enough hours in the day for crazy, frivolous things.”

Now, at the end of a busy day before a very busy weekend, I have logged out of Facebook, finished pinning in Pinterest, and received two – count them two! – responses from the recipients of my first chain letter in 34 years.

Today Was The Day

For well over 30 years, I have driven past Bothwell Lodge and told myself – and my occasional fellow passenger – that I would visit some day.

For well over 30 years, I have driven past Bothwell Lodge and told myself – and my occasional fellow passenger – that I would visit some day. There was never time to stop on my mad dashes to my father’s lake house and its peaceful embrace. My return home on the Sunday nights of my past found me looking at it from the highway knowing it was locked up tight and holding firmly to its visitor hours.

Today was the day, however. We have had an amazingly lovely fall in Missouri, and a destination is always a good thing when you take off on a day trip with the ones you love. Even after sleeping in, the Bothwell Lodge was in our sights by 12:30 pm.

A friend of mine commented on Facebook, when I posted a few pictures, that he always imagined the King and Queen of Missouri lived there during his trips through this region in Mid-Missouri. The lodge does make that impression from the highway, but, when you get around to the other side, it looks like a large but quaint home. We took the tour from a young and informed tour guide who didn’t have to tell us that Mr. Bothwell wasn’t big on interior decoration. The furnishings were spare and ran to the utilitarian in most rooms. There were things to ooh and aah over – like the scale of the rooms, the wood used throughout the house, and the breathtaking views. The details in the home were what constantly caught my eye.

The best thing about today was being with the two people who love a road trip as much as I do: my son and my husband. We all needed a quick trip out of the city, and this fall day was perfection.

p.s. The Bothwell Lodge is a State Historic Site, and the grounds are even sparser than the interiors. Today the trees and their colorful bounty provided all the pomp and circumstance. We, however, provided the circus acts on the lawn.

Summer Goes

On this, the last day before Autumn officially begins and my favorite season ends, I wanted to share a blog I wrote in August of 2007. I can still see the evening vividly, and the memories are overpowering.

Enjoy. Here it is.

Sloane

Every Little Bit Helps

I am patting Office Depot on the back big time.

I am patting Office Depot on the back big time. At a time when the Earth’s going a bit crazy with dramatic weather tantrums and clearly pointing fingers at the humans who brought on the global warming, Office Depot sends us our order in a bag. Rock on!

For years they have sent us our toner cartridges and other items that can’t be found at my neighborhood store in too huge boxes filled with packing – bubble wrap, air pillows, etc. It was a terrible waste, even though STUFF reclaimed and recycled every piece of it. But now, welcome to the new delivery vehicle.

I’m lovin’ them.

Sloane