Macbeth: "What's done cannot be undone!"

I didn't notice it before but most of my family's communications begin with a more-or-less common theme:

• "Don't tell Daddy about this but...", 
• "Your Mother doesn't need to know this but...", 
• "Look, don't tell Savannah I told you this but...", 
• "The less Sydney knows about this, the better...", and naturally, the standard, 
• "Let's just keep this between us." 

Sad as it is, the even sadder part is that we all immediately run around telling each other everything the moment it is reported to us. This is accompanied by the requisite, "You can't let So-and-So know that I told you this but..." We are the WORST.

But kudos to Sydney Lynn for really trying to give secret-keeping a go. She failed miserably, of course, but one must really admire the attempt. How was she to know, as she skulked off to some back-alley scratcher, that her sister would need emergency eye surgery causing her mother to fly some three thousand miles, thus uncovering Sydney's little secret?

"Why would I care that Sydney got a tattoo?" I asked my husband, "She IS an adult." I thought about some reasons why one might not want to get a tattoo. Leviticus 19:28 is pretty clear on the subject but I just got done with Numbers 5 so I am definitely steering clear of Old Testament practices for a while lest Brad be inflamed with unfounded jealousy and drag me to a priest so that I can be given bitter waters to curse my womb. Jesus doesn't care what's on Sydney's skin...He cares about what is in her heart. Naturally, I hoped she'd avoided any unintentional gang-related affiliation symbols. "Oh my goodness," I gasped suddenly, fearing the worst, "What if the font is in Helvetica?"  Brad was quick to reassure me. "She would never do that to you," he soothed. Our family has been anti-Helveticans for YEARS.

But yet, with all that, something nagged at me. Why was I bothered by this? It took a bit of time to process my conflicting feelings but after a long night of tumultuous slumber, it came to me. It wasn't the tattoo that bothered me. No...let me re-phrase that. It wasn't Sydney's act of getting tattooed that bothered me (Although I wished she'd been a bit more discriminating in her selection of a reputable parlor:  "Sydney Lynn, how did you decide on this particular artist?" I asked, hoping to hear on-line accolades citing sanitation. "It was the closest one in walking distance," my adult daughter told me.).  It was the tattoo. A bad-ass quote from Macbeth.  Macbeth? Harry Potter...I would have understood. Would have immediately identified with Game of Thrones. Had she inked anything having to do with Greek Mythology...I would have been consumed with jealousy. But sweet Sydney Lynn stepped out from under the safe, protective shelter of her mother's limited literary umbrella and is now twirling in the rain...without me. 

I wasn't mad. I wasn't disappointed or disapproving. I was selfishly sad. A story is being written without my narrative. As a parent, I am now prologue. But once I finish getting over myself, I shall revel in reading about Sydney's adventures...her odyssey. I will rejoice in her victories. Celebrate her triumphs. Weep when she stumbles. Let us remember, friends, as we all learned in Macbeth,  Life is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. This is Sydney's tale and I can't wait to read it. As long as she steers clear of Helvetica.

"Rub a nickel on it:" Can a mother be sued for medical malpractice?

 I glanced with irritation at the picture my daughter had sent of her eye. "It's just a sty, Savannah," I said in exasperation, "Just rub a nickel on it and get on with your life." She dutifully applied heat compresses and tea bags to the area while I did my part by checking in with her daily and mocking her ailment. But a week later, it wasn't so funny anymore. The "sty" was now accompanied by pain and blurred vision. A trip to the doctor...almost unheard of in the Land of Mosiman...was in order and suddenly a surgery was scheduled with medical personnel using the word "mass." Not mass as in an assembly of people or things. Not mass as is a body of matter. Not mass as a religious service.

And naturally, whenever faced with any type of crisis...large or small...I immediately became hysterical. "You're off from school still," my husband said reasonably, "We can book you a flight." "I'm fine," I stoically sniffled, curled into the fetal position in my chair. He had my reservations arranged within fifteen minutes.

Savannah was, of course, delighted. "I am going to stop telling you things," she threatened. "I don't need you here," she complained. "I know YOU don't need me there," I answered, "I need me to be there." Brad couldn't wait for me to leave. Sleepless nights. Crying through my assigned church reading...Luke 12:25~"Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?" I choked out, glaring at my pastor. The usual Dropping Amy Off at the Airport Event evolved from the typical stream of tears to rivers. "She'll be fine," Brad reassured me. "I know," I said, shakily.  But I didn't know.

Turns out, not surprisingly, I didn't know a lot. For instance, I didn't know, as I cried my way through four airports,  that Savannah, who had scheduled a second-opinion appointment, was being seen, diagnosed, and IMMEDIATELY treated before I even stepped foot on California soil.  While I was busy dealing with a second grade seat kicker between Detroit and Los Angeles, while I was begging my seatmate to eat a Rolo rather than taint her taste buds with a bag of baked carrot sticks, while I was busy explaining to the ticket agent that, numerically-speaking, Gate 21 should lie BETWEEN Gates 20 and 22 instead of in some weird airport round-about AFTER Gate 24, while I was busy asking a woman about the practicality of her furry flip-flops as we waited in line for the restrooms, while I wandered into the "Dining Terrace" of LAX and wondered if I'd accidentally stumbled into a sci-fi horror movie where all the food has been replaced with nutrient drops, while I was busy offering to write up a brief dissertation synopsis of the second season of "Big Little Lies" for a fellow passenger...while ALL THAT was happening~~Savannah was busy having surgery.

"It's over?" I asked, stunned as I attempted to navigate my way among LAX's frickin' THREE multi-level terminals. "They removed the mass," my husband told me as I leaned forward on the shuttle bus to see why we'd stopped. "We typically yield for planes," the driver told me. "The results of the test will be back in two weeks." "Savannah's dog Jack-Jack's kidney test results only take TWO days," I told my husband while the bus paused again, this time for a luggage train. I raised an eyebrow at the driver who shrugged. I only had a plane to catch and a child to comfort.  "Are you saying you want to send Savannah's specimen to a veterinarian?" Brad wondered. I huffed as we paused yet again for some sort of golf cart.

The ride from Los Angeles to San Diego was agonizing...I was a bundle of nerves. Relieved, of course but anxious. Savannah's second-opinion place was a specialized eye institute  and belatedly, I feared that I may have, unintentionally, come across on the phone to them as a bit off-putting, implying that I don't trust California medical care; that I would prefer my East Coast daughter NOT be treated by a bunch of holistic hippies burning incense and applying CBD oil. "As opposed to YOUR telling me to rub a nickel on it," Savannah said. Fortunately, it appears that the sins (in this case: obnoxiousness) of the mother were not taken out upon the daughter.

I finally made it to Savannah who was resting comfortably. I demonstrated my love and concern in my usual fashion...by yelling at her, lecturing her, and making fun of her. When I noticed that my abundance of love was tiring out my eldest, I turned on Sydney. Being a mother is exhausting.

There are times now...with two adult daughters living so far away...that I occasionally find myself inhabiting a rare role of individuality. For almost two decades, my entire identity was Savannah and Sydney's mother. A role I cherish. But Amy has been appearing more and more often...sometimes fearful and hesitant...but she's there. But with one phone call, Savannah's mom appeared...with pounding heart, burning lungs, all claws and teeth and tears. I could not BREATHE until I could see her, hear her, touch her...my daughter. My life.

I am thankful to my husband who will move heaven and hell to ease my pain and calm my fears. I am thankful for daughters who allow us to still dwell in both the shadows and sunshine of their daily lives. I am thankful for decisive, expert medical care, the prayers of my friends, and most of all, the resounding and comforting presence of my Lord and Savior...thank You for all of my good gifts.

8/30/2019
Test results are back and the Mosimans are breathing a BIG sigh of relief! All clear.

Being square could hurt your hip factor

So there I was...an hour early...waiting for the square dance to start. Yeah. You read that right. My friend Geri and I sat on the couch, sipping our lemonades, wondering how on earth we had gotten ourselves into this situation. I, myself, suffer from a debilitating dance phobia that originated in middle school when I was putting on my best moves at the dance when a boy I sort of admired re-soundly mocked my innovative side-to-side sway/slide. The sway/slide was accompanied by a rigid 45 degree elbow lock accented with an occasional snap of the fingers (off-beat, of course). I never recovered from this cruel, unsolicited commentary.

So there I was...at a square dance...when the Wyoming County version of John Travolta from Urban Cowboy made his appearance and began crossing the floor towards Geri and me. His tall white socks stood like stately sentinels, grounded in worn black sneakers that promised a future of promenading. Loose black basketball shorts would reduce the risk of chaffing during the Reverse Flutterwheel. My heart pounded. Was it possible that he was coming to dance...with me? But no...turns out that all of my middle school insecurities were justified as he bowed deeply in front of Geri and gallantly held out his hand to her. Mortified...she was swept away leaving me alone...the perpetual wallflower.

But fear not, friends. My dance partner did eventually appear as my former kindergarten teacher pulled me out onto the floor. Bear in mind that I was taller than Mrs. Lacey when I was IN kindergarten. So while Geri was being whipped about, twirled and tossed, Mary was forcibly shoving me into position. "Left, Amy," she snapped, "I know I taught you THAT much!" Wow. The 4th grader wearing homespun situated at what we in the square-dancing biz like to call "the corner" was much kinder. "We swing to the right," she instructed gently as we clasped hands, "No...the OTHER right. Picture a clock."

John Travolta dumped Geri when the caller chided her for insufficiently Threading the Needle ("You, in the red shirt," the caller spoke into the microphone, "you need to turn to the right...no...the RIGHT." "Picture a clock, Ger!" I yelled helpfully. Homespun tossed me a thumbs-up.). He selected a partner deemed more worthy, our friend Kathy, who was sporting nifty blue cowboy boots. She's a tiny little thing so he was able to really fling her around the floor. Cowboy boots have shockingly small amounts of tread. Geri was thrilled to be assigned to a new partner, our friend Pat, who promenaded at a much more reasonable pace and didn't judge Ger's directional dyslexia.

Geri and I used the band's break as our excuse to boot-scoot-and-boogie our way out of there. "We have a birthday party to attend," we explained to Kathy who checked her watch doubtfully and frowned, her blue cowboy boots tapping the floor. "At 9 pm?" she asked. But it was true. Little did we know, though, that we were leaping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

"Are you sure this is the way?" I asked again as I squinted through the windshield as the car made its way through rain and darkness, curvy back-roads and rounded hills. Finally we found it, in the middle of a field. We may as well have been in another country. Or time. A tall man in unicorn footie pajamas ran past us. Mystical fairies with garland wreathes crowning their hair guided us to the birthday girl who was clutching pages of schematics and warned us about broaching her perimeter. Another man that looked like he was straddling the shoulders of a warped stuffed bear situated between his legs led us to safety. Thank goodness Geri and I blended in...two middle-aged women wearing square-dancing clothes in a forest clearing at midnight. To my credit, I was clutching an umbrella, as well.

I was soon high on second-hand smoke and vowing to never use the f~word again as it apparently is no longer special. Sammy Hagar, barefoot and bare-chested, danced among the trees, whipping revelers with his feather boa. I eyed him suspiciously as he drew nearer. My middle school heart began to beat rapidly. Was he coming to talk to me? He brushed by a girl with wings to get to us. Before I knew it, he was shaking back his long blonde tresses dramatically and holding out a gallant hand to...Geri. Holding my elbows at a careful 45 degree angle, I sway/slid my way back to the car. It was time to go home.

Margarita Mayhem: "Jumbo" should only apply to shrimp

 "Hello, my name is Lauren and I'll be your server today." Little did Lauren know that, when she said server, she meant babysitter. "It was pretty remarkable," Savannah admitted later, "I thought you could handle your liqueur better than that. Remember when you did JagerBomb shots with one of my kindergarten teachers? You out-drank every elementary teacher at that party." Thanks, Savannah. That was a proud moment for me as well.

"I'd like to start out by suggesting our jumbo margarita special," Lauren smiled helpfully. Oh Lauren. Didn't she know? She had me at margarita. But still...I was cautious. "How big is jumbo?" I asked, "Show me with your hands." Lauren cupped her palms so as to lovingly nestle a baby sparrow. "Jumbo is really just a state of mind," she said cryptically. She returned minutes later with ten gallon aquarium capacity glasses that could easily serve as emperor penguin pools.

No matter. I was on vacation. Famous last words. Actually...I don't remember ANY words beyond this juncture but my daughters have more than happily filled in the gaps. As always, making any sort of choice causes me great consternation. Apparently the addition of alcohol does not improve this scenario. As I agonized between two entries, Lauren threw caution (and the menu) to the wind and helped me invent a whole new meal so that I ended up with both tempura-fried avocado AND bacon-wrapped scallops. I saluted dinner's arrival by throwing all my cutlery onto the floor. "Interesting custom," Lauren noted, winking, slipping me additional silverware before my first fork stopped skittering, "I know some Greeks throw plates. What nationality are you?" "Inebriated," Savannah muttered, attempting to pour my remaining beverage into Sydney's glass. I sloppily retrieved my burgled beverage ("Better on the table than her drinking it," Sydney deduced as she dodged the river running toward her. Lauren again appeared and magically, with a wave of her washcloth, made the torrent of tequila disappear. "Ready for another one?" she asked. Both of my girls yelled, "No!"

By this time, I had confiscated Sydney's soup and immediately alerted management that it was not sufficiently named on the menu. "This is clearly Inverted Lobster Bisque," I told Lauren as well as the girl who saved me from getting burned on my plate of tempura-fried avocado and bacon-wrapped scallops, the restaurant manager ("That wasn't the manager," Sydney corrected, "that was a guy on his way to the restrooms."), AND the chef ("Nope..." Savannah clarified, "just a patron on his way to pay the bill."). I texted my friend Sarah. Called my husband. And made an all-restaurant announcement about how this was the BEST lobster bisque I had ever eaten...and I've been to BOSTON ("Is that accurate?" I asked my girls. They both nodded sadly.). 

After I ate all of Sydney's soup, I spent the remainder of my time apologizing for my daughters's childhoods and exclaiming over the nifty propeller decorations adorning the restaurant walls. "Those are light fixtures," Savannah explained. It was time to go. Lauren and I shared an emotional embrace. Savannah tugged me toward the door like I was a reluctant red balloon. Sydney raced ahead to the car while I happily discovered I was the same size as the palm trees lining the sidewalk. A man walking by congratulated me. The girls stuffed me into Syd's car and carefully drove home, trying not to jostle me. Apparently I then fulfilled my week-long wish of acquiring the apartment complex's lobby copy of The San Diego Reader which sported the story of "Who Killed the Giant Squirrel of the Cuyamacas?" Blurrily, I picked the magazine up off the floor the next day. "So...who killed the squirrel?" I asked. "Don't asked us," Sydney told me, "You took it." "Well...at least that's the ONLY thing I stole," I said, looking on the bright side. "About that..." Sydney sighed, waving a restaurant spoon at me. "Just a little memento of our fun evening together," I said. "Let Mom keep it," Savannah suggested, "since she can't remember anything from the lobster bisque on." "Oh...I REMEMBER the lobster bisque," I protested, "That was the BEST lobster bisque I have ever eaten...and I've been to BOSTON!"

"Kraken" the case of planetary power

Family Day included inflatables!

 It was Take-Your-Mother-To-Work Day. "No," corrected Savannah, already regretting having told me about event, "It's Family Day." Nevertheless, I was delighted. "It has an itinerary," I squealed, "and a map!" I hadn't been this excited since I had joined the former First Lady in christening the USS Illinois. "How come you never get this enthusiastic when I take you to my work?" Sydney Lynn asked glumly. I thought back reflectively and then brightened. "How can you say that?" I answered, "I love the onion rings from Charcoal Corral!" She bounced back when she learned that there would be face-painting and pony rides. There was a LONG discussion about whether we should get a unicorn or a narwhal emblazoned on our cheeks but once we came to the realization that the narwhal is the magical unicorn of the sea, the matter was settled. "No, the matter is certainly NOT settled," stated Savannah resolutely, "You will NOT be getting your faces painted nor will you be riding a pony. I did not invite you to Family Day so that you could embarrass me." Soundly scolded, Sydney and I sat silent and contrite for approximately thirty seconds before erupting into gales of uncontrollable laughter. Embarrassment is a way of life for the Mosimans. Our family crest features both the blue-footed booby AND the cuckoo. "Savannah's been away from home too long," I fretted to Sydney, "perhaps her immunity has worn off." Sydney nodded in agreement. It was in Savannah's best interest, after all. "The best way to build up resistance," she concurred, "is to expose the patient to the virus."

As we pulled into the parking lot, the first thing we noticed was that every person, four feet tall and under, was sporting a super-hero cape. "Those would go nicely with our narwhals," Sydney suggested. We immediately began the search for the super-hero cape distributor. "Is anyone hungry?" Savannah asked, "Here's a food truck." Complimentary cheeseburgers...and potato chips...and drinks...and ice cream...and cotton candy...were being given out. Sydney and I were in heaven. Contentedly full, we renewed our search for fun. "Would either of you like to see the Fab-Lab?" Savannah asked, opening a door. A blast of refreshing cool air beckoned us out of the scorching heat of the day. "Ooooo!!! It rhymes!!!" I said approvingly and skipped into the building.

High-tech machines whirred on the counters. "Look! Giant Jenga!" Sydney said happily. " There's a life-sized Connect Four," I announced. "Balloons!" we broadcasted together. The docent ("He's not a docent, Mom. He's an engineer who volunteered for the day." "Docent means an expert in the field who volunteers, Savannah," I snapped back. Oh my gosh--she thinks she's SO smart.) called our attention to a unlit light-bulb in a fancy housing. "Mom...he was showing you the fundamentals of nuclear fusion," Savannah said in exasperation. "It was a pretty purple when lit," Sydney offered helpfully. "What I don't understand is..." I stopped as Savannah choked. I glared, "You good? Okay, then. What I don't understand is what he said about heavy molecules...blah...blah...blah...and creating helium. If we can create our own helium, why are we concerned about a shortage? We should be able to blow up all the balloons we want!" I concluded proudly. Savannah laid her head down on the table by the giant Jenga. "They are creating hydrogen plasma," Savannah said into her arms, "and someday, this may result in the creation of limitless energy for the world. The helium is a waste product of that process"  Sydney and I stood, silently considering this profound idea. "But how does that tie into inflating helium balloons?" I asked. "It was a beautiful shade of purple," Sydney said again. Savannah stood up. "Let's go find the face-painting booth," she announced.