Not Being There.

It was 9:54 last evening when the phone rang.  I saw the unrecognizable name on the caller ID and chose to ignore it disturbed by the fact that someone unknown was calling so late.  Seconds later my cell phone rang.  That familiar feeling of panic set in.  I knew it wasn’t good.

“Kristy, it’s Becky from Camp Needlepoint,” she said in a hurried voice.  Immediately, I chill ran through me from head to toe.  Before she could say another word, I began to tear.  “Yes,” I said quietly fearing the worst.  “He’s okay, but we’re at the ER.  I’m here with the head Endocrinologist that’s staying with us this week.  We need you to talk to admitting so he can be seen.”

“What’s wrong,” I whimper.  “He’s got a really bad stomach ache.  He blood sugar is in range, so we’re hoping it’s nothing serious.” 

She handed the phone to the woman who had to speak with me about admitting Eli.  She had to ensure that I would allow my son to be treated.  After the formalities, she indicated that the Endocrinologist would call me as soon as they got word.

After I hung up the phone, pain ran through my veins.  Paralyzed with fear, the same fear and panic that struck me when he was first diagnosed with Type 1.  At that time, I was stranded on an airplane in Atlanta – not there with him.  This time, he was in Wisconsin and I at home – again not being there.  Not being there for him when he needed me most.  Needing his Mom.

Less than 15 minutes later, the Endo called and mentioned that Eli was being checked by the ER Doctor.  He brought Eli to the ER as his symptoms were not normal.  Eli was holding the side of his abdomen in severe pain.  He just didn’t seem like the kind of kid that would complain.  He wanted to ensure it wasn’t appendicitis.  He would call back when he knew more.

Waiting.  Fearing.  Sobbing for my son.  It was unbearable.  Not being there. 

An hour later, the call of relief came.  No serious issues, just a very bad tummy ache.  They gave him some meds and took him back to camp.  In true Eli style, he demanded to spend the night with his friends in the cabin – not the medical cabin.

So my littlest angel is better today.  A blessing.  A miracle. 

But, my fear of not being there for him burns in my soul.  I’m not sure how to recover.

Away at Camp. A Mother's Journey Continues.

One of the most gut wrenching pieces of writing I’ve ever created was A Mother’s Journey, written two years ago when we sent Eli off to Camp Needlepoint just one year after his diagnosis with Type 1 Diabetes.  It was a cathartic piece as it made me come to terms with the emotions I’d been ignoring for so long.  Yet, the pain flowed through my fingers as I took my sorrow and anger out on the small keyboard.  Even now, when I read the short story, I’m taken back to that dark time in my life.  As a mother, I’ve come along way since then yet the journey continues.

The weather Sunday afternoon was strange.  Gray clouds smothered the sky while the thick muggy air couldn’t decide whether or not it wanted to be hot or cold.  The rain threatened to break like a fever but the stubborn atmosphere wouldn’t allow it.  The three of us sat quiet in the packed SUV.  It contained a week’s worth of camp goods and medical supplies.  This would be our third trip to Camp Needlepoint to drop off Eli.

I’m not sure if it was the stack of buttermilk pancakes that Eli insisted on consuming at IHOP before we made our way to Wisconsin, but he was unusually quiet.  I stared ahead gazing out of the window holding back the tears.  There was no reason to cry.  I’d been here before.  Camp means freedom.  A week away from checking blood sugars eight times a day, no insulin reservoir changes, not having to wake up in the middle of the night to check on him and no counting carbs.

Freedom also means letting go.  And that’s the hard part. 

Eli is still a child and not quite ready to take on the full range of responsibility to managing his disease.  This year he has come so far.  He made it through the first year of middle school, learning how to maneuver more than one primary teacher and navigating the lunchtime diabetic routine.  In true Eli fashion, he charmed his way into the hearts of the adults and students making sure to take full advantage of his ‘diabetic hall pass’.  

Just two weeks ago, he had his first overnight at a friend’s house.  Although he’d asked Mom dozens of times prior, this time Dad made me let him go. Thanks to technology, our diabetic routine happened virtually.  All went well.

So why do I sit here alone weeping?  Longing for the control to ensure my son’s okay.  He’s surrounded by dozens of other diabetics, doctors and nurses.  He’s having the time of his life.  The sun is shining bright today and although he is not with me, I can see it shining brightly in his blue eyes.

I weep because I know he will come back stronger and more independent.  A step closer to a more normal life.  I weep because there will be a day when he won’t need me as much, and I’ll have to let go.  I weep because I know the worry as a mother will never cease.

