Cinnamon Rolls and Yankee Dimes

This past weekend we went for a walk. But unlike most of our normal walks around the neighborhood, this weekend we joined ten thousand of our closest friends in the annual “Beat the Bridge” race for diabetes research.

Okay, so we didn’t exactly race in the big 8K run, but we did take part in the 4-mile family walk, which took us from Husky Stadium up and through the campus of the University of Washington. I am still recovering from a case of hives that set in, but I should be okay.

We try to go for walks whenever we can, but getting involved with something as big as this was a new thing for our family. Part of the reason we decided to sign up was because my company designated the Beat the Bridge race as one of the charity events it chooses to support throughout the year. Allyis covered the cost of entry for me and encouraged us to bring more family members. We ended up donating a bit more money for the cause and, in the long run, had a good time on a great day.

The other reason – and probably the MAIN reason – why I really wanted us to go on the walk was for the memory of my Grandma Moore.

There are really only two ways a little kid knows what diabetes is. Either they have it themselves, or someone in their family has it. And in my family, it was my Grandma. She lived with us when I was little and I would watch as she gave herself insulin shots every morning. I remember asking her if it hurt and her telling me, “A little. But it’s worth it.” It sure was.

You see, Grandma Moore was pretty much the only grandparent I ever knew. Her husband died right before my mom was born and I only met the Dickey’s once, when I was seven or so. So when the other kids talked about going to see their grandparents, I actually liked the fact that my Grandma was already here.

Some of the best memories of my childhood are filled with her. I can remember coming home from school to a house that smelled of cinnamon and seeing a big glass of milk waiting for me next to the largest cinnamon roll you ever saw. I can remember her working for hours and hours, crocheting a new afghan for someone in the family. And I can remember how soft she was when I curled up in her arms. But my favorite memory was when she would ask me to give her a “Yankee Dime.” I think it’s a Southern term for a kiss, but for my Grandma it was always a kiss and a hug. She never seemed to stop asking for them and I never seemed to run out of them.

My Grandma Ella Moore passed away right before my 16^th birthday and I remember wondering if I’d ever love anyone more than her. It turns out I wound up with two loves of my life. I met Heather and together we had Finley. Finley Ella.

Part of me is sad that Finley never got to meet her namesake and that Grandma never got to meet Finley. But, I know that my Grandma lives on in me and through me to Finley. I’ll pass along Yankee Dimes and tell Finley about cinnamon roles the size of my head. And, hopefully, we’ll continue to do walks for diabetes or for whatever charity we can.

Luckily, Finley is a very healthy little girl. And I want her to understand that we can use our abilities to help others in need. Even a 4-mile family walk is a little help. Every bit we do will help some little boy somewhere get to spend more time with his grandma. It may be little, but it’s worth it.

Seeing Spots

It came out of nowhere. Tuesday morning, we shipped our fair-skinned babe off to daycare, just like any other morning. Three hours later, Heather calls me at work.

The daycare had called to request that Heather come pick up Finley because she had a rash. Okay. Babies get diaper rash. It happens. Apparently, this was more than the average diaper rash. It was suggested by the school that she take Finley to the doctor right away.

An hour later, Heather calls me as she’s leaving the doctor. First of all, the doctor doesn’t know what it is, but the little girl has spots all over her body. The doc thinks it might be an allergic reaction, so we have to go pick up some Benadryl. But if the Benadryl does nothing, we’re supposed to bring her back. So, I’m thinking it can’t be THAT bad. She was fine this morning. What could have happened in three hours? Apparently, a lot.

By the time I got home that afternoon, my little angel looked more like my little cheetah. Her entire torso was covered in red splotches. It looked like she had been rolling around in poison ivy, the poor thing. But the weird – and good – part of all of this, was that she felt fine. It looked like something that would have her itching like crazy, but she didn’t. She just went about her business like things were normal. No fever, no overly-runny nose, nothing. Just these strange, red splotches. The Benadryl didn’t do anything, so that canceled out allergies.

The worrisome thing was, they looked like the measles. The doc said they weren’t, but they sure looked like it. But again… no fever, no messy nose… NOT the measles. Not only were we stumped, but so were the doctors.

The next morning we were back at the doc’s office, and were reassured that the measles were out of the picture. All they could figure is that it was some sort of viral thing and that it would clear up in a couple of days.

Now, I have all the respect in the world for our friends in the white coats. And I figure hundreds and hundreds of kids have been through the clinic we go to. But to not have a clue as to what was going on was a little disconcerting.

