Flying in the Fickle Sky

Occasionally, I'll reminisce about my "good ol'" flying days. Today, for some odd reason, was one of them. I was thinking about the great plane I flew for years, the Embraer 145. The 145 has numerous variations on a theme, coming in the ER and LR flavors, the XR with her pretty winglets, as well as its shorter sister, the EMB-135.

The Embraer 145 was known by a number of cute (or insulting, depending on your perspective) nicknames. These include "Jungle Jet" given that the plane is built in Brazil, the "lawn dart"which accounts for her, ahem, sleek design, the EMB-98 plane, because you spend more time rebooting the computers rather than flying it, as well as my personal favorite"Barbie Jet". I adored it when people would derisively call it the Barbie Jet while I was in command. I'd usually shoot back a sassy, California-girl accented "well, yeah, and who else would you expect to be flying it than Barbie herself." I often got complete, stunned radio silence after that comment (and a raised eyebrow or two from my co-pilot). It's typically not women at the commands of airplanes (even in this day and age), so the Barbie Jet comment is usually directed toward men.

One day, we had the flaps MEL'd, which basically means that we weren't allowed to use all the flaps for landing. (There are various items on an airplane that can be out of service for a certain period of time but the plane is still allowed to fly. If your item is not on the Master Equipment List, you can still fly with the item out of commission. Flaps are one of those items, surprisingly enough. Engines, they are not.) The plane flies just fine with less than the maximum flap input, but it flies much faster that way. You have to be fast on your feet, and fast on the brakes, when you land with the flaps MEL'd.

We had an uneventful flight take off from Montreal, and were heading back into Newark. The airplane has an EGPWS, basically a fancy word for the plane's ground detection system, used to prevent you from unintentionally flying into the ground ("controlled flight into terrain"). When we started to get close to the ground on landing, the EGPWS started "complaining" to us that the flaps were not fully extended. We could not turn this warning off, so other planes on our frequency as well as the air traffic controlers could hear the plane complaining "Too Low, Flaps". We did get a few comments about it, but for the most part, no one was concerned, as far as we knew.

The plane prattled on "Too low, Flaps, Too Low, Flaps" for about three minutes, starting about two miles from the runway and continued until we landed. When we finally opened the cockpit door after a satisfying landing, we stared in the face of the most frightened flight attendant we had ever seen. After the passengers had disembarked, she said that she thought we were all going to die. When I asked what the reason was that she was so scared, she replied "the plane, it kept announcing the whole way to landing 'Too Low, We're Going to Crash'". I nearly burst out laughing. Because she was sitting adjacent to the cockpit, she could hear vaguely what was going on in there, but it was muffled. So the simple "Too Low, Flaps" morphed into something much more sinister. I explained that the plane will never give up on you. It won't throw its hands in the air and proclaim imminent crashing. If the plane were in fact in crash territory, it would spend the remaining minutes it had attempting to remedy the situation.

It is a cute anecdote, but an ultimately solemn reminder that airplanes are serious pieces of equipment, with seriously important lives on board.

Memory Seeps From My Veins

Every once in a while, I'll be driving or walking somewhere, or just randomly doing something, and get sucker punched. I get the wind knocked out of me, my heart beats fast and wildly, and I usually cry at least a tear or two. Why? Because something reminds me of my brother, Xander.

I find it interesting that I don't feel the same way about those dear to me who are still alive. I don't start thinking about my sister, who is in law school in New York, or my brother, in business school in California and feel weepy. When I think about friends whom I haven't seen in years, I miss them, but I don't feel physical pain when I think about them. In fact, I don't actually feel sad about Xander on a frequent basis. I can write about him, talk to strangers or friends about him and I usually can think about him without feeling a twinge of hurt.


But, when something reminds me of him, it hits hard. Today, I was passing by an elementary school when the fire alarm rang. I watched the children file out in orderly progression, which threw me back to childhood and earthquake drills. We would have them on a regular basis at school in Southern California. Because we had to cluster outside based on last name, we were always together during these drills. He and I spent many a drill having a grand time outside on the soccer fields, soaking up the warm SoCal sun. So today, when I saw those little guys outside their school lined up for their fire drill, I thought about calling my brother and reminiscing - when that hit-me-in-the-gut feeling emerged.

