Nana is Always Right--When She’s Not Wrong.

Part I

Ten years ago, my mother had the nerve, the gall, to suggest that my husband and I put our first born delicious dumpling, our bundled little tax deduction—into (gasp!) her own room, into (horrors!) her own crib, on the second night we were home from the hospital. My mother, had the audacity, nay the  chutzpa to calmly counsel, “You spent all of that time, energy and expense to create her room, why don’t you put her in it?”

Ack! I mean, really? Of all the—to suggest—that a baby should—

Ok. So, it was the best idea. Ever. We swaddled that kid up, plopped her in the crib and she "slept like a baby"* ever since. (By the way, swaddle is the operative word. I am the swaddling champion no matter what my husband tells you. The key is when done properly there is no such contrivance as "too snug" of a swaddle-if it's not tight, it's not right.)  From that moment on, my husband deemed, “Nana is always right.” You can imagine that sentiment went over nicely with my mom.

When it came to babies, Nana knew her stuff.  (Mom, helpfully, reminded me when she read this for "approval" that our baby's room was also convenient to our bedroom.  It just made perfect sense.  Yes. You were very right.  Thank you, Mom.)

Part II

“Don’t forget to clean her neck. Get in the creases.”

After Lily was born, Mom had stayed for two weeks in our South Florida home and was giving last minute bits of gentle instructive advice before returning to Savannah, GA. “Nana is always right,” was our general philosophy, however I was fairly confident I knew how to bathe my own baby—thank you very much. One month later: Nana’s back to visit, and gives Lily a bath. She tips Lily’s neck back so our baby’s chin is aiming toward the skylight. My mother proceeds to puuull and gather layers of skin folds with her fingers identifying new sub stratum like a baby archaeologist. “Ah-ha!”

(“Ugh!”)

Hidden beneath top-secret baby skin was a funky layer of milk-cheese and red irritation.

Me sputtering: “That just--I wasn’t—ew.” Who knew? I did not realize one had to unhinge the baby’s head to clean all parts of the neck. Live and learn.

Part III

“Nana is always right.” Except when she is wrong.
My father was insistent that the orange juice container was dribbling and leaking at the lid.
Mom: “No it doesn’t.”

Dad: “Yes, it does.”

Doesn’t.

Does.

(Very mature parental discussion.)

A little background: at the time we used frozen concentrated orange juice mixed with water in a Tupperware-like pitcher with a lid that screwed on. You had to shake it well or all you got was "orangey" tinted tasteless water.

“Michael," jaw-clenched in time-wasting point-proving mode,  "this container is perfectly fine! See?” Shake. Shake.

SPLASH!

I think to this day, this is the only moment in my life when my mom’s wrongness was so visually played out in front of me in the style of a slow-motion movie. Was "Chariots of Fire" playing in the background for everyone or just in my head as her mouth opened slowly in shock at her astounding miscalculation?

So, in regular real-life speed, the lid flies off the orange juice container and half a gallon of orange juice floods mom’s face and hair, the counter and floor.

The proverbial, "Does." hangs unsaid in the air.

To be fair, mom was not yet a Nana and had not received the official tapping of the “Nana is always right status.” I was probably only 11 or 12 years old. I was just old enough to know not to laugh at the absurdity of the “citrus-ation” unless mom did.

Which, she did, by the way. Sticky cold orange juice covered mom and the kitchen.

A smile spread across her face. Then laughs. Laughs of admission that she was incorrect, which was good, because, Nana is always right, even when she is wrong.

Nana imparting wisdom to one-day old Lily. Or perhaps just "kvelling."

*Sleep like a baby is a debatable expression.  Our two slept great as babies, and continue to sleep well. However,  I know of babies who perhaps did not sleep until they were 30 years old according to their parents. Don’t have easy sleepers? Do not be jealous of my sleeping babies. Those who know us, know my children have made my husband and I grey in other categories. Perhaps we "got" great sleepers to balance it out. Also, did  your babies sleep in your room, in your bed, the baby swing,  or on the roof and that worked for you? Great. No judgment here, folks. Whatever gets you from one day to the next. These are just my stories meant for a few minutes entertainment.

Also, There are several ways to swaddle.  Thought I would link to this cute demonstration, even though I swaddled a little differently.   

“Bubblz In Ur Chest—You Haz Dem.”

or  If my sister were a LOLCAT, how she would have broken the news to me that I had crepitus.

  I have a condition called Ulcerative Colitis (UC).  It is quite literally, a pain in the behind.  While it has “reared” its ugly head on and off throughout the last 17 years of my life, thankfully, I am in remission.  
  
  A few years ago, during a particularly awful UC flare, I was on meds that had me feeling bloated, batty and sad.  In an effort to get some endorphins swimming and elevate my overall demeanor, one of my best friends met me at the gym at 5:30 AM.  (What was I thinking? Working out never "works out" for me.  My sister, Becka, told me once that all exercise-related injuries occur while exercising.  Smart woman.)  Upon successful completion of the final exercise, I stood up, and lamented, “Ooph!” 

  Oy.  I pulled a muscle in my neck.  Stupid exercise.

  A muscle relaxer made my bloated, batty, sad neck pain feel all warm and loopy.  However, the pain persisted.

  Fast forward sixty hours to Friday night.  We are at a friend’s home for a group Shabbat event.  In hindsight, perhaps I should have mentioned to someone, to anyone, that I had developed a couple of new symptoms: 1) at the end of each sentence, my voice turned into something like Kermit on helium, and 2) it felt like there was bubble wrap under the skin in my chest. (Yes, gross, I know.  Or as it turns out to some, utterly cool.)

