Ranting For Love

OK, it's soapbox time.

Right now my mother-in-law is in the emergency room waiting for a bed in ICU because she may have bronchial pneumonia. What started out as a "cold" on Christmas worsened, and she didn't go see a doctor.

About a month ago, Michael and I were in the emergency room because he was having intense headache pain that ended up being caused by a neglected sinus infection.

Noticing a trend? If there is one thing I inherited from my father (because this is definitely a Spinner trait and not a Meronoff trait), it is GO TO THE DOCTOR IF YOU ARE SICK - Especially if you are sick and then it gets WORSE.

I've been trying to understand why people don't go to the doctor when they are sick. Perhaps they are afraid of what they might discover. Perhaps they are lazy or simply won't make the time to take care of themselves because they are too busy "living" (I use quotes because, really, how well can you live when you are ill?). Maybe they think they've been down this road so many times that they think they know what they need to get better (A total disregard of the concept of progress - anitbiotics that worked for you 5 or 10 years ago may now be outdated. You wouldn't still put leeches on your body and bleed the problem out, would you?).

I'm sure it's a combination of many of these issues, and I know I am being completely judgemental right now, but I just hate to see people that I care about going through what could have been prevented.

So please, read my rantings as an act of love.

Organized Chaos

Our office at ATC usually falls into that oxymoronic category of "organized chaos." Things may look completely uprooted and insane, but there tends to be a method to all the madness, and in the end we make things work.

Today I had to set up the lobby at the Herberger Theater Center. We don't own the space, so whenever we are performing a show there we "brand" the lobby with all things ATC so our patrons will know they are at an ATC show. Setting up the lobby isn't very difficult, but I had to do it myself this time since Heather is gone and Joe is on vacation.

So, there I am, doing the manual labor part of my job when I realize that I have brought the wrong easels with me. ARG. Now I have to go back to the office and get the right easels--which is baffling me as I'm driving because I don't remember seeing any other easels. Sure enough, I get back to the office, and I cannot find the easels anywhere. I've now enlisted the help of Sara, and the two of us are hunting around the marketing office, looking for black easels that (and now I remember) should be in skinny white and orange boxes. Our conversation goes something like this:

Sara: Are you sure they're in here?
Me: Yes. Heather and I brought them in here when we broke down the lobby for Bad Dates.
Sara: Where did you put them?
Me: Right here (I'm on my hands and knees) by Joe's desk.
Sara: Could they be downstairs?
Me: I don't see why. This doesn't make any sense. They are always right here by Joe's desk.
Sara: Can you text him (meaning Joe)?
Me: No. His phone won't work. I think I'm going to have to call Jonathan (Now realizing I don't even have Jonathan's number, just a head's up from Joe that I might be texted by him through Jonathan's phone).
Sara: Who's Jonathan?
Blah . . . Blah . . . Blah . . . Explain to Sara who Jonathan is . . .
Me: Joe cleaned up before he left . . . Where would he have put the easels?
Sara: Yeah, this is the cleanest I've ever seen this place.
Me: Unless he put them in the closet (open closet door)
Sara: And there they are!
Me: Right where they should be all the time, instead of on the floor near Joe's desk.

The beauty is, no one who attends Hank Williams: Lost Highway at the Herberger Theater Center will know about my messy office. They'll just see beautiful photographs displayed on easels.

Mashed Potato Madness

My children are quite unpredictable when it comes to meal time. If they're hungry, they'll eat. If there's something more exciting going on, food may be the farthest thing from their minds. As a rule, Kyle tends to be what people would call a "better eater" than Dylan. Kyle will actually try things that you offer him, while Dylan tends to stick to the familiar: bananas, bread, PB&J and pasta. Sometimes he'll surprise us, but I don't expect to see him chowing down on a stalk of asparagus anytime soon (unless, perhaps, he's dipping it in barbecue sauce).