Dear Mr Toaster Oven

Dear Mr. Toaster Oven,

 It didn’t take long for me to notice you sitting there so stately on the shelf at the big box discount store. Although I’ve dreamt of your ability to simplify my life many times, I’ve often passed you without a glance. But this time, there was something that made me pause. Could it have been the lonely pizza roll left on the bottom of the oven that ignited the most recent kitchen fire? Perhaps it was the portrayal of the sexy meals made in glorified toaster oven on The Real Housewives of NYC. I’m not sure, but somehow you wound up in my cart tucked next to 12 pack of toilet tissue.

 I proudly removed you from the packaging, cleared off a space on the already cluttered small counter and announced your arrival to our family. Promptly, the three men entered our small kitchen. There was cautiousness about them. One sigh. One look of curiosity. It was obvious that the three men thought of you just as another kitchen gadget to be soon forgotten. Tucked away with the George Foreman grill, quesadilla maker, juicer, panama sandwich maker and various crock pots. But no! You are different. My partner in every day cuisine.

 Mr. Toaster Oven, it’s been 30 days since we’ve been together. We survived the four dozen chocolate chip cookie power-baking marathon for the basement full of 12 year-old boys. You’ve taught a 16-year-old food the value of frozen food aisle of Costco. Best of all, we’ve made a month of meals without activating the smoke alarm.

 We will have years of meals together. And although I’m not a sexy Real Housewife of NYC, I can cook like one now.

Marlins Park - Worth the trip.

To date, our family has visited 13 Major League stadiums.  Only 5 more to go to complete our MLB bucket list.  Visiting the Miami Marlins stadium was a high priority for Eli as he has a soft spot in his heart for nearly all Miami teams.  

We made our way via crazy taxi to the Marlins Park two hours pre-game to ensure that we could get a prime spot for batting practice.  Eli has mastered the art of batting practice ball retrieval.   Arrive early, park yourself in the best outfield spot directly adjacent to the outfielders so they can hear your “over here” chant and dress in full game garb.  For some reason, the combination never fails.  Eli walked away with an official MLB baseball – one of many obtained at various ballparks.  (It didn’t hurt that Mom flirted with the Philly outfielder.  Yes – I’m a desperate mom.)

Our seats were fantastic - directly behind home plate.  We were surrounded by Philly fans, which made our cheers for the Marlins even more satisfying.  Best yet, the Marlins won the game and Eli’s favorite play Giancarlo Stanton hit an amazing home run.

It took us nearly an hour and several cab dispatch calls to find a taxi that would take us back to South Beach.  It was a great lesson in patience and persistence for my young man.  Never did he get frustrated or feel we were stranded.

All in all, the game was a highlight of the trip.

Life is a Fairy Tale

Once upon a time…

Is that the way I really look at life?  Well, Eli thinks so.  On day three of our Miami vacation, Eli laid it on me.  He asked, “Mom, why do you see life as a fairy tale?”  Completely taken aback by his comment I asked back, “Why do you think that?”  He paused and looked around the café and said,   “Because, you are always looking for the story in everything.”  At that point I realized that he is right.  I’m a dreamer.  And dreamers, dream.  They have characters in their head just waiting to come out to make reality out of nothing…simple things, magical things.

Sitting at the small table, munching on our Greek salad and three egg omelet, I had been commenting on a middle aged couple that was seated outside of the restaurant.  I was telling Eli their story when he interrupted me with his question.  Their life wasn’t a fairy tale…at least not in my head and the way that I played out loud their pain to my young son. 

Later, he stopped me again as I let out a sigh on our walk through the quaint two block neighborhood of Espanola Way.  The shops were simple and charming.  The street lined with beautiful trees and strategically placed flower baskets.  The smells of Latin food filled my soul as I stopped to remember this moment with my young son. 

And even though Eli was right that I am a dreamer and I sometimes see life as a fairy tale.  It was a fairy tale that afternoon.  As we pretended we were native Italians eating a grand lunch at the charming restaurant, for that moment I’ll always remember sitting with him sipping a glass of Prosecco, munching on the best pizza I’ve ever eaten and enjoying his company, and most of all our laughter.  Pure reality.

Trouble in South Beach

A few months ago Eli reminded me that this year he was to celebrate his Golden Birthday in October.  He also reminded me of a promise I made to him many years ago.   I would take him on a special Golden Birthday trip.  This included a long weekend anywhere in the continental US.  The location of his choice.  To my surprise the 12 year old had been planning his special trip for some time.  The location choice was easy.  He wanted to either see a Miami Dolphins or Miami Marlins game.  With the inaugural season of Marlins Park, the choice between the two nearly made itself.  So research on where and when started soon after.

South Beach with a 12 year-old boy?  In July?  Was I nuts?  No way…I was up for the adventure.  Nothing is more important to me than sucking every moment that I can from my boy’s childhood and making memories that will last a lifetime for them.  One on one time with each boy is extremely important for Jon and I.  So while I’m in South Beach with Miami, Jon will be on a road trip to Cedar Point in Ohio with three sixteen year old young men.  Good luck to yah, honey!

A few things that good moms need to prepare for in South Beach:

1. Have the topless beach talk with your kid.  Although we were lucky not have been exposed by this while on the beach, it doesn’t hurt to be prepared for the conversation.
2. Do your research on hotel spots.  Ocean Drive hotels are far too small, don’t have pools and a bit ‘cheesy spring break’ atmosphere.  Plus, you won’t get the pristine ocean access that you’d expect.  We stayed at the Kimpton Surfcomber Boutique Hotel.  It was spectacular.  Not too many rooms, but large enough for two people.  The pool and cabanas are lovely and the access to the white sand beach is right out the back door.
3. Watch your teenage girls on the beach.  I’ve been blessed with two boys.  If I had a teen aged daughter, I’d keep her out of South Beach.  A tall, dark and handsome club promoter sought out the two 18 year old pretty girls next to us on the beach, took their cell phone numbers and ensured he would get them into the club at 1:00 am – even if they were not 21.  Of course, they were instructed to wear short dresses and high heels.  Very scary and they fell for it.
4. Know your way around town.  Find your hot spots to visit before you go.  (Art Deco, Espinola Way, Lincoln Road Mall and Ocean Drive.)  Your feet and taxi budget will thank you.  Don’t bother with a rental car as parking is in short supply and expensive.  You’ll spend far more on parking fees than your rental car.  Take a cab!
5.  Gratuity is included in your bill.  Don’t make the mistake of paying your tip twice.  You’ll notice that service in most restaurants isn’t that great.

Luckily, we had no trouble in South Beach…but some adventure.  More to come.

The Hotel Modern. Don't let the name fool you.

New Orleans has been on my list of places to visit for years. For some reason it never surfaced to the top while planning vacations. It's also surprising that the hundreds of cities I've traveled to for business, New Orleans and I never crossed paths. So when asked to attend a conference this week in NOLA that old familiar excitement of work travel returned.

With work travel comes long, exhausting hours. This trip was no exception. But I was determined to find a few hours to explore this grand city. I didn't have to look far for an adventure...one was waiting for me as I arrived at the hotel. It should have been apparent when the cab driver had never heard of The Hotel Modern, it wasn't in the Hotel Snob worthy category. Yet after waking at 4:00 am for a two connection flight, setting up the exhibit hall display and a pair of shoes that made my feet swell like watermelons I was just ready for a nice meal and a warm bed.

The Hotel Modern has a snazzy ring to it, but ironically lacked the modern amenities that its name implies. Such amenities as an iron or a coffee pot, two basic items required of the business traveler. The hotel does come equipped with a squawking parrot that greets you in the lobby, a dark entry lit with candles and a chair to sit in while the attendant goes into the back room to retrieve your room key. There is no registration desk. The friendly manager did provide me with a nice glass of white wine during my 15 minute wait for the room key to arrive.

"Your room is located on the third floor," stated the obnoxiously snide young man. As I walked away attempting to balance my luggage, laptop bag and glass of wine (apparently the Hotel Modern doesn't have bell men), the young man smirked, "It's in building B, follow the signs." The door to the all black elevator closed and I took a deep breath when I selected floor three.

There were no signs for building B and the hallway ended before my room number. Looking disgusted now the poor housekeeper looked at me out of the corner of her eye. Without saying a word she pointed to a gray door in a dark hallway that had a red exit sign lit above it. Slowly, I opened the heavy door, still attempting to juggle my belongs to find an gloomy open court yard that led to two sterile gray buildings. “I have to walk outside to get to my room?” I thought. Too tired to go and complain I ventured my way into the 80-degree 10x10 hotel room that was hot, musty and dark. Not a place for a business woman traveling alone.

Knowing that there were no other rooms left in this city, I decided not to let my persona “Hotel Snob” take over and find a better room, I just crashed on the small bed to take a long, hot nap. Note to self. Next time I will do my homework.