The Scariest Day of my Life

Most people have one big fear in life. Some people are afraid of drowning. Some people are afraid of heights. Some are afraid of the dark and others are afraid of flying.

My biggest fear in life is "bee or spider in my car."

On Tuesday, my biggest fear came true. Often, when I tell a story, I exaggerate a bit. I assure you, there are absolutely no exaggerations in this story.

I left for work at my regular time, 8:10am. This gives me plenty of time to get to work by 8:35.I plugged in my iPod and selected the "Celtic Thunder" playlist, to reminisce about the concert I had attended on Saturday evening. I was driving along, cranking up the heat and defogging my back windows, when I noticed a flying insect in my rear-view mirror. It's probably outside, I reassured myself. I drove another block before I realized the "insect" was in fact, a bee, and it was, in fact, inside my car.

The word panic does not even begin to describe how I reacted. My heart lurched into my throat. My stomach began to hurt. My hands started shaking and I could barely see straight. The bee made one loop around my head before I decided -- in order to save the innocent lives of many, many people -- that I needed to pull over. I quickly turned into a cul-de-sac about a half a mile from my condo.

8:13am: I jump out of the car and slam all the doors. Now I am protected from the bee. I am safe. Crap, I have to go to work. I cautiously open all the doors and wait. The bee lands on my backseat. I grab a magazine from my trunk and try to shoo the bee out an open door. (Keep in mind that this entire time, I am trying not to cry.)

8:15am: The bee lands on my back window, so I start slamming the magazine on the outside of the window, hoping to scare the bee into leaving my car. The bee, probably now with a minor concussion, starts flying around crazily and lands back on the window. I repeat this several times until I realize the bee is now too brain-damaged to fly away. I am going to be late for work.

8:20am: Several people have driven past me, asking if I need help. "No, there is just a bee in my car. I'm fine." I walk around the car several times, pleading with the bee to leave. He does not. In fact, he hides. I search the car. No bee. I know he didn't leave because my eyes have been frantically watching the exits. The bee did not fly away. He is hiding in my car.

8:25am: I call the school and tell them I will be late. I neglect to tell them why.

8:26am: I call my mother. After LAUGHING at me (and suggesting things like "Open the doors," right, I hadn't even thought of that, and "Shoo it out," another great idea, thank you), she agrees to come help.

*Before you make fun of me for calling my mom, I remind you that this is my biggest fear in LIFE and I am about to pass out.

8:30am: Mom arrives, in slippers. She searches for the bee but can't find him. She actually gets IN the car to look for the bee. I am still five feet from the car.

8:35am: Mom decides that the bee is gone. (He is not. I am sure of it.) She shoves my coat against the back window, where I have decided the bee is hiding. She assures me that the bee will not be able to fly out from underneath my wool coat. I plead with Mom to trade cars with me for the day. She says no and drives home.

8:36 - 8:45am: I learn that I can safely drive all the way to school while ONLY looking in my rear-view mirror.

8:46am: One mile from school, the bee reappears. Apparently he has clawed his way out from underneath my coat. I open all the windows and concentrate on not driving my car off the road. I begin reciting out-loud, "The bee will not get you. He is in the back of your car. He will stay back there. You are fine. You are okay. You can drive to school."

8:50am: I make it to school, alive. I jump out of the car and run into the building, away from the bee. I'm only fifteen minutes late. My heart is pounding. I will not be driving home. I will live at the school until the bee is dead.

My mom came in to check on me halfway through the day. I gave her my keys and told her she had to go get the bee out of the car. (Side note: I have the best mom in the ENTIRE world.) She comes back and assures me the bee is gone. She looked in every corner of my car. No bee. He must have flown out when I opened all the windows. I must have been too busy talking to my crazy self to notice.

Thanks Mom.

Wash Your Hands Please

I hardly ever get sick anymore. My first couple years of teaching, I was sick nearly every day. I once had a cold for eight months (which was actually a really bad sinus infection, but because I refused to go to the doctor - for fear of getting a shot - I had no clue). I used almost all my sick days my second year of teaching. I was sick during the summer.

But now I'm relatively healthy. I can't even remember the last time I was truly sick. I think spending four years around children finally boosted my immune system.

However, despite my (new) overall healthiness, I still end up with the most random illnesses.

When I was 18, I got thrush. Thrush is a yeast infection in the throat. BABIES get thrush. Old people get thrush. Eighteen-year-olds do not get thrush. Especially not when they're at a Mariner's game with their boyfriend and can't swallow and start crying in the 7th inning.

Age 20: Ringworm on my neck. I went to Hawaii with my mom for a wedding and we went snorkeling every day. What I thought was an itchy bug bite on my neck turned into a round, red rash a few days later. It's very fun to have a red circular rash on one's neck...which most people thought was a hickey. My friend Tim diagnosed me by noticing that my rash looked very similar to the ringworm he saw on his COWS.

Twenty-two was a fun year. I had kidney stones. During a trip to Disneyland. During my first month of student-teaching. After suffering for five extremely excruciating months, my doctor finally decided to schedule surgery to yank the little bugger out. (Look up "lithotripsy" and cringe.) While I was under, the doctor searched and searched for the non-existent stone, which I had unknowingly passed that morning. His overzealous prodding led to a nicked ureter, which led to the passing of quarter-sized blood clots. Bring it on, childbirth.

I'll skip the fun-filled incident last year where I spent a few hours in the hospital with four bewildered doctors trying to diagnose a strange growth that eventually disappeared without any explanation (or diagnosis).

The point of all this is to bring up the fact that I have ringworm YET AGAIN, this time on my thigh. My parents adopted a baby kitten who, along with an adorable meow and a penchant for biting our hands, brought ringworm into their house.

"I've already had it. I won't get it. I'll wash my hands. It's not that bad anyway."

The culprit.

I want to cut off my leg. I can't even describe the itching. The non-stop itching. The painful itching. Who gets ringworm twice?! I'm not a wrestler!

Did I mention that the at-home remedy for ringworm is to put VAGISIL all over it? At Bartell's, I felt the urge to explain why I had to purchase Vagisil.

"I have ringworm...not a problem down there...my parents got this cat...no, I didn't put the cat on my thigh...I swear...it's for my ringworm."

I'm not sure the cashier was impressed with my story. Either way, gross.

The Stepford Wives of Wysteria Lane

We're finally finally going to have our first Emerson Crew* baby. My dear friend Amy is going to burst any day now and I simply cannot WAIT for the arrival of little Baby Ludwick.

But before the little is born, Liz and I wanted some time with our ex-roomie, so we headed down to Bend for a "relaxing" weekend at Amy's new house on Wysteria lane. (Seriously, the houses are perfectly spaced apart with ample street space for bike riding, Bob-pushing, and dog-walking. Also, all three of Amy's best blonde friends live within shouting distance of each other.) Lizzy and I flew on the teeniest airplane alive and I'm surprised Liz made it. The 10am cups of champagne certainly helped.

We stepped off the airplane into 95-degree heat and into the arms of our 8-months-pregnant friend, who had sent us an itinerary a few days before with detailed activities for our weekend. I was really looking forward to the FIVE MILE HIKE in NINETY DEGREE WEATHER on Day Four.

Over the course of four days, our pregnant friend (who is still more fit than me, but not Liz, who runs half-marathons) took us for miles-long walks to coffee shops, led us on a marathon shopping trip, blew up a gigantic raft for a float down the Deschutes River, and coerced us on a five-mile hike through the woods and along the river. Our flight home was the first time we sat down all weekend. We ate dinner at Matthew Fox's favorite restaurant (probably), were massacred by scary male pedicurists, fell in love with Kourtney and Khloe, and felt the little bugger kick kick kick. 

Our teensy plane.

All dressed up for Amy's Bend Baby Shower.

Coffee walk!

Waiting for Matthew Fox.

Waiting for Baby Ludwick!

Sunshine. Finally. Thanks a LOT Seattle.

Floating.

Good job ladies -- no thanks to Grant who took the electric pump.

The last days with Amy before she becomes a Mommy.

On the way home we flew right over Mt. Hood!

And Mt. St. Helens!

And Mt. Rainier! This was probably my favorite part of the trip!

You will notice there are no pictures of the hike. We foolishly forgot our cameras at home and didn't get to capture the breathtaking beauty of Bend. I am not being sarcastic. But if you would like to have a mental image, picture two VERY pregnant ladies sweating and two not-at-all pregnant ladies sweating and then picture the most pregnant lady pushing a stroller. I will stop complaining about working out and no one died on the hike.

Thank you Miss Amy for a wonderful weekend! We're not coming back until you have that baby!

_____________________
*The Emerson Crew is our ridiculously inseparable group of friends from college. Four girls and four boys turned into roommates and friends and husbands and wives and bridesmaids and groomsmen and our group keeps growing with the addition of spouses and finally finally we're going to have a baby.


**Henry already has a baby, but he moved away from us sophomore year, so Amy's baby really counts as the first Emerson Crew baby. Clarification. 

Birth Control

Everyone always asks me, "Because you're a teacher, does it make you not want to have children?" 

Of course I want to have children, but I'm not so sure I want more than one. I don't think I'll ever be able to understand the dimensions of sibling rivalry. I don't know how to share. I don't know how to compromise. I don't know how to NOT be the center of my parents' attention. (These are not faults.) Figuring out the dynamics between siblings is something I have never been able to do. More than one child would just confuse me.

And today happened. As if I was even thinking about inching toward the idea of having more than one child.

Background: I have a favorite student. C-Man. We're not allowed to have favorites, but he's transferring to a new school in the fall and I have no idea where I'll be come September, so now I can shout it from the rooftops. Favorite Student's mom asked me if I wanted to spent four days and three nights with the little bugger and his younger sister while she went on a business trip to Santa Cruz. I jumped at the opportunity, packed my yoga pants and very washable t-shirts, and prepared for the best babysitting gig ever.

Day one: 90 degrees, pool time for three hours, sunburned shoulders, mac and cheese for lunch and dinner.

Day two: Woken up by C-Man in a Buzz Lightyear costume, rain rain rain, endless movies, swim lessons.

Divine, right?

We're just closing up shop on day three. It started out well. I actually slept seven hours last night, as opposed to the (maybe) four that I got the night before. Took little sister to preschool, so C-Man and I played some Rock Band at my parents' house and ate rice krispy treats for lunch. Then we picked little sister up from preschool. We probably should have left her there.

We came home and she promptly stole the Toy Story 3 DS game from her brother, ran upstairs, and locked herself in her bedroom, which drove the little guy up the wall. He flew down the stairs, sobbing, and flung himself at my feet. "Leeeeeeena took my game." I calmly walked up the stairs to see little sister sitting in front of her closed bedroom door, looked extremely proud of herself.

"I put the game on my bed, locked the door, and shut it."

Her door locks from the inside, which meant we were now locked out of her room. And we had three hours until her baseball game. After an hour of sticking bobby pins and paperclips in the teeny hole in the doorknob, I texted Mom, who advised me to take the doorknob off the door. Which takes way longer than you'd think. Once inside, I confiscated the DS game which made me the most popular person in the house. I left the doorknob off, just in case she decided to lock her brother in her room (he wouldn't be able to unlock the door...fine motor skill).

About an hour before her baseball game, I asked little sister to go upstairs and change into her uniform. Not two minutes after I'd sent her upstairs, C-Man comes racing down the stairs. "Leeeeeeeeeena's stuck." Again, I calmly walked upstairs.

Little sister had LOCKED herself in her room. The doorknob was off the door, but the latching mechanism and the bolt were still in the door (I looked those two words up...I typed "door knob removal" into Google Images and browsed through pictures until I found what the little thingys looked like). By closing the door, it had latched shut, but without a knob, she couldn't unlatch the latching mechanism.

Do not panic do not panic do not panic. One hour til baseball and she is TRAPPED in her room. My father is AT WORK and cannot come take the door off its hinges. My mother is as useless as I am. My only helper is trying to climb all over me and stick his hand in the doorknob-hole. Little sister is throwing her body against the door. Do not panic do not panic.

After 15 minutes of coaching from my mom ("Just jiggle it? Are you staying calm? Push hard?"), I finally jab a screwdriver into a hole in the latching mechanism and push with all my might. The door popped open and she was free! 

I barely had time to pull myself up from my exhausted collapse onto the floor because C-Man immediately raced into her room screaming, "Me next!" I managed to shove my hand in between the door and the wall just as it was closing. 

We made it to baseball on time and I will be having one child.

Dr. Best Friend

I have a lot of best friends. I have two best friends for life, whom I've known since I was a baby. An infant, really. One of those best friends, I was a fetus (our moms were in child birth class together). I have my three best friends from high school. I have my three best girlfriends from college. I have a post-college best girlfriend who I met at work.  I have three best friends in my Small Group (who are kind of from college, but to not complicate things, we'll call them my Small Group best friends).

I also have my best guy-friend. We met our junior year of college and have shared plenty of awesome memories over the years. We went on two vacations together and nearly killed each other during the first one. Six days together was a little much. And I made him see Wicked, which probably tipped him over the edge. We got parking tickets on the same day because we were drinking beers in a kiddie pool on his balcony and were too "lazy" to move our cars. We both fell asleep at a bar one night (it was a long day of pirate parties).We both ended up in the ER within twelve hours of each other...when I was in Hawaii and he was in Seattle. He taught me how to play Guitar Hero, how to eat sushi, and when to let go of terrible relationships. I taught him that girls don't eat as much as boys, that concerts are way more fun in the back row, and how to get rid of stupid relationships.

Today was a major turning point in our friendship. My best guy-friend filled my cavities. Dr. Best Friend is finishing up his fourth year of dental school, which means that in two short weeks, he will become an official dentist. I don't have dental insurance and he needed something to do on a Wednesday morning, so I let him give me TWO shots in my gums and drill four holes in my molars. That, my friends, is trust.

He did a great job, but I'm pretty sure dentists shouldn't talk badly about their assistants in front of their patients. I let it slide. He let me listen to Snow Patrol and The Killers and I let him put needles in my mouth. After four LONG years of listening to stories about mandibles and implants and caries (which means cavities) and loupes and occlusions, it was amazing to actually watch him in action. 

I am beyond proud. And he didn't have to sit on me to give me the shots.

Caterpillars

My first day of student teaching, my mentor teacher handed me some gloves, a Qtip, and a sewing needle. She informed me I would be pollinating flowers. Why the needle? I asked hesitantly.

To keep the dead bees from flopping around while I swabbed them with a Qtip and then transfered the pollen to a flower.


Gross gross gross. I almost abandoned my teaching career at that exact moment. Good thing I kept going, because two weeks ago, I had the privilege of working once again with my least favorite thing in the whole entire world: bugs.

I escaped took a break from my little darling (you remember, she peed on me) for a week and subbed in a 2nd-grade classroom. The teacher's sister had hip replacement surgery, so I was called in to take over for five days. As the teacher caught me up on what I'd be teaching while she was gone, she innocently slipped in this little gem: "By the way, the caterpillars arrive on Wednesday, so you'll need to transfer them from their carrying case to their individual containers." She failed to mention the GIANT BALL OF FOOD/POOP the caterpillars would be smushed into when they arrived. More on that later.

Side note: when I was younger, the neighborhood girls and I spent hours outside capturing bugs, putting them in jars, and creating bug worlds. I was hardly squeamish about picking up worms and caterpillars, but that was when I was young and naive. Fast forward to last week.

The caterpillars arrived in a box, with the following instructions: REMOVE CATERPILLARS FROM BOX IMMEDIATELY. I wanted to eat lunch, but I pictured thirty caterpillars crawling around inside their container, desperate for food and their newfound friendships with twenty-four excited eight-year-olds. I sliced open the box.

It's hard to tell, but there is a large brown mass in the middle of this container. The mass is a mixture of caterpillar food and caterpillar poop, all rolled into one gigantic ball, covered with caterpillars. There are also some dead caterpillars smashed inside this food/poop ball. My job was to remove all the live caterpillars from the food/poop ball and transfer them to their individual containers.

But first, I needed to fill the mini-containers with caterpillar food. Which smelled like vomit. Vomit and rotten food. Vomit, rotten food, and poopy diaper. Worst smell ever ever ever. I used a spoon to smush some vomit-food into each caterpillar container. I gagged every. single. time.

I did not eat lunch. I had to breathe through my nose. I had to leave the room periodically to get fresh air.

Twenty minutes later, I had filled thirty caterpillar cups with the vomit-food. My next task was to transfer one caterpillar into each container. With a thin paintbrush. The poor caterpillars did not want to leave their food/poop ball and I swear their tiny caterpillar hands were clinging on for dear life. It only took me another TWENTY MINUTES to transfer all the caterpillars.

Ta da!! Forty minutes of my life...gone.

As of two days ago, most of the caterpillars (that didn't die) were cozied up in their chrysalises, waiting to become beautiful butterflies, which we aren't allowed to release into the wild, so the kids get to watch them shrivel up and die right before their very eyes. The circle of life.