Thank God, I Survived!

The eulogy's that I received sure made me glad that I survived the Mongolian Death Flu. I couldn't possibly die now knowing that my legacy is this pathetic. The Weasels were relieved that I pulled through, although Eldest was visibly disappointed that she had to put her book deal on hold. She had already written the first chapter of "WeaselMomma Dearest" entitled How I Suffered for 13 years Without Texting. Poor girl had already planned out how she would spend her advance money.

I have time now to build a bigger and better legacy, but I will still award the $25 Amazon gift card that has been sitting in my purse for eight months collecting dust.

This was a hard decision that I couldn't possibly make. So I read them to Mr. Weasel and he chose without the knowlege of who the authors were. He rarely reads this blog so there was no danger of him having insider information.

And the winner of that dusty Amazon card is:

WeaselMomma passed away on Tuesday, having spent a week in a coma after being hit by a beer truck. Her family and favorite bartender were at her bedside when she passed. WeaselMomma was the Mother of 5 children, having unsuccessfully lobbied her husband for a 12-pack. "At least 11", she once said "that way we can field a football team." Her dreams of becoming a neurosurgeon were dashed in college after she drank her Sophomore year tuition before Thanksgiving break. Going to work for the Government proved to be the wrong career choice as she lost her first 8 government jobs after refering to supervisors as "Idiots" "Dolts" and asking one supervisor; "Did your parents have any children that possess a frontal lobe?" Afterwards she concentrated on raising her children and mobilizing the local chapter of The Pick-Up Truck Owners Society (PUTOS) to provide relief when local beer distributor trucks broke down. The Budweiser distributor was always appreciative; the Coors distributor said that they seemed to take twice as long as neccesary, and only 1/2 of the load would show up. In a related story, the Bud Light truck driver who struck and killed WeaselMomma has committed suicide. He said he couldn't live with the knowledge that he was responsible for killing such a wonderful consumer of brewed spirits, even if it wasn't his brand. In leiu of flowers, please double tip your favorite bartender the next time you go out for a drink. Visitation and Kegger will be Thursday; Bonfire, burial and wet tuxedo contest on Friday.

Written by none other than, NukeDad!

An Honorable runner up award complete with the 2nd place consulation prize of some link love, has been earned for this entry goes to Momo Fali.

WeaselMomma was born a coal-miner's daughter and grew up on a hill in Butcher-Holler. She spent most of her life barefoot, which inevitably led to pregnancy. FIVE of them. She was kicked out of the holler for exceeding the four kid limit and moved to Illinois where she raised her family and made money by showing videos of herself drinking shots. There may also be other videos of which we are not aware.

I am sorry this eulogy is five years late, but Weaselmomma was found dead sitting at her computer underneath a pile of laundry and dirty dishes. Her family didn't see anything out of the ordinary and had no idea she was there. Weaselmomma, you will be missed. Now everyone, onto the fun part of the funeral! Beer and comfort food!

Once again, I'm glad I made it, 'cause with friends like these.....who needs an enema?

Nightmare

I haven't been sleeping well lately. I have had a tremendous brick wall of writers block. Sure, there are many stresses that are being juggled right now in Weaselville, but I know that they are not the root cause. I know what the cause is and I hate to look it in it's ugly face. Gnawing at my brain like a termite is a nightmare. The kind that you can't wake up from. Wreaking havoc in my head, preventing the flow of coherent thought and peaceful sleep, is what Mr. Weasel and I have come to refer to as the videotape.

I can't hit stop or pause. It just plays in a torturous unending loop and eats away at any attempt to live life as I used to know it. I am hoping that by writing about it and putting it out in front of myself that it will stop playing for the time being.

I have written about it some before, here and here, but never in complete detail. For some things are just too awful to say out loud. Today, I hope by acknowledging the gory, I can put them to rest for a while and find peace, at least for the short time.

The video that plays uncontrollably in my head is that of the night that our daughter Claire died (July 2nd, 2002).

Weaselville had been the happiest place on earth since we brought our newest baby girl home from the hospital. She brought joy to the entire family and was a very easy baby to care for. All of the Weasels loved their newest, best toy ever and helping to care for her. The Mr. and I were happy to have her home after a tumultuous first week of life that was spent in the hospital filled with worries about her health, that all turned out to right themselves, or so we thought. She was healthy, she was ours and she was home.

One week later, all the kids were tucked in their beds fast asleep. Mr. Weasel and I were in bed watching T.V. as I nursed Claire. When she was done, I was tired. Claire was wide eyed and wanting to cuddle and play (as much as a newborn can). Mr. Weasel took her to hold and love, so that I may get some sleep. He eventually fell asleep sitting up in bed with her tucked away in his arms.

At 3:23 am, I awoke abruptly to Mr. Weasel screaming in panic that she was not breathing. I assuming that he must be mistaken.  I calmly but quickly checked for myself. In that instant the world stopped turning. Mr. Weasel started CPR and told me to call 911. I froze in fear and disbelief. He told me to take over CPR and he called. I went into automatic. I couldn't think, I just had to do. I continued CPR as we waited for help. It wasn't working. I felt I must be doing it wrong. It was taking forever for help to get there. Mr. Weasel called 911 again to ask "WHERE THE F&$% ARE YOU?" It felt like hours. In reality it was less than 3 minutes. When the paramedics arrived they said they were taking her to the ambulance. All that ran through my head was "don't waste time telling me, just do it, Fast!".

They took her outside as we threw on some clothes. There were police, fireman and paramedics everywhere. Eldest had woken up, but we shooed her back to her room. For we did not know what to do or what was happening. Mr. Weasel went to calm her as I went outside to stand in the open doors behind the ambulance hoping for some hope. I was sure that this was not happening. I was sure that they would save her. Mr. W came out to join me and to hold me.

They closed the back doors and were heading for the ER. I would go to the hospital and Mr. Weasel would stay with the other children. The police told me to drive myself to the hospital. I was not fit in any way to be driving. There is no doubt that my guardian angel was doing that part. I called a friend on my way. She would rush to the house and stay with the kids so that he could come to the hospital.

Once at the ER, they put me in a claustrophobic little room with a couch to wait. All they would say is "we're working on her". I couldn't sit still and there was no room to walk. Every time I stood at the doorway a very large security guard was in front of me to make sure I didn't enter the curtain area. I was asked, "Is someone coming? Can we call someone?" every few minutes. I continually answered "Yes. My husband is coming. I don't know why he's not here yet.", as I grew angry and frustrated that he wasn't there and they wouldn't tell me what was happening with my baby. I cursed under my breath at my husband when he wasn't answering his phone and wasn't arriving at the hospital. Anger mounted inside of me. "This is no time to bother with the paperwork" was my only thought. He must be filling out paperwork. Why isn't he here instead? He should be here. Where the hell is he.

I asked for a priest. I needed to have my daughter baptised. They sent some greasy long haired, hippy freak of about 20 years old. I asked for a priest. Again and again I asked for a priest. I asked for an update on my daughter, "we're working on her". It was an endless circle. "where the hell is he???????"

"We're ready for you now" was all that was said as a nurