How the Other Half Live

Last week, I found Harper in her room, feverishly packing her clothes into a backpack.

"Headed somewhere?" I asked.

"Yes. Somewhere where there are NO LITTLE SISTERS!" she says emphatically.

"Yeah. I know. It's been one of those days, hasn't it? Think maybe I could go with you?"

And oh, it had been a humdinger. Harper hadn't slept well the night before, so she and I both were exhausted. She refused to wake up for school, which prompted one of my legendary Monday-morning meltdowns. And Ellie. Well, Ellie has been caught up in the terrible twos for about 18 months now. I hope she turns over a new leaf when she turns 3 next month and becomes a compliant, rational child. Here's to hoping.

They only look sweet and innocent.

It's not that I have bad kids. Given their ages, my girls are reasonably well-behaved. Unless of course you count every single time we try to dine out. Without fail, Ellie throws a hissy fit when, for instance, I won't let her climb over the booth to join another family's meal. We quickly box up our food and cross that restaurant off our regular rotation.

Even so, since I get to enjoy my kids each and every day from sunup til sundown , all that time together can get a bit ... overwhelming. Frustrating. Maddening.

In Tennessee, we lived 15 minutes away from my parents. My mother retired a few months after Harper was born, and she cared for her while I continued to work. Then, after I started my new career as what basically amounts to an unpaid maid/nurse/teacher/referee, she was still close by to rescue me when I needed it. It was often. She cared for Ellie when Harper had a full-day's slate of doctor's appointments in Knoxville or when I simply wanted to go to the grocery store without feeling like I'd fought - and lost - a battle.

(While we're on the topic, why doesn't some enterprising entrepreneur open a store that sells three things through a drive-through window: milk, bread and one-pound packages of ground beef. Mothers would line up around the block and patiently wait their turn if it ment they didn't have to drag their kids into a grocery store just so they can throw together some Hamburger Helper for dinner. Seriously. I think there's real money to be made here.)

Anyway, I knew. I was very, very lucky to have such a stellar support system. I knew many moms - and dads - who didn't have family nearby to help on a daily basis. But now that I'm 1,000 miles away from my parents, geez. Trust me. I understand exactly how lucky I was.

There's simply no way I would have made it through my girls' infancies without my mom. Especially with the first baby. I didn't know jack squat about babies, let alone one with special needs. And my mom certainly bailed me out more times than I'll ever be able to remember.

 - Like the time I showed up at her house late one night, baby Harper in tow, and declared "I can't make this baby sleep. Do something."

 - Or the time when 6-month-old Harper was so sick and lethargic and I had no idea what was wrong. Mom calmed me down to the extent she could and went with me to the doctor where we discovered she had her first of what has become many urinary tract infections.

- Or the times Nick or I couldn't get away from work and mom took Harper to a doctors' appointment.

- Or each time when mom could tell I'd had enough and would just show up at my house to play with the girls so I wouldn't pull my hair out by the handful.

- Or all the times I said, "Nick and I want to go see this movie/game/concert. Can you watch the girls for a couple of hours?"

- Or all the other times when my mom was there to help with something little or something bigger like a surgery or a new continence procedure or wound care or whatever we were managing.

And even though she's half a continent away now, mom is still helping me. She and dad are flying out next week to stay with Ellie while Nick and I take Harper to Kansas City for her first visit to spina bifida clinic. So yeah. I basically think my mom is a saint.

But living this far apart certainly puts into stark contrast how challenging it can be to raise kids without a your own "village" for support. I certainly tip my hat to all the moms who have been doing it solo far longer than me.

Mom with the girls. (Somehow I don't have a
picture of the three of them together.)

The Landfill is Lovely This Time of Year

Considering the last post called my mental health into question, I probably shouldn't admit that I occasionally drive past the Sedgewick County landfill for fun. Well, it's not really for fun. It's because I'm homesick.

No, I didn't live near a dump as a child, and while I did watch Fraggle Rock, Margery The Trash Heap was not my favorite character. (Red Fraggle played a much more important role in my formative years.)

It's just that I really miss mountains. And hills and trees. And basically any topography that doesn't involve an endless wheat field interspersed with rows of identical beige houses that look just like mine. 

That's what makes this massive mound of trash so familiar. It's the closest thing to a hill that I've seen in nearly three months. So when I have an errand on the east side of town, I jump on Kansas Highway 96, and it takes me right through the middle of the landfill. And for a few brief moments, I pretend I'm not looking at a big pile of garbage.

Isn't it pretty?

See, when you take a girl who's lived her entire life nestled safely between mountain ridges and plop her smack in the middle of pancake-flat Kansas, she tends to feel a bit agoraphobic. Exposed, really.

But the exposure goes further than just the lay of the land. Since moving here, I've felt kind like I'm on display. Like I'm a foreign object that stands out obnoxiously from this barren landscape. A weasel in the corn, so to speak.  

- I sound different yelling at Ellie as she sprints across the Target parking lot.

- I don't know where anything is, and it's apparent in my driving. I give a lot of apologetic waves.

- I don't wear K-State or KU or Chiefs gear on the weekends.

- And I don't end conversations with "Yep," or "You bet." At least not yet anyway.

In truth, no one here pays any more attention to me and my crazy kids than people at home did. (Except of course when Ellie lets herself into the private conference room at a doctor's office, climbs onto the table and jumps around maniacally. True story and a great example of excellent parenting).

But living in an entirely new place really makes you feel like you're being examined by everyone you meet. Or at least to perceive it to be the case.

And while the feeling of being the new kid in town has lessened in the months since we moved, Kansas will never be home. My home will always be 1,000 miles to the east, in a pretty little mountain valley where people talk just like me.

Much, much prettier.

Musings on Modern Healthcare, My Mental Health and Footwear

For anyone who's not aware, our daughter Harper was born with spina bifida, a birth defect that causes lower limb paralysis, hydrocephalus, incontinence and a bunch of other fun medical issues. So getting her care transferred from Tennessee to Kansas has been something of a challenge.

Even though she doesn't see as many specialists and therapists as she did when she was younger, the process of finding doctors, explaining her situation, convincing them I know what I'm talking about and getting the records transferred has been monumentally frustrating. Add in Ellie's severe speech delay and those related therapies, and you've got the makings for one crazy momma.

This picture really has no relevance to the post, but some folks have asked
why we have green and purple pumpkins on the front porch.

Managing the kids' myriad healthcare needs has made me much more of a nutjob than usual - embarrassingly so actually. I've broken down crying in the middle of the YMCA while trying to get Harper's urology records transferred - a process I wrongly assumed would be relatively easy - and had conversations like this one, which occurred on Nov. 11:

Caller: "Hi, Harper's new braces are in. Can we schedule an appointment for the first week of December? Our technicians are taking vacation during the week of Thanksgiving and that's the soonest we can get her in."

Me: "No, that's really too long to wait. Harper desperately needs these new braces, and your staff's vacation schedules should not preclude her ability to walk. You have other locations in town. Could a technician at another office see her sooner?"

Caller: "I'm sorry, I don't have access to their schedules."

Me, using an ever increasing East Tennessee redneck accent: "Then I suggest you get on the phone and FIND SOMEONE WHO CAN SEE HER NEXT WEEK!"

Not my shining moment by far. But I've discovered when dealing with some - certainly not all - members of the medical community, the only way you can make yourself heard is by being loud and aggressive. It's not that these folks are mean; they're just apathetic. They deal with dozens of moms and dads just like me every day, and my kid is no more important to them than the next one. I'm just one more crazy mom for them to manage.

A little bit of empathy, a smidge of critical thinking and maybe a tad of flexibility. That's all I ask of the gatekeepers who allow us access to the girls' doctors and specialists. But after living in two states, I don't hold out much hope of ever experiencing that across the board.

However, my tirade with the orthotics office did get Harper her new braces yesterday. So after getting fitted, we headed out for our customary "new braces = everyone gets new shoes" shopping trip. We found a pair of Sketchers that fit. They're pink. She's thrilled. Ellie got light-up Disney princess shoes. She showed them off to everyone we passed in the store and flat-out refused to let the clerk remove the security tag. It was something of a scene, but then it always is with Ellie.

Before we left the store, kind of on a whim, I helped Harper try on a pair of knee-high, fur-lined gray boots. From previous experience, I had no hope that they would actually fit. But THEY DID! And she could actually WALK IN THEM!

Now I know most mothers don't cry like hormone-crazed lunatics when they find a pair of boots that fit their 5-year-old. But I sure did. Right there in the middle of Gordman's Department Store.

You see, for five years, Harper has only worn shoes specially designed to fit over orthotics, occasionally a pair of Crocs or the few styles of sneakers that I can cram her braces into. When I see the other little girls walking into school wearing their cute little boots and sandals, I worry that Harper longs to wear them, too. (She's never said anything along those lines, so I'm sure it's merely projection on my part.)

Even so, I'm thrilled that we found boots she can wear. Harper is no where near as happy as me. In fact, she's upset that they're not pink. (I've promised to attach a pink ribbon.) But one day, she'll understand the importance of shoes in a woman's life, and I'll look back on this day and smile.

Beef, Airplanes and Others Things You Probably Didn't Know About Wichita

Apparently my failure to post a update recently has ruffled some of my fans' feathers. Sorry about that - I've been spending my time actually writing for money and conducting "research" for an update I hope to post next week.

In the meantime, here's a look at some fascinating things I've discovered about our new city.

Flying the Friendly Skies

When you land at Mid-Continent Airport in Wichita and walk into the terminal, you'll swear you've gone back in time. From the geometric designs in the carpet to the pink neon adorning the airport's bar, everything about the terminal screams 1983.  Even the musak playing overhead is a constant barage of the same four saxophone-laden light jazz songs. It's truly horrific.

Apparently this is a big enough problem to warrant
not one, but three signs in baggage claim.

The fact that Wichita's airport needs a major facelift is surprising since the city's modern existence is beholden to the aviation industry. For whatever reason, back in the day, a whole slew of aviation companies chose Wichita as their home base. All the big names have huge manufacturing facilities here - Airbus, Beechcraft, Cessna, Lear, Boeing and a bunch of other aviation-related companies.  Add in McConnell Air Force Base down south, and you can hear planes flying around any time of the day or night.

Here's a fun fact: Since the Wright Brothers' first flight in 1903, about 75 percent of all general avaiation aircraft have been built in Wichita.  That's a heck of a lot of planes. And up until recently, Air Force One was serviced at the Boeing facility here in Wichita. Pretty cool.

Bob is Awesome

I have schizophrenic taste in music, and fortunately Bob does, too. "Bob" is the character who picks the music for 97.1 FM. The station's tag line is "Bob plays everything," and indeed he does.

Want some Stone Temple Pilots followed by the Go-Gos and Gotye? Bob will play it. How bout Outkast, Phil Collins and Guns and Roses played in the same set? How bout yeah! Haven't heard "Funky Cold Medina" in about two decades? Don't worry - Bob will play it for you and follow it up with Nirvana and Lady Antebellum.

This is the playlist of a crazy person, and I dig it.

Meat and Its Byproducts

Want to know why Wichita is even here? Cattle. The city was a railhead where cowboys drove herds to be shipped to market. Beef was so important to early Wichita, the city earned the nickname "Cowtown."

Fast forward 150 years and the beef seems to have disappeared from Wichita. (I'm forcibly restraining myself from including a terrible Where's the beef?" pun here. You can thank me later.)

Anyway, you would think the city's heritage would warrant a couple of really good steakhouses or at least some regional pride in locally produced meat products, but I've yet to find much that harkens back to the city's beef-filled glory days. If you want a steak, it's Texas Roadhouse or the Wal-Mart meat department for you. I really hope I missing something.

On a meat-related sidenote, our sausage drought continues. I've tried everything, including Nolan Ryan's Hot & Spicy Beef Sausage and Earl Campbell's Hot Links. Bad jokes about former pro athletes' anatomies notwithstanding, their sausage is sub-par at best. To help tide us over until I locate something better, my inlaws are bringing some tasty Louisiana sausage when they visit at Thanksgiving. God bless those crazy Cajuns and their delicious meats.

Don't quit your day jobs, guys.

The 5 Things My Girls Like Most About Wichita

As we contemplated moving to Wichita, the girls were our primary concern. Would they adjust OK? Was it fair to take them away from their grandparents who they saw every day? Would moving them from the South keep them from ever truly understanding the vital importance of bacon grease and conversations that linger a bit longer than necessary?

Ultimately, we decided we wanted the girls have a more varied experience by living in different parts of the country. Our hope is that the girls will emerge with increased confidence and the courage to do hard things.

And for the most part, the girls are doing fine. Ellie is, well, Ellie. She still refuses to wear clothes, won't sleep an entire night in her own bed, fights against potty training like an angry wolverine and struggles to talk. So not much as changed. She's basically feral.

Harper is taking more time to adjust. Ninety percent of the time, she's seems OK. But her appetite has been off for the past month, and she makes frequent comments about missing her friends in Tennessee. Mrs. Hubbard, her awesome kindergarten teacher in Kingsport, gave Harper a picture album of her classmates, and we catch her gazing longingly at it from time to time. Talk about guilt inducing.

Since we knew the girls would need some help with the change, we wanted to provide them with some amenities to keep them occupied. So we bought a house in a neighborhood with a community pool, playground, fishing pond and tons of kids. We take them on fun outings on the weekends - the zoo, the children's museum, the boundless playground. We're visiting churches, and we joined the YMCA where the girls take gymnastics and adaptive recreation.

Playing at the playground. It rivals the one at Warrior's Path.

Boat ride at the zoo.

Eating popcorn at the children's museum.

Point is, we've tried to give them distractions to help with the transition. And while I think it's been helpful, these haven't been the girls' favorites aspects of living in Wichita. They've made no secret about what they like most about our life here in Kansas.

1. The refrigerator

Now we had a refrigerator in Kingsport. It was your basic, 25-year-old model that I kept hoping would die so I could justify buying a new one. Never did though.

The fridge in our house here is all fancy pants, complete with water and ice dispensers in the door. And as far as my girls are concerned, this fridge is mankind's greatest invention. I'm in no way exaggerating when I tell you they get at least two dozen drinks of water every day before the clock strikes noon. I'm not complaining - I'm glad they're drinking more water and less chocolate milk. But I am tired of finding little plastic cups half filled with water hidden all over the house.

Naked Ellie getting a drink.

2. The sink in their bathroom

We also had a sink in the girls' bathroom in Kingsport, but the one here is apparently much more awesome. (It's not really. It's just a sink.) Harper and Ellie come up with countless reasons to use it. They brush their teeth several times a day - again, not a bad thing. They wash their hands constantly. We've gone through two bottles of hand soap in the five weeks we've lived here. And they want to wash EVERYTHING.

Harper: "Mom, do you have any dishes that need washing?"

Me: "Harper, we always have dishes that need washing. Want to wash some dishes in your bathroom?"

Harper, with a huge smile: "Yes, yes, yes!"

And off she goes to wash her plastic water cups.
  

First toothbrushing of the day.

3. The bathtub

The girls really like the corner tub in the master bathroom. Truth is, I do too.

The girls have yet to take a bath in the tub in their own bathroom.

4. The dog's pink leash

I bought Annabelle a new leash before we left for Kansas. It's pink, and the girls love it. There's got to be at least 7,000 toys in their playroom, and they've played with this stupid dog leash more than anything.

5. Opie's tail

Not only have I tried to find ways to make the transition easier on the kids, I've also tried to make the change easier on our pets. Annabelle hasn't suffered much. She sleeps on our bed all day and occasionally gets up to scavenge food the girls have left around. She's good.

Charlie was used to going outside, but I won't let her do that here. The neighborhood is different, and I'm afraid she'll get lost. She's not a happy cat.

In a failed attempt to help, I decided she needed a playmate. So a couple of weeks ago, the girls and I headed to the Kansas Humane Society where we adopted a six-month-old kitten. He's orange, so we named him Opie. Seemed appropriate.

Opie

Charlie is less than pleased. She's an unhappier cat. So my plan backfired. But hey, I meant well and everyone, except Charlie, likes Opie. He's rambunctious and makes us all laugh. Actually, he's swatting at my hands as I'm typing this. Harper's cackling.

But it's his tail that the girls like most. Our other two pets have nubs, not tails. So Opie's tail has been a constant source of amusement. Fortunately, Opie is patient and has accepted the girls' fascination with as much grace as a cat can muster. Let's hope that trend continues.

Dust in the Wind & Other Weather-Related Fun

When we were looking for houses in Wichita, our realtor told us that some people buy property on the east side of town so they don't have to stare into the sun while driving to and from work.

"Wow. That seems extreme," I remember saying.

But after being blinded twice a day by the red-hot inferno in the sky, I imagine Nick is rethinking our decision to buy in the west. I need to get him a pair of those sunglasses like Riddick wears. Seems like the humane thing to do.

It burns us, Precious.

It's Always Sunny in Wichita 

No joke. Wichita actually averages more days of sunshine than Florida. We enjoy 225 days of sun each year, which makes it difficult for a hermit like myself to hide out, using rain as an excuse for my inactivity. (I guess that's why people here are so fit and tan, while I'm so pasty and rotund. Maybe our next stop should be Seattle.)

Given that it's usually sunny and the wind blows constantly, it's sort of like being at the beach. Unfortunately, the beaches of Wichita look a lot like this (and you have to watch out for tarantulas and apparently scorpions):

Cowskin Creek in Wichita

I didn't anticipate the wind being so constant, but it's always there, blowing from the south, usually between 10 and 20 miles per hour. One thing I haven't figured out is how the TV weather guy determines the difference between a "windy" day and a 'breezy" day. He makes a clear distinction between the two descriptions in his forecasts, but it seems rather arbitrary instead of based in actual science.

Breezy. Windy. Whatever you call it, it makes fixing your hair an exercise in futility. At least now I've got a reason other than sheer laziness for my hair to be in a ponytail.

Greetings from tornado alley

And I would be remiss if I wrote about Wichita's weather and didn't mention the tornadoes and hail that frequent the area in the spring. During our house hunt, our native Wichitan realtor told me not to be scared of tornadoes, just be smart and respect the weather. Seemed like sound advice.

"You'll learn how things look on the radar and that will let you know when you need to be concerned," she informs me.

"Ok, that's helpful. So how exactly will the radar look when I need to duck and cover?"

"Oh, you'll know," she says.

Nope, don't think I will. Fortunately, you can't miss the tornado sirens. They were tested yesterday and the sound came in loud and clear, even in my basement. I know. I checked.

The sky before a run-of-the-mill October thunderstorm in Wichita.
I don't even want to think about how the sky looks before a tornado.

Speaking of tornado preparation, a lot of the stores here have storm shelters, a fact that's as distressing

as it is reassuring. The shelter in my grocery is near the meat department. At my Target, it's the

I snapped this at Bed Bath & Beyond. In the event
of a tornado, consider me employed.

bathrooms at the front of the store. I'm making a mental list of places I frequent. You know - just in case.