  My sister is a nephrologist, and she was in attendance at this particular Shabbat.  Here is the conversation that followed:

Mindy:  “I don’t feel so well, will you feel my glands?  Oh, and I think I have bubbles in my chest.”

Becka:  (blink, blink—she got that from our Dad.  Blink, blink can be translated a few ways depending on the context.  In this case, I believe it was a combination of  ‘beg pardon and WTF?”).  She felt my chest and neck.  I know now I can safely identify when a doctor thinks you are going to drop dead on the spot but wants to remain calm.  Then very measured,
“You.  Have.  Crepitus.  Sit.  Down. You’re not short of breath or anything, are you?”

Mindy:  “No. Am I going to die?” (Had to ask).

Becka:  More measured in her voice, but now earnestly waving over a fellow doc in the room.  “Noooo.  Sit down though. Are you SURE you’re not short of breath?  Really?”
To the other physician, “Feel this.”

  So here I am getting “felt” by another doc.   And for kicks, I watch his facial expression, eyebrows first, morph from casual to surprise, maybe awe.

Other doctor:  (did I detect the smallest of smiles?) “She has crepitus.”

Mindy: Again, with more feeling: “Am I going to die? What is crepitus?  It sounds like I’m going into a crypt or something.”

  Next I become the episode of Gray’s Anatomy where the residents of the hospital are lining up to feel my crepitus.  Apparently, one does not often behold many walking talking 30 somethings with spontaneous pneumomediastinum, let alone have the opportunity to gawk and squish one.  (Turns out I popped a hole in my lung, which leaked air into my chest and neck which caused all of those nifty bubbles, I referred to earlier.)

  There’s much more to the story, but it turns out that I never pulled a muscle in my neck.  When I said, “Ooph!”  that was the hole going “popsies” in my lung.  As such, I learned the new word,  “bleb,” a small air blister on my lung.  The bleb was bound to rupture one day, and it decided that 5:30 in the morning at the gym was as good a place as any. (Can’t say I disagree.  I was not all that happy to be there either.)  
“Blebz. I may haz dem again.”  I have a 17% of this reoccurring.  If it does, I then have a 99% of it happening again.

  I do not know why people look at me oddly when my hands are all over my chest; I feel I clear it up for them with my simple explanation, “I am just checking for bubbles.

5 Times to Be Mindful of the Pick of the Litter Thrift Shop!

  Recently, I helped my mom and a few volunteers from The Pick of the Litter Thrift Shop on Sallie Mood Drive, pack up an estate, the contents of which were donated to the thrift shop in order to help the animals. These ladies are loyal and dedicated volunteers who have been serving the Humane Society for Greater Savannah for decades.  For them, it was another day working towards a common goal.  For me, the experience called for FB posts, Tweets, and full-blown attention. (So this is how a blog begins?)

  (Cue the trumpets!)

  Presenting: Five times you should think, “OH! Of course! Pick of the Litter Thrift Shop (PLTS) benefiting the Humane Society for Greater Savannah—Yes!”

1.  Too heavy? Too big? Too much of it? How are we going to get it out of here? The next time you are thinking of selling your furniture or appliances, but you ponder or stress about how the buyer is going to get it out of your home, simply contact the HSGS staff for a free pick up!  They will provide you with a receipt for your generous donation; your items are no longer in your home; and you have contributed to helping homeless animals. Nice.
2. Kid closet clean out time?  Make a pile for the PLTS.  The shop takes all items in good condition. Your kids will love that their items are going to help the animals.  While you're purging, don’t forget to clean out your own closets as well as "shed" any technology that is working but which you no longer use. (Yes, I said shed-I'm punny that way.)
3. What about books?  Yes, please!  If you aren’t going to read it again, please donate it to the ever-changing wonderful collection at the shop.  It is maintained and organized like a bookstore, and your donations will be treated with care.
4. No longer suffer with buyers regret on clothes you never ended up wearing! Every week, the "Wednesday Ladies" price and put out new clothes in the shop.  Often, tags are still on the clothes donated to the PTLS.  It’s a great way to clear your conscience for clothing you bought but never wore.  Of course, clothes that are gently used and in good condition are welcome.
5.  Ho! Ho! Ho! Happy Hanukkah-Thanks-o-ween St. 4th of July!  Holiday decorations go fast at the shop!  Tired of your old ones?  Send them to the PTLS.  The volunteers display the holiday decor in plenty of time for any given holiday.

  Of course, the PTLS and the Humane Society for Greater Savannah gratefully accept good old-fashioned cash/check donations, too.  In fact HSGS relies on the generosity of private donations to function.  Click here or visit their website www.humanesocietysav.org to learn about the many ways you can help. 

  Always wanted to volunteer for the Humane Society, but you have your reasons for not wanting to be hands on with the animals?  Look into volunteering for the Pick of the Litter Thrift Shop.  The shop operates 6 days a week, relies on volunteers and provides 25% of the income for HSGS.

  "Got $20 in your pocket?" (Sorry couldn't resist!) Do not forget to go shopping at the Pick of the Litter Thrift Shop.  The crew of volunteers works diligently to turnover merchandise with monthly half-price sales and regular quarterly "quarter" book sales.  Did I mention the clothes with the tags still on and the holiday decorations at a fraction of retail prices?  But beware—they sell quickly!