I sound like a sick cat when I sing. Actually, more like a sick cat, in heat, that was recently attacked by a pack of wild dogs. It’s so bad that I lip sync in church. Even hundreds of people can’t drown me out.

My husband has a very nice singing voice…one he inherited from his Mom. (Did you hear that? It sounds like a pinball machine. Ching-ca-ching-ca-ching-ching. That’s me, racking up mother-in-law points.) My husband sings because HE CAN. Unlike me, he doesn’t send small children screaming, ‘Make it stop! Make it stop!’

Last year, our son had ear tubes put in. For a week after the surgery we put drops in his ears twice a day, and he would have to lie on each side for five minutes afterward. After 10 minutes of staying still, which is excruciating for a five year old, we would tell him, “Okay, you can get up. You’re free.”

That quickly turned into my husband singing a loose rendition of the Rolling Stones’ song, I’m Free. ‘You’re free to do what you want, any old time.’ As much as I hate to sing, I will do it for my kids…if I have to. Although, I would refer to it as a lyrical whisper.

For some reason, my son doesn’t mind my bad voice. Though, maybe, just maybe, his 25% hearing loss has something to do with it.

Last weekend, my husband and I were out of town when our son came down with a fever. My niece was babysitting and I told her to give him Tylenol. Apparently when she got the Tylenol out of the container, she referred to them as “bad boys”. As in, ‘Let’s see if these bad boys will make you feel better’.

So this past week, we gave our son Tylenol and he would call them “bad boys”. And now, my husband belts out the theme from COPS every time he medicates him. My son wants me to sing, but in my quiet voice I’m doubting the criminals would be all that intimidated.

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The book What to Expect When You’re Expectingsaved my daughter’s life. I wasn’t that far along in my pregnancy, but I read ahead in the book just to find out what adventures were to come. When I read about kick counts, I got a little concerned. I had been feeling the baby kick a LOT just a couple of weeks before, but all that kicking had stopped. I mentioned it to my OB at my next appointment, who then scheduled an ultrasound. I had my daughter via emergency c-section the next day. I was told that in another two weeks she would’ve been stillborn.

You tend to put a lot of faith in that which prevents something so horrible. The What to Expect books have been my ultimate go-to guides.

For the past four days, my five year old son has had a pretty high fever, so last night I pulled out my handy-dandy What to Expect book. I may have been doing this parenting thing for over nine years, but a refresher course never hurts.

The book says that your child’s behavior, not necessarily their temperature, should be how you judge the severity of the illness. And, speaking of that behavior, apparently it’s not that uncommon for a child to suffer convulsions when they have a fever. I gotta tell you though, the authors seemed just a bit too nonchalant about it.

If convulsing begins, the book says to remain calm and check the clock so you can time the seizure. Maybe grab a cup of tea and give yourself a manicure while you’re waiting.

Don’t put food or drink into your child’s mouth. This is not the time to make him finish his lunch. Also, don’t attempt to bribe him by saying, “If you stop convulsing, I’ll give you a cookie”.

Don’t put your child in the tub. Logically, this SEEMS like a perfectly good time to clean him up. After all, he’ll likely be unconscious, so you wouldn’t get much of an argument about bathtime.

The child’s eyes will roll back, the body will stiffen, arms and legs will twitch and jerk involuntarily. You may want to get out the video camera. Years from now, I’m sure everyone will sit back, have a good laugh, and say, “Remember that time you were having that seizure? Good times, good times.”

If your child isn’t breathing normally, or if the seizure lasts more than five mintues, THEN call 911. Because four minutes and 45 seconds is too soon to freak out. Wait for it…wait for it…when that clock says five minutes, go ahead and call. Although it will feel like five thousand years, you wouldn’t want to sound foolish by saying your kid’s eyes rolled back in his head ONLY four minutes ago.

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At the bank last week, the teller handed my son a sucker and then asked him, “How old are you?”

He replied, “I’m five. And, my Mom is 16!”

But, why I felt the need for nervous laughter and to say, “No I’m not”, I’ll never know. I’m pretty sure the wrinkles speak for themselves.

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My nine year old daughter has quite a collection of stuffed dogs. So many dogs, that for Christmas we bought her a REAL dog bed to put in her room. There are Shepherds, Collies, Poodles, Terriers, Huskies, and Bulldogs…just to name a few. The collection is so big that we’ve lost count. But, there is one…just one…that holds a special place in my daughter’s heart. One little dog so dirty and tattered that it’s almost unrecognizable. Her name is Darling, and I think she was a Beagle in her previous life at the Hallmark store.

Sometime in November, when we were cleaning out toy boxes and organizing rooms to make space for Santa’s bounty, Darling got lost. We looked everywhere for her. Furniture was moved, closets were emptied, and toy boxes were thoroughly searched. I had come to the conclusion that my five year old son had probably thrown Darling into a Goodwill bag, but I didn’t dare tell my daughter that.

Last night, just before I tucked her into bed, we made another attempt to locate Darling. We looked under my daughter’s dresser and behind her desk, and I finally told her that I was afraid we had shipped Darling off to Goodwill. Her eyes filled with tears and she said, “NOOOO!” I told her that I just didn’t know where else that dog could be.

Then I asked her if she had ever looked in my room. She and my son watch TV in there sometimes, and I told her it was possible that her ornery little brother could’ve thrown Darling under my bed. So we looked among the shoe boxes, stored-up summer clothes and dust bunnies, but with no luck. Then I looked behind my bed…and, THERE SHE WAS. Lodged between a windowsill and my headboard, crumpled up and barely visible.

When I said, “I found her!”, my little girl dropped the clothes she had been holding and ran over and grabbed her dog. And the tears which had been welling up, freely flowed down her cheeks. She was blubbering with joy, and I was so happy for her that I started crying. A grown woman, crying about a filthy, stuffed dog with spots of fur that are hardened with what is most likely syrup. I never would’ve thought that I’d be happy to see Darling too.

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