A Spider Named Dave Meets the Brown Reclusinator

When we were moving into our house a couple of weeks ago, I had to rescue one of the movers from a very large wolf spider. He was honestly paralyzed by the sight of this spider that materialized from a dark corner of the garage. 

"Do you want me to kill it?" I asked him.

"Um, sure," he said, looking a bit embarrassed.

I took off my flip flop and whacked it. It was a big spider. I gave it two whacks for good measure. 

As I strutted away hoping to look like the stone-cold spider killer I fancy myself, I was thinking: "Geez. That spider was giant. Hope he doesn't have friends lurking about."

But he did. A couple of days later, I killed two very large wolf spiders in our basement. And this guy camped out just outside our back door for a bit. I decided to name him Dave. It seemed like a relatively harmless name for what I hoped was a relatively harmless spider.

Dave the Spider was much bigger than he appears.

Then we took a trip to Exploration Place, Wichita's children's museum. (By the way, this place was amazing. If you ever find yourself in Wichita, I highly recommend it.)

In one section of the museum we discovered some native Kansan creepy crawlies. It was the usual collection of snakes, lizards, tarantulas and insects that you see in museums touting local flora and fauna. 

Wait a sec. Tarantulas? I thought they only lived in the deepest, darkest recesses of the rain forest or desert or other place I don't ever plan to visit. 

Apparently not. Apparently tarantulas live right here in Kansas. Spider fans say tarantulas are basically harmless to humans. Nonetheless, learning that the Texas Brown Tarantula also calls Kansas home was most unsettling. 

As an added bonus, tarantulas leave their underground burrows during the fall months with the sole purpose of mating. In some places, you can actually see herds of them crossing the road. (I swear if I come across one of these swarms, I'm getting the heck out of Dodge. Incidentally, I might have rethought the whole Kansas thing if I'd been privy to this information three months ago.)

While the tarantula issue is terrifying and wolf spiders in my basement are scary, most troubling is the pervasiveness of brown recluse spiders here in the Heartland. Those speedy little suckers are poisonous, and apparently they're a real concern in these parts. 

Even though I hadn't actually seen a brown recluse in my house, I do have two little girls who, thanks to my propensity to name spiders, probably don't have a healthy respect for arachnids. 

So I did what any right-thinking person would do and called this guy. 

He's giving the thumbs up. He must be trustworthy.

That's Eric "Flint" Hills. He calls himself the Brown Reclusinator, and drives around in this awesome minivan.

No joke - the license tag says SPIDRMN. 

Name your price, sir.

Despite his somewhat ridiculous, but utterly memorable branding strategy, Flint knew his stuff. Apparently, the spiders you see crawling around your house are males in search of females, which like to hide out in attics and ceilings where they lay up to 300 eggs at a time. Great. So I may have hundreds of baby brown recluse spiders spending their infancy in my attic.

That was all the info I needed to let the Brown Reclusinator into my home. The annual treatment he recommended required a man in white, protective coveralls to spray spider-killing dust into my attic and basement ceiling. It also required us to leave the house for a few hours.

Now, take it from me, keeping two young kids, a cat and dog occupied for two hours is not easy. It's about as much fun as having a root canal or going through an IRS audit. See for yourself if you don't believe me.

So without a clear destination in mind, we headed to Sonic and everyone, including Annabelle, had a milkshake. Then we tried to go a playground where my placid, well-behaved rottweiler apparently terrified a mother so much that she quickly moved her children to a seemingly safer spot. (Surely I'm not the only person in Wichita with a rottweiler? I have seen an overabundance of little anklebiters yapping their way around my neighborhood, so maybe she is the city's lone rottie.)

Prefer afternoons on the couch.

But hopefully the brief inconvenience was worth it, and we'll be relatively spider-free for the next 12 months. Otherwise, the Brown Reclusinator and I will have to chat.

Prefers vanilla milkshakes.