Service

Our minivan was due for an oil change this week. Okay, technically it was due for an oil change like two months ago, but we’ve been busy. Go ahead and judge, I don’t mind.

Wait, are you judging me for the not getting the oil changed part, or the owning a minivan part? Because we actually own two minivans. But I also have a ’66 Mustang convertible named Miss Lucy, so get off my ass.

Anyway, we dropped the minivan off for the oil change and to have them check out the power steering, and discovered it also needed practically everything else except for a new engine, a new transmission, and new headlights.

So I put up my 401k as collateral and they began working on it. It took a little while, which brings us to Friday. CC had to be at work early, #1 was going to an amusement park, and I was on my own to pick up the car.

Meanwhile #3 was down with Swimmers Ear and we were out of pain reliever so I had to be speedy. I decided to multitask, and jogged down to the dealership, which is only about two miles away.

I used to live in Arizona, and I used to run for real there. Outside. It’s hot, but dry, so as long as you don’t outright incinerate, you can breathe.

In New Jersey, it’s very swamplike. In New Jersey, I’m fifteen years older. In New Jersey, I jog/walk indoors on a treadmill. My little trek to the dealership yesterday was a challenge.

This is probably also the time I have to mention that I’m a sweater. It’s gross, I know, but pertinent to the story. I sweat far more than the average ~~woman~~ human when it’s humid or when I exercise. Lucky for all of us, yesterday both of those applied.

I go into the service center and it’s packed. Full of people mainly in business suits trying to get their cars together to take on trips for this holiday weekend. There’s a counter with juices and tea and bagels and toast. I grab a paper towel from the basket to mop my brow and go stand in line for Rick, my friendly service representative.

As I’m standing in his line, I begin sweating in earnest. People are starting to cast disparaging sideways glances at me. I’m kind of dripping on the floor and I’m afraid some of it is audible. I only wait about ninety seconds for Rick but during that time, my sad paper towel has become the size of a cotton ball, is totally soaked and shredding because I keep trying to use it in a futile attempt to not look like a completely inappropriate mutant.

I get up to Rick and he says, “Woah.”

I’m trying to act like nothing unusual is happening. “Um, I ran over here.”

He stares at me for a second and then says, “Oh, literally!”

Rick then politely ignores my little problem while going over all the fabulous expensive things they did to our car and I’m just dying a little inside because I can’t stop sweating. Have you ever tried to stop sweating? Totally ineffective.

By the time he’s done, I look like I’ve just completed a Bikram class. My only saving grace is that I don’t know anyone here. We get to the part where I have to write a check. I had jogged over with this little wristlet thing that could hold only my license, my phone, and a check. I need a pen.

So I ask Rick for a pen. Somehow, there are none on the counter. I can tell he is debating whether to offer me the pen in his pocket or go find another one. After the briefest of hesitations, he says, “Here, you can use mine,” and hands it to me. I joke back, “I’ll try not to sweat on it,” because we both know that isn’t remotely possible. Then I look down.

Rick, god bless him, has handed me his Montblanc.

Now that’s service.

Have you experienced any extraordinary customer service lately?

Remember to enter the inappropriate puggle caption contest. The fabulous prize is your very one, ~~once~~ twice viewed DVD copy of Mega Shark Versus Giant Octopus.

#2, #3, and #5 watched it last night. #5 gave it this stellar review at several points during the action scenes: This movie is awesome!

Word.

They Start Young

When the kids first came to live with us, we lived in an impressively tiny three-bedroom apartment. As small as you can get and still have three areas where there are beds surrounded by walls.

There was one bathroom.

It was so small that when I moved in, I only unpacked my clothes, and not even all of those.

The main area was a living room that ran into the kitchen, all open together, and the kitchen floor was another place for the kids to hang out (because the bedrooms were so small, this was one of exactly three places they could hang out, unless you count the outside, in which case there were four).

One day I was in the kitchen pretending to make dinner and #5 was spinning around on the floor. He was four years old. Suddenly, he started screaming, “Owie, owie owie!!!” and grabbed his head. Because I didn’t see him hit his head and had been a parent for about nine days, I knew that he was having either a stroke or an aneurysm and would be dead within seconds, and I bent down and grabbed him in a blind panic.

“What’s wrong buddy? Can you wiggle your toes? Blink if you can hear me!”

He stopped crying long enough to reach up and grab the zipper on my sweater. Let me clarify that: he grabbed the zipper of my cardigan, underneath which I was wearing nothing (and I mean nothing) and yanked it down, and thus, wide open.

Then he snickered.

And that’s the story of how #5 faked a head injury in order to look down (around? through?) my shirt.

He went on to successfully perform variations of this trick on my mother, one of his cousins, several well-endowed babysitters, and probably a few people I don’t know about.

Here’s another post about him getting a head start: Confidence Is Everything.

Grace

Eight years ago today my nephew Mark was born.

I can’t think about Mark now without also thinking about my niece Colby, who was born in January of 2010. Both of them were born with different, fatal birth defects.

Mark had Anencephaly: A congenital absence of the brain and cranial vault, with the cerebral hemispheres completely missing or greatly reduced in size.

Colby had Trisomy-18: A genetic disorder in which a person has a third copy of genetic material from chromosome 18, instead of the usual two copies.

Years before Mark was born, I became aware that the way babies are allotted here on earth can at times seem remarkably unfair. I’ve known people desperate to conceive, who can’t; much-wanted babies who stayed only a short time; people completely unable to care for a child who do conceive despite precautions. It seemed to me that whoever was in charge of assigning the babies was either heartless or incompetent. I called bullshit on the phrase, “Everything happens for a reason.”

Mark and Colby taught me that there may be a greater hand at work.

Unless you have, or someone close to you has, experienced problems in pregnancy, you’re not thinking much about the possibility of problems, which is as it should be. You’re certainly not expecting to go in for an ultrasound to learn that your baby has a fatal birth defect.

Discovering there’s a problem is only the first step in what lies before you. Because then? You have to make a decision. Carry to term, or terminate? You have to weigh your decision against the cost to your soul.

Then you have to follow through on your decision. All the way.

What I know is nobody can make a decision about your baby for you. I also know that if you question the decision you made about your baby, it means you’re human.

In both of these cases, my sister and sister-in-law carried to term. They dealt with strangers coming up to them, patting their bellies, and making small talk about the baby. All the while, they didn’t know if their babies would be born alive, and if so, how much time they would get together. They dealt with the endless appointments and astronomical medical expenses. They dealt with their own fear while soothing that of their other children. They still deal with their own grief.

As far as that greater hand at work goes.

Mark and Colby pushed aside all of my preconceived ideas about The Way Things Should Be With Babies. What’s a lifetime? What’s a success? What is beautiful?

If you hold tightly to your idea of how you think things ought to be, you can miss out on the greatest things happening right in front of you:

Mark and Colby were both born alive. Many babies with these defects aren’t.
They both were born with hair! And itty bitty feet.
They got to be held and loved.
They brought the family together in unexpected ways.
Their brief lives were welcomed and celebrated.

We’re all left with many questions unanswered. Lots of Why’s. But if all our questions were answered in life, what would be the point of seeking? What would be the point of anything? Rarely is there an immediate answer to any Why. Why gets answered later, in its own time.

I’ve heard that grace is when god does for you what you can’t do for yourself. This, to me, is that greater hand at work. I still don’t use the phrase, “Everything happens for a reason.”. Yet I am at peace knowing that there very well may be reasons that simply haven’t been revealed yet, and I’m not actually entitled to all the answers.

You never “get over” something like this, whether you are a parent, grandparent, friend, or other relative. You are forever changed.

Beth and Dave, Jeff and Melissa, thank you. Thank you for your grace.

This post is a call to action to all of you: make today count, whatever that means for you. Always make today count.