friends in need

This post is being featured on hundreds, possibly thousands of blogs today, to show support to the Spohr family and to raise support for their foundation Friends of Maddie. Today I pray for the parents of a child I did not know, because I cannot imagine being able to breathe again after suffering a loss like theirs.

I don't think there are too many people reading this who didn't have their heart broken on April 7th of this year. That's the day we learned that Madeline Alice Spohr, whom we all knew as Maddie from The Spohrs Are Multiplying, was suddenly taken from her parents, Heather and Mike, when a respiratory infection coupled with a collapsed lung was more than her 17-month-old body could fight. Thousands of people across the country mourned with Heather and Mike, and thousands came to their support by donating to the March of Dimes in Maddie's memory.

Since then, the Spohrs, along with family and friends, have created Friends of Maddie, a fund dedicated to supporting families of critically ill or prematurely-born infants during their stay in the Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) with supplies, help finding temporary lodging (because the NICU isn't always within commuting distance
of home), and by creating a network of support. Friends of Maddie uses your donation to put together Support Packs for families who find themselves overwhelmed with the care of an at-risk newborn. The packs include items such as reusable water bottles, snack bars, tissues, mints, and most importantly, a tri-fold binder with a note pad and accordion file to keep track of paperwork.

"We're hopeful it will make it at a little easier for parents to keep track of everything," Heather says."You get SO many papers, business cards, etc., every day, and it's hard to keep track of everything."

She should know, she lived the experience. Maddie's sixty-eight-day stay in the NICU is chronicled on Heather's blog and her husband Mike's blog as well. Readers across the country followed every setback and every victory. What message would she like to pass on to parents in the same situation?

"Patience. Take things a day at a time and live in the moment. Don't look down the road or things will get REALLY scary and overwhelming," shared Heather.

The reaction to the packs has been terrific, according to Heather, "We've been getting a FANTASTIC response from everyone! We weren't expecting such a big response so we are really behind in getting back to everyone, but it's a
good problem to have!"

By now, you are all wondering how you can help, right? I knew it. You people rock. Your options:
* Donate! I know, the economy is bad right now, but every little bit helps. Or...
* Let your local NICU know about Friends of Maddie, or...
* Do you work for a company that might bring a valuable service to NICU parents? Contact FoM! Or...
* Just spread the word! Write a blog post! Send out a tweet! Y'all know how this works!

Mike and Heather's loss is unimaginable. In spite of their grief, they have found a way to pay forward all the love poured out from thousands of hearts across the internet. Tell your friends about Friends of Maddie.

a little ranting for a tuesday.

I'm so over hype. SO. OVER. I'm exhausted by the media dictating the next crisis, I'm tired of hearing about H1N1, if I never heard the word immunization again, I'd be totally fine.

Seeds. Tiny little blips on the radar of our minds, dripping like Chinese Water Torture. It's ridiculous. The drips and blips put chinks in the armor that is our sanity, our reason, our common sense; first one, then two, then four, then the deluge opens and we are drowned in a deluge of scary sensationalization.

Yes, I said sensationalization. Blogger does not think it is a word, but I do. So there.

Whether or not you get your family vaccinated for the seasonal flu or H1N1 is your business. There are people who really, truly should have the vaccines. But really? People who are scared shitless because they believe every last word they hear on Fox News or CNN or in the Batavia Daily should take a deep breath and dig a little deeper. You owe it to yourself and your family to read as much as you can from as many sources as possible. Read. Learn. Try to understand both sides of the argument.

Our culture is espoused in fear. Have you seen the news? It's all murder this, armed robbery that, people dying here, terrorism there. Media governs culture. Not to go all conspiracy-theory on you, but really? When we're all on the Fear Wagon, we do what the media tells us to do. We get the shots. We hate. We protest. We purchase. We don't always exercise our independent thinking.

And that is not good, people.

Learn. Think. Study. Then act.

love etsy in times of cholera swine flu

Hello, friends, and welcome. Today, in an effort to escape the vile germage in my own home, I am going to take you on a fun, fun trip. And it is called WINDOW SHOPPING ON ETSY.

I know there are still a few of you who live under a rock haven't perused the glorious wonder that is Etsy. Some of you haven't even pulled your heads out of your keisters heard of Etsy.

For shame.

Once you discover Etsy, you will never need to shop at the local Tarzhay again. Especially when this happens. Except for, you know, toilet paper and borax.

Let us begin.

The top.

And also? I would like to know where that girl purchases her undergarments, because them's some perfect breasts, people. And that flat, flat belly. Someday, maybe she'll have four short people running around coughing like they have the consumption and will turn to the interwebs to sigh over the flat belly of some lovely young thing.

The skirt.



Except I can't have this skirt, because it's a reserve listing for someone else. I hope she loves that skirt. And also? I hope her ass looks just as smackable as the one on the girl in the picture.

The knee socks.



And also, I will take a pair of those calves. Just in case I ever purchase a pair of tall boots that don't fit over the ones I already have.


The boots.



I really like these, however, I really, really really reallyreallyreally like boots, and wish I had tons and tons of them, so any boots would have done quite nicely.

The necklace.



In sterling silver, not gold. I never actually wear gold. Yellow makes me look like a cadaver.

The bag.



I may have actually already purchased this bag. The Mister will tell you I have a problem with bags. But I haven't purchased one since my super amazing trip to Trader Joe's with my friend K from Philly, who some of you know as The Well-Read Hostess. She wrote a post the other day called I Kissed A Girl, and sadly, it wasn't about me.

Was that enough to distract you all away from the fact that I bought that bag? No? Dang.

The outerwear.



It's a babywearing poncho. Who knew there was such a thing? I totally need this thing because, hello, people, I am always tying that little fella on, and one of us ends up chilly. every. single. time.

Oh, Etsy.

*sigh*

an open letter to my son

My dearest, darling HB,

You are the biggest surprise I've ever had in my entire life. Who knew a nine pound twelve ounce baby could arrive after only 22 weeks of being pregnant?!?! You've added to my life in so many ways, I can barely keep track.

The dimple. In your right cheek. Yes, the one on your face. It kills me. Your big, blue eyes, your gape-mouthed-full-of-teeth smile, that laugh that causes people to stop in their tracks and join in your fun and merriment.

You are so adorable, I can't even stand you. You are going to turn three soon, and you'll probably be hell on wheels, because that's what three year-olds are. We learned quickly that the Terrible Twos was a total misnomer, coined by someone who thought two year-olds were slightly taller and a teensy bit more well-spoken than they really are.

But here's the thing: YOU ARE NOT THREE YET. So dispense with the constant screaming, and I swear to the Almighty Maker of our world if you call me STUPID STUPEY POOPEY one more time I just might start acting all stupid stupey poopey just to show you how good you really have it, buster.

And while we're at it? I really, really, really do not enjoy sliding my half-asleep self under your bed in the middle of the night when you have lost your binky. Maybe if you shouted at me a little less and kept your saucy mouth closed, you wouldn't lose your binky. Just a suggestion.

One final thought: Candy is not a meal.

Hugs and kisses,

Mama

aka Stupid Stupey Poopey Head

apparently there was this situation with our water, or, i saved lives by spending $40 at the StuffMarts

Last Friday, I called my friend K from up the street because her family was planning to join my family for our Friday night tradition, Pizza And A Movie. This is neither here nor there, but I was surprised that instead of talking about olives and mushrooms and peppers and stuff, she wanted to talk about water.

Awesome.

I was bracing myself for the sort of conversation that The Mister and I had after he finished reading the Comprehensive History of Salt a few years ago, and he was just so taken with salt that he would talk and talk and talk and talk about it until I wanted to bury my head in the salt shaker and die.

It seemed that our village had the bad kind of e Coli in the water. And to make life superamazing and ultra-awesome, we had a YOU MUST BOIL YOUR WATER OR SPEND THE REST OF YOUR LIFE (or week) POOPING YOUR BRAINS OUT WITH THE POISONING.

That's so odd, I said to me, you'd think the Village People (and yes, that does include the Phone-Conversation-About-The-Goat Lady) would have told us we need to boil our water.

And also not wash our dishes.

Or laundry.

Or bathe.

But maybe I was just over-thinking the situation.

Nobody came knocking on our door. Nobody came around with a letter, or information of any kind. What *did* they do?

THEY LEFT A NOTICE ON THE DOOR OF THE GAS STATION. That's just what they did. Somebody mentioned that they might have seen something about some sort of water issue on the news.

The gas station. And the only reason I know this is because before I could go to the StuffMarts to BUY WATER SO WE DIDN'T DIE, I had to put gas in my supersweet mini-Coopervan.

Village People = FAIL.

I loaded up the short people, and bought 20ish 2.5 gallon jugs of water for us, and my in-laws, my friend K from up the street, her parents, and the three elderly people who live on my street and who don't really get out much.

The more I thought about the situation, the more infuriated I became. There are maybe 100 houses in my village that have municipal water. And that's a stretch. The Village People couldn't get their act together for one itty bitty problem, run to Off.ice Max, pay the $7 to get 100 copies made, and drop by those 100 houses to inform us?

It gets better. The notice on the gas station door said that the Village People had known FOR AN ENTIRE MONTH that there was e Coli in our water. Since October 1, 2009, the notice read. Must be we just had the COMPLETELY NORMAL KIND of e Coli, that is until October 28, when THE ACTUALLY BAD KIND of e Coli showed up. AND THEN!!!!! They waited two whole days before not telling us our water was dangerous.

Not enough?

It gets more better. When the time came that the water was deemed fit for human consumption? They also kinda sorta forgot to tell us. I consulted the Googles yesterday, after dinner, and the Googles told me my water was safe, and had been safe since at least 10 o'clock that morning. THANK YOU, OH GREAT AND POWERFUL GOOGLES!!!! I got a text message tonight from a neighbor asking if I'd heard if the water was good. It had been deemed safe for a day and a half, and they had no idea.

What the bloody hell, people. I hope nobody got sick, but if someone did? I hope they sue the pants off the Village People.

wordless wednesday: all of us, all together.

For a not-even-remotely-wordless Wednesday post, check me out at He Read/She Read today. Jim Styro, of speaking in CAPS, and I discuss Yann Martel's brilliant novel Life of Pi.

lesson of the week.

We were putting the boys to bed tonight, The Mister was standing on the bottom step of the bunk bed ladder cuddling Wee Man, and I was sitting next to HB. The Mister's hand was dangling between two of the steps of the ladder, practically begging to be bothered.

Hey, HB, I said, tickle Daddy's hand.

So he did, obedient child that he is. The Mister rested his hand on one of the steps, hopefully out of reach of HB's tickling.

HB, tickle Daddy's hand again. Yes, I am five.

HB obliged, and started messing with The Mister again.

Get your hand off my pec.ker. The Mister was not happy.

Nice vocabulary lesson, Daddy, I said. HB, do you know what a pec.ker is?

Yeah, it's a bird and it bonks things with its nose and eyes. It's blind because it bonks things with its eyes.

So now you know, people. A pec.ker bonks things and is blind. Little ones speak only the truth.