Get it out of the car!

For Father's Day, we wanted to do something fun as a family. We're pretty limited about what we can do, however - on weekends, we tend to rise late, take a long time eating breakfast, and then we have to get N down for a nap by 2-ish. So unless we really plan and get up early, we have a pretty small window to work with.

So with a limited window of opportunity (and hence, no desire to pay for things like the zoo or arboretum), we decide to take a road trip to Elmhurst to see the 17-year cicadas. We don't have them out here in Aurora, probably in great part because 17 years ago around here, it was mostly farmland. No place for the little (well, really, not-so-little) buggers to live.

We hadn't seen the cicadas en masse yet, despite hearing all the stories. It's mid-June; we're missing the opportunity - we were informed only the weekend before by a relative who lives in Riverside that now they're dying and stinking. If we want to see them live - even better, *hear* them, we need to get on the road.

So we pile in the car after breakfast and head east. We picked Elmhurst because it's one of only two suburbs we know reasonably well that we can a) get to in about 1/2 hour and b) has been reported on the news as being inundated by the critters. (Side note - we're now wishing we'd gone to Glen Ellyn as apparently there were more cicadas; however, we can take the tollway to Elmhurst and thought we'd move faster. Not that any of this matters.)

One of the things we've tried really hard to instill in P is the ability to *not* freak out at bugs and spiders. I have a niece who, as a small child, would literally climb you if she saw a spider. I have put aside my own personal creepy crawly issues for the sake of my children. I have done extremely well and react in a very mature manner when we see them now - "ooh, look at that cool spider!" is much more common than the shrieking-falling-off-of-furniture reaction I had once that landed me in the doctor's office and on crutches for a good two weeks. I still get goosebumps when I recall the giant wolf spider I essentially *petted* by accident once when trying to unroll a poster that the spider was trying to hide in. I do not react that way anymore. I am very grown up.

So we arrive in Elmhurst. We can hear the cicadas through the closed windows - well, heck, let's roll them down! Wow, that's amazing, they're so loud . . . THUNK. What the? If you're not familiar with the 17-year cicadas, here's an interesting tidbit about their ability to fly - they're not very good at it. They bumble around, bumping into things, people, cars. In this case, I'd barely rolled my window down and one flew right into the window frame. I'm laughing until the spousal unit points out that it's STILL ON THE FLOOR OF THE CAR. BY MY FEET. I am no longer impressed, I am freaking out. My only concern - GET IT OUT OF THE CAR. NOW.

I don't care that I'm a mature adult and my children are in the backseat and the cicadas don't sting, bite, or otherwise hurt you. It's IN MY CAR. These have to be some of the ugliest bugs I've ever seen and I want it OUT OF MY CAR NOW. I am nearly hysterical, feet pulled up under me as far as they can go, practically shrieking, "Just pull over! Get it out! Turn there! Stop the car! No, YOU get it!"

Thankfully, the cicada (undoubtedly dazed from the hit and subsequent shrieking) was easily removed (though the spousal unit wouldn't touch it either) and the episode didn't last long enough to scar P or make him run screaming when we did see a fair number of the loud little guys shortly afterwards.

And I'm sure it had no effect whatsoever on N who was trying to pick them up off the bike path where we photographed them later. He may even try to eat them, given a chance. Of course, now he'll have to wait 17 more years.

Oh, say can you say . . .

Ah, the things our children say sometimes. Driving in the car today, P was alliterating and it's a darn good thing I was sitting at a stop sign, otherwise I might have driven off the road. But really, I should just tell the story.

Background. P (7) imagines many many things - one of the imaginary creatures is a guinea pig named Saturn who belongs to Pooh Bear. Saturn is a very talented little piggie as he can apparently speak English, with some minor difficulty.

So today we are driving to a park day with our homeschool group. Sitting at a stop sign, waiting for traffic, I'm looking over my shoulder, and therefore directly at N (nearly 22 months), watching a ridiculous number of vehicles coming down what's usually a pretty quiet highway this time of day. There's a number of larger vehicles - semis, dump trucks, etc. - so I comment to N (whose little head is zipping back and forth watching them), "Lots of trucks, hey, Stinkbug?" He responds, "Buck!" Yep, buck. That's works.

P thinks for a few seconds and calls out, "Hey, mom, you know what Saturn calls it? F*ck!" Very loud, very distinct, very calm. I'm trying so hard not to laugh, I feel like my ears are going to explode.

On to explain that while "f*ck" rhymes with "truck" it is also, for reasons I can't entirely explain, a *very* not-nice word to say. Kindof like calling someone an "idiot" is also not nice but even worse. P doesn't get this (we don't swear around the kids, having learned my lesson when P was 2 and he repeated "holy sh*t" in his sweet baby voice) - he can understand namecalling is not nice but what makes the f-word so bad?

I have no other explanation. I tell him yes, it's very strange that some words are bad as they're just letters that make a particular sound. But it's still not a nice word and please, honey, don't say "f*ck" again.

Be careful what you wish for

The urologist called tonight; he left a message as we were in minor crisis mode and nobody felt like answering the phone. Which is irritating me now because I really wish that I had talked to him. The message was at least a little unclear but basically said what we had been hoping to hear for, literally, MONTHS. We can stop giving N his prophylactic antibiotic. This is GOOD news.

So why do I feel so . . . . odd? I should be happy. I should be *thrilled.* We should be calling our moms and e-mailing our friends - it's done it's done it's done.

Except it's not really. The antibiotic is done. But what now? I think I've been so focused on getting to the end of this road that I hadn't really spent much time thinking about what the next path was going to be like. Maybe if I'd had a plan, was ready to set out on the next phase, had at least been able to ask Dr. Cheng "who do I call to make the next appointment?" I would feel less . . . odd.

Because he still only has one good kidney and that's always going to be an issue. Maybe I'm more concerned about that than I realized. It's not life-threatening, it's something he can live with, he'll likely never have to worry about it. But it's still there.

So even though the reflux is gone and the antibiotic is no longer necessary, we're still in a maintenance mode of sorts. We still have decisions to make (will we ever let him ski?) and dietary concerns and as he gets older, I'm sure we'll face other questions I haven't thought about.

But I certainly expected to feel at least happy about this news. Because it's exactly what we've been wishing for.