Xander's funeral was held in a lovely place in late spring in Rochester, NY, the Lamberton Conservatory. I don't remember much about being there, other than it was crowded (so many people loved my brother!), it was hot, and I was sad. I have a mental snapshot of a woman sitting on a bench, looking years older than her true age, her shoulders slumped with the inevitable realization that she was there because she would never see her son again. Mothers before her have been through the same thing, and mothers after her will again, but it doesn't make it any easier. She sat, greeting visitors with a sad, slow smile and watery red-rimmed eyes. In the background, one of Xander's favorite artists, Sarah McLachlan's song "Angel" warbled from the speakers:

"memory seeps from my veins
let me be empty
and weightless and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight"

This wish that Sarah McLachlan and I shared, to find some peace tonight, was elusive. There was no peace, no solace.

The other day, as I was driving to pick up my children from summer camp, McLachlan's song came on the radio and hit my unsuspecting heart with an enormous hammer. Pow! I was overcome so instantaneously that I had to pull over and stop. I felt like I was driving in a thunderstorm so intense that I couldn't see out of the windshield. My heart pounded and I couldn't catch my breath. I called my sister, the only person I could think to call who could understand where I was coming from with my feeling. It was more than sadness I was feeling; it was regret, remorse, pain, anger, sorrow, all rolled into one neat, carefully tied package.

How do you move beyond the death of your brother? I don't know. You just do. But every once in a while, the dragon of sorrow emerges from his lair and strikes with a pain so swift and deep you wonder how you can emerge. The only comfort I have is that the dragon strikes less frequently as the years pass. But I know he lurks, waiting to strike again. I have no defense, no shield of armor, no sword. I can only hope the dragon grows old.

Raising Moral Children

Children must be raised by their parents to be moral, good humans. I don't think it requires a background in church teachings to do so, nor does it require the word of God to be a good person. I am sure that many would agree with me that there are plenty of self-titled "Christians" out there who are really not terribly good humans. I can think of plenty of times where people were not kind, considerate or honest, and in the very next breath would title themselves "good Christians." In fact, just the other day I was driving and reached a merge point where it was my turn to merge. The school bus to my left had just let in a car, then I was planning on merging after the bus. But, the driver in the car next to me ensured that he was literally inches off the bus bumper, to make sure I couldn't get in. I rolled down my window and waived, but in turn received a good old fashioned flip of the middle finger. Umm, yeah, thanks. So, after I merged in after him, I noticed that nice little fishy sticker on the back of his car proclaiming his faithfulness to our dear lord and savior. Dude, where's the love? Anyway, I digress.

In order to raise moral children, it is important to emphasize that family matters. My children know that we go for a walk after dinner every night, pretty much rain or shine. We examine plants, discuss what went on at school, stop and talk to the neighbors, pat the doggies. Basically all the stuff that lets the children know we need to stop and pay attention to others, not be self absorbed all the time. The other night it was getting a little late and I was about to take the kids upstairs for a bath. Logan stopped me and said "Mommy! We haven't gone for our walk yet, Alex and I need to get our entergy out!" He is starting to realize the value of getting out together and being a family.

Children also must be taught to give of themselves for the greater good. They don't need to give up everything for others, but they should know that there are people less fortunate than they are and be taught a willingness to give away what is theirs. We frequently donate clothing to Goodwill, and when we do, we also pick out a couple toys that are not played with often that someone else might enjoy using. We discuss the hurricanes and how kids who have lost all their toys might appreciate having some new toys to play with. At Christmas time each child picks out a toy at the toystore that they would love to play with themselves, then give it away to organizations such as "Toys for Tots". When we do this, we discuss that there are some children who would otherwise get nothing under their Christmas tree. They get a sense of giving and selflessness by doing this.

The spiritual needs of kids can be met by ensuring they are connected to nature, family, society and living creatures. They must be provided a sense of right and wrong using critical thinking skills. Children must learn to give of themselves in order to reap a sense of belonging and utility toward society. Some suggestions for involving kids in connecting to the greater good are bringing food to new parents, visiting the elderly in nursing homes, serving food to the needy on holidays, participating in park cleanups, or holding lemonade stand sales for a favorite charity (such as Alex's Lemonade Stand.)

None of my suggestions requires a belief in a higher power to control your behavior or require you to be a good person. I do not think that God is necessarily integral in someones life. Having a belief in God does not make you moral, and a lack of belief does not make you amoral. You must teach your children to be moral, thinking, feeling humans. Don't wait for someone else to teach them this!