I try not to worry too much in these situations. Heather does plenty of that for the both of us, and I guess it’s my job to be the strong one. But then again, Heather does plenty of that for the both of us, too. This time, I was a bit worried.

I guess I figure that kids are going to get sick… a lot. And I’ll wipe some noses and clean up after a vomiting session and feed some baby Tylenol and do Daddy things that help them get better. But when even the doctor isn’t sure what’s going on, I get a bit nervous. Because I KNOW I can do all of those daddy things. I have control. I don’t have control over a mystery virus and I don’t like it.

And, sure enough, by Friday, her torso was almost completely clear and the spots had moved to her arms and legs… A sure sign they were fading away. By the weekend she was back to being our fair-skinned angel.

It was all just a very strange episode that reminded me I can only do so much. I can’t control everything that she is going to go through. I know bumps and bruises and cuts and fevers and viruses will come and go. I can’t stop them. It doesn’t mean I have to like it. But, I have to deal with it. I can only worry and wipe and bandage and feed and hug. And that – in the long run – is plenty. In fact, it may be the best medicine out there. It’s a prescription that Doctor Daddy has ready, anytime.

Crocodile Tears

Every once in a while I peruse through the past blogs. It kind of gives me an idea of where we’ve been and it helps me make sure I don’t repeat anything! But there is one thing I’ve noticed about my blogs that I decided I’m going to have to make clear, in THIS blog. Despite the emails of shock, dismay and denial I will surely receive from her grandmothers, little miss Finley is not the perfect child. I’m sorry to say it’s true.

Most of my blogs deal with her successes and triumphs. We’ve heard about her first bit of rolling, her first playing, her first food, her first tooth… and so on. But beneath this glossy exterior, lies a tiny little volcano who is the epitome of the only child.

Don’t get me wrong, I love her more than anything and she has really been an absolute joy of a child… so far. But, the reality is that, just like any of us, she has her good days and her bad days. Most of her days are good. But when they are bad, even the Momma steps away from the baby.

Most of the little eruptions center around not being able to hold, open or reach something. That, of course, is typical for someone of her age. She doesn’t know how ask for help or figure a way around the problem. Instead, she screams about it. And it’s downright amazing how quickly our little princess turns on the waterworks.

The good thing about her little tantrums is you can tell the difference between her cries from when she’s really hurting or upset as opposed to just wanting something. The bad thing about her little tantrums is if she gets on a roll, it’s hard to get her to stop.

Let’s say she really, really wants the remote control and you really, really don’t want her to have it. Well, you’d better come up with an alternate or “fake” remote pretty quickly or it’s all over. It’s even worse if she already has the real remote and you take it away. NEVER take anything away without a plan/backup or else you are doomed.

The mouth flies open, eyes are squeezed shut and the crocodile tears start flowing. If she’s particularly upset, she’ll pause for a good ten to fifteen seconds between cries without breathing, which usually leads to an increase in volume of the next scream.

Most of the time, we can appease her with distraction, but if we get caught with our pants down, it is pretty much the end of the world. One time we were in the car, coming back from Costco. She did not want to be in the car and she let us know it. The only way through it was to drive faster. I was certain that if a cop pulled me over, I could just point to the backseat and get an escort the rest of the way.

These days, we can kind of anticipate her waterworks. We know she’ll probably have some sort of fit while she’s eating. Especially if she doesn’t get her food as fast as she think she needs it. We know she doesn’t like the fact that we’ve gated off the kitchen and put locks on the cabinets and drawers. But even more recently, we’ve begun to notice that she’s becoming needier. She wants to be around her Momma a lot. And when Momma goes into the kitchen or bathroom – where little ones are not allowed – it can lead to drama.

As much as I hate to hear her cry, I know I have to just let her go, sometimes. Like I said, we can tell if she’s in pain or not, and I would never let her cry if I thought she was hurt, but when the tantrum volcano blows, I have to keep my distance until the lava cools a bit. As much as I want to, I can’t go rushing in and fix everything for her every time. She has to learn to fix her own situation.

I know she’s still little and it will probably be some time before she understands that concept, but I’m not going to consciously spoil my kid. It’s hard enough that she’s the only granddaughter on my side of the family. AND it’s hard because she is my little girl. But, I’m putting faith in the idea that a few more tears now will result in a few less tears, later. Talk to me in about thirteen years to see if that theory works.

For now, we just have to let the tears roll. That isn’t to say that I won’t try every silly trick in the book to cheer her up. Because I want her to think back on her childhood as a happy one, with a Poppa who wiped those crocodile tears away and made her laugh. And when it’s her turn, she’ll do the same for her little volcano.