Last night we celebrated Chanukah. My mom made a wonderful meal, and we were all gathered around the dining room table enjoying our roast beef, latkes, kugel and other yummy dishes. Kyle was doing a pretty good job with his latke and apple sauce (until he was full and then proceeded to smoosh his leftover piece of latke into the small crevice in his high chair tray--a signature move). Dylan was absolutely refusing to sit in his chair, so he climbed up on his papa's lap and was stabbing away at David's plate with his own fork. One thing my boys will do when they get tired of eating themselves is feed others. Dylan started out by offering David small bites of cranberry sauce and green beens with his Donald Duck fork; however, he had some difficulty when he got to the mashed potatoes. Fingers worked so much better. Within minutes, Dylan was grabbing fistfuls of mashed potatoes and shoving them into David's mouth (who was such a good sport, I might add). Dylan wasn't trying to be silly or messy--he was in the zone. His goal was to feed his papa, and if that meant grabbing fistfuls of mashed potatoes and feeding him that way, that was how it was going to be!

Although this sort of activity isn't a normal occurance for us, the chaos of mealtime is something I believe we will be experiencing for a while. It will get better when they're three, right? Four?

An Evening of Silliness

I believe it is official. The worst pick-up line EVER was uttered at Rosie McCaffrey's Pub last night: "So, did you order food here? [Yes] So, did it take a real long time? [No, not really]." You would think that would be the end of the conversation, but then came the lingering awkwardness, limp hand-shake and I couldn't hold back my giggles. Thankfully, Joe arrived to talk about adventures in the bathroom, and the poor, poor man was gone . . .

I had such an amazing time last night (of course, all under horrible circumstances since one of my favorite people is leaving ATC). I believe the evening's moment to be treasured was when a stretch race-car/limo pulled up and a crowd of drunken and happy men poured out (bachelor party, perhaps?) of it. As we were all admiring this very interesting vehicle, I saw that Joe actually reached into an open window of the car, stole a beer (Michelob Ultra, I think), put it in his pocket, took it to our next destination, and then drank it. Hmmm . . . Maybe it doesn't sound as funny or exciting now, but last night . . . . No, it does still sound funny.

I feel so grateful to have such amazing people in my life. We often face some very stressful times, but our camaraderie makes whatever sacrifice we have to make so very worth it.

Dental Hygiene Enigma

At some point yesterday, UPS delivered a small box to our house. This is not an unusual occurrence around this time of year; however, when Michael opened the box (expecting to find goodies of some sort) he discovered 72 tubes of trial-sized toothpaste (all Crest). Strange, right?

Even more odd, the box was sent to "JMKD Productions," a title Michael once used as a signature on a home video of the boys' first year. Also listed was a phone number to our supposed office (Proctor & Gamble apparently think JMKD Productions is a dental office as the box also included the following message: "Thank you for recommending Crest to your patients"). I called the phone number and received an error-type of message.

Since I have no idea as to WHY this box arrived at our doorstep, I will contemplate WHAT to do with 72 tubes of trial-size toothpaste (oops, I mean 71--Michael wanted to use one of them last night, just for fun).

• Insert ornament holders into the bottoms and decorate the Christmas tree
• Discreetly place them on co-workers desks
• Attach them to the tops of holiday gifts
• Develop my own line of practical jewelry
• Be "that house" and pass them out on Halloween
• Empty all of the toothpaste into a plastic container and then just dip my toothbrush in whenever I need toothpaste
• Donate them to the local food bank?
• Generate an additional income by selling them at a cheaper price than the supermarkets
• Use 1 a day for 71 days until I develop OCD habits and need to seek therapy
• Take the delivery as a message from God that I am 4 MONTHS OVERDUE for my dental check-up and need to call immediately to make an appointment!

You know you're at Disneyland with the Spencer twins if . . .

Dylan is attached to his papa's shoulders.

When any major piece of machinery zooms by (ie, train, people mover, rollercoaster, etc), Kyle shouts, "Toot-toot!"

Dylan is climbing up a strange lady's leg, trying to get her balloon.

Kyle is in a great mood, doing his screaming schtick which sounds like a loud, high-pitched bark that lasts for several moments at a time.

Dylan is climbing into a strange child's stroller, trying to get his balloon.

Kyle is falling and getting a boo-boo on his (insert body part; ie, head, finger, toe, etc).

Dylan is drinking his papa's beer (Bad Papa).

Kyle is saying "whee!," even if a look of complete fear is on his face.

Dylan and Kyle go on more rides than their daddy, who is afraid of anything that moves up and down or round and round.