What can you think of to encourage your children to learn to be moral, involved humans?

Chipmunk, Redux.

Well, for the past week, I have had flies in my office. Not just a few flies. So many that it has made my skin crawl. I believe I killed over 100 flies (yep, 100!) in just three days. It was like Medusa; every time I'd kill off a fly, it seemed as though two new ones took its place. They were everywhere. I thought perhaps a dirty diaper was left in my office, or something, because I was desperate to find the source of the flies. I cleaned out the office, looked under the fridge - woh was that dusty! (but I didn't clean it. Oh well.) Looked under the piano, behind the toy shelves, but nada.

I kept saying to myself "where the heck are those flies coming from?" and my four-year-old's wizened voice kept piping up "they're flying through the kitty door mommy". This, I dismissed. Who has ever heard of a fly flying through a veritable maze to get into the house. (Ominous omen number one.) The kitty door, known as the "Let Meow't" allows the cat ample egress and entry through a U shaped box tunnel without the pet owner needing to open the door sixteen times a day at the whim of kitty. Apparently, though, my kitty sees it as a means of bringing new little pets into the house (see yesterday's posting...)

After about an hour of sniffing around everywhere in the house to find the source of the flies, I eventually got over to the cat door. As I got closer, the smell got stronger. (Ominous omen number two). Sure enough, as I was looking at it, a fly zipped out into the house. Also, the big cat, Watson, was absolutely refusing to go through the cat door. (Ominous omen number three.) I thought it was just because he was lazy and didn't want to jump up to the opening.

Logan and I did a little snooping around the Let Meow't. He looked in one side, but didn't see anything. I looked in the other. Nothing. Relief. There's no dead animal corpse I have to deal with. But still, I had a funny feeling. So I unmounted the Let Meow't from its perch in the window and pulled it outside. I donned chicken pulling gloves. (Latex gloves from my mother, to be used in the rare occurance that I debone a rotisserie chicken, which is to say, never.) Over the gloves, I pulled elbow length plastic newspaper bag, just in case the chicken pulling gloves weren't sufficient enough to keep out whatever putrified matter might be in the box.

I reached in, and touched what felt like a soft baby toy. I pulled it out. There it was. The vile, foul remains of another poor chipmunk. Why it stayed in the Let Meow't instead of either running out or into my house, I won't understand. But there it was. Looking just like yesterday's chippy. But. But... This chippy was a little less, um, perky looking, than yesterday's. His belly was a teeming mass of maggots. Yick. Logan stooped down to look at the chipmunk, then he looked at me, "It's dead, Mommy." Why yes, Logan, you are correct. It's dead. He enjoyed looking at the maggots. At least one of us enjoyed the show. I wrapped up the poor thing in the newspaper bag, sprayed it with bugspray, and chucked it into our garbage can.

I'd love to say that I never saw the chippy again, but the garbage isn't picked up until Friday, and I disposed of it Monday. I'm sure he and his fly buddies will be seen again soon.

Ike

Well, Ike came ripping through Western Pennsylvania yesterday evening, and it was a doozy. The winds were gusting up to 65 miles an hour, that's close to the fastest I've ever seen. The power was browning out repeatedly for over an hour, and we had two very brief complete outages. DH and I were watching the football game (Go Steelers!) and just listening to the wind howl. The cats were not pleased. The big guy kept coming up to us and burying his nose in my lap. The little gal, Crick, was hovering close by on a pillow. Fortunately, the baby and his two big brothers were fine, and didn't notice a thing! They slept like, well, like babies. I just can't imagine what it must have felt like for people to live through a hurricane. It's bad enough having the remnants pass through; a 100 MPH wind passing overhead has to be awful.

This morning, Crick brought us another (another!!) present, a chipmunk. She brought one in last week too. I managed to wrest it from her jaw and catch it to put it out. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if she caught the same little guy and brought him in again later today. He didn't look too bad though. Just scared, and a little damp from cat drool. We've had at least two birds, two chipmunks, a rabbit, and two mice in the past month. She's gotta cut it out! I'm not pleased with having to remove live and dead animals every week. My dad's theory is that she feels we're inept, incapable, pathetic humans who need to learn how to catch live prey. So, she brings in things for us to practice with. Umm, no thanks, Crick. I'd prefer to leave the catching to you. Just don't bring them in, OK?

When is it ok for visitors to come over to see my newborn?

I've been asked often when it's ok let my newborn mingle with the adoring crowds?. Can I take him to the mall with me? How about for a walk around the block? Can my best friend bring her two kids over to see the infant? Who do I listen to for advice about this?

Babies are remarkably resilient creatures. They survive bumps, rolls, and tumbles, and fortunately, have a relatively strong immune system. But, babies are not fully immunized against many scary diseases, and are somewhat more susceptible to viruses and bacteria roaming our planet. You're probably OK taking the baby out around adults, who tend to wash their hands. But children (and worse, adults!) tend to fingers in eyes, noses, mouths, or worse, putting their hands on baby hands. Children are not capable of remembering to wash their hands before handling the baby. Babies and kids often stick their fingers into their noses, eyes and mouths, which encourages the spread of germs.

I didn't take mine out much, or at least I tried not to. Yes, they had older brothers around, but I wouldn't let them touch the baby unless they had clean hands. You don't need to maintain a clean containment room for the baby, but it's best to keep visitors away from baby's hands, and have the visitor wash their hands before holding or touching the baby. In addition, be sure that sick friends and family wait to visit if they have a cold.

Far more important than visitors for baby's health are ambient germs that you may pass along unaware. For example, it is important to always wash your hands after using the restroom (many people forget!), rubbing and blowing your nose, or changing the baby's diaper. Do not smoke around the baby, and do not allow others to smoke around the baby either. Do not give the baby over the counter cough medicines or herbal tinctures, ever. Cough medicines have been known to cause death in infants. Discuss with your pediatrician about whether other over the counter medications, such as ibuprofen (Motrin, for example) or acetaminophen (Tylenol, for example) are acceptable to give if baby has a fever.

Also, to give baby a fighting chance against disease, breastfeed. Breastmilk contains antibodies that are specific for fighting off your infant's particular illness.

Good luck with your newborn and your visitors!

How Sweet It Is.

Today, the cat needed food in her bowl. I went in to give her food, and Logan came galumphing down the hallway after me: "me do it, Mommy - me needa givea kiddy her kiddy food." So he popped open the container, grabbed the cup, filled it with food and put the kibbles in the cat bowl. Then he lovingly placed the bowl back onto the counter so the cat could eat. "Eat, Kiddy, eat your breafust." The cat cocked an ear toward him, looked at me to confirm that the beast who used to pull her hair was actually the one who fed her, then proceeded to chow down.

That sort of, but not totally, makes up for the fact that he didn't nap yesterday. When Logan doesn't nap, it's as though someone takes a can opener and pops his brain right out of the skull. Then, the brain stands upstairs on Logan's bed doing a jig while Logan runs around downstairs, brainless, thoughtless, unbearable.

Everything was a calamitous catastrophe yesterday after naptime. I had told Logan that we would go out to dinner, but only if he napped. (Ok, it was supposed to be Taco Bell, but still, it's out, right? Besides, you try taking two children under three years old out to a restaurant, alone. Come back, tell me how it went, then we'll talk.) He whined, moaned, complained when I said, post-naptime-time that we weren't going. I'm not taking a sniveling, whining two year old out to a restauarant.

For the rest of the afternoon, everything I said or did needled Logan. The fact that Logan had to stay inside while the guys mowed the lawn and weedwhacked was a serious shot through his heart. That I wouldn't let him play with the kitchen knives was cruel and unusual punishment. Needing to come inside at bedtime - well, don't even get me started. Needless to say, (and I do feel terrible saying it), Logan got neither books nor songs at bedtime. Honestly though, there really was no brain there to even perceive that songs were being sung, that books were being read. He cried when I left the room after putting him in bed, "sing a song Mommy!" But, at that point, I was fed up, way up, and there needed to be some distance between the two of us.

About fifteen minutes after he and his brother went to bed, I began to feel real remorse at being so mean as to not sing him a song after tucking him in. So I went upstairs to his room to make peace with him. I needn't have worried about peace - he was already peacefully off in la-la land, dreaming of the myriad ways he could conceive of to push my buttons tomorrow. But he was sleeping, that baby of mine, with his chubby toddler cheeks, sweaty brow, and sweet deep breath. Fickleness, thine name is Logan. But oh, how I love thee nonetheless.

Crap!

So, life's not all crappy with my kids. The crappyness is just that much more interesting to write about. Who wants to hear about how someone's son plays football and their daughter does ballet? I don't, it's all crap! At least, that's what I think.