My Guide

Over the past few days I've been feeling this strange sort of pain in what I can only describe as being in my soul . At first I thought I was having anxiety about selling our house or our upcoming move (Which would be well justified)--maybe there was a little bit of that, but Michael and I talked through everything, and I felt better . . . kind of.

Then I started craving (This probably isn't the right word, but I truly cannot think of a more appropriate verb) strange things like specific songs (By bands I never listen to, of which I don't even own a single piece of music) and then certain smells . . . It's just been so odd.

Today I was playing with the twins and Kyle had this look on his face, and there he was--It was my brother Kevin. And then everything made perfect sense. I've been missing Kevin so much lately, and the knawing feeling I'd been having intensified at this realization. Let's be clear: I always miss my brother. Not a day goes by that I don't think about him in some random way or another, but it's really never a sad feeling. It's more like I'll see something funny that reminds me of him, or he'll just enter my thoughts and kind of hang out for a while. And it's never heavy or depressing or painful.

I think there are two main reasons why I've been struck with these pangs lately:

First, Dylan and Kyle are not really babies anymore. They're becoming little boys, and their features are changing. Everyone knows that Dylan is the spitting image of me (With Michael's chin and possibly his nose--let's hope!), and lately Kyle is a perfect blend of Michael and Kevin. Put some curl in Kyle's hair, and there you go! They're starting to act like little boys, too. When Dylan does something goofy or deviously destructive, I think of Kevin (Like the time he sawed off the wooden handles of two hammers to make nunchucks). Or when Kyle does something really sweet and cute like "oohing" and "ahhing" over new clothes or rubbing soft fabrics on his face, I think of Kevin (Was there ever a more tactile kid? He used to bury his face in clothes at department stores).

Second, as my children get older, they begin to understand the world around them and become more familiar with the people in it. I know that one day I'm going to have to talk to them about Kevin, and I just don't know how to do that. I know what I would say to them if they were much older and could understand more, but how do I begin to talk to them about this as toddlers or as preschoolers? I'm just putting it all off until one day they look at one of the many pictures my family has of him, and they'll ask me--I know they will--who he is.

And the calm wave that is rushing over me right now assures me that when that time comes, Kevin will be there to guide me.

Not your typical Yoplait commercial

Lately, dinnertime at the Spencer house leaves our kitchen looking more like a zoo than anything else. I always knew the stereotypical image of a toddler sitting in his or her highchair with food everywhere, but for some reason I guess I thought my twin toddlers would be exempt. Ah, the good old days when I could believe my own lies . . .

Last night all four of us were actually together for a meal. As I was preparing the side dishes for our "adult" dinner, Michael was attempting to get some food in the boys: meatballs, bananas, bread . . . then the magical winner, yogurt (or as Dylan calls it, "yoshow!"). Finally they were interested in eating something, so we dished out the yogurt into two small bowls and handed them their spoons. They're not exactly pros at feeding themselves yet, but they refuse to let us feed them. Sometimes, when they're trying to feed themselves, we can shove a few spoonfuls into their mouths without them really realizing it. Ah, victory.

So last night they're dipping away into their yogurt, and Kyle is absolutely covered with blackberry yogurt. He has purple gunk EVERYWHERE. It's in his hair, in his ear and smeared across his face. It's covering his mouth and chin like a yogurt goatee. All of a sudden, he happens to spot a pencil eraser-sized bit of yogurt on his left hand, and he goes berzerk. He starts crying and holds up his hand, screaming, "HAND! HAND! HAND!" until I wipe his hand clean. Then, he's calm again, and goes back to the bowl of yogurt, all the time wearing his purple gunky mask that is starting to resemble a spa treatment.

At this point, Dylan is no longer in his booster seat, but has insisted upon sitting on my lap and has taken to eating my rice with a fork (which isn't working out too well for him). I try to feed him some with my fork, which inspires him to do the same to me. Unfortunately, he's not handy with the fork and rice, so he decides to grab a little. This fistful of rice, you see, is for me. Now, this is very sweet of him, but the snot dripping down his face from the temper tantrum he threw in order to get out of his chair and onto my lap is kind of grossing me out. I deny the rice, but he insists and starts kicking his feet. I guess I've insulted him and his offering, so now it's clear that I'm going to have to eat the rice--snotty face, yogurt-gunked fingers and all.

So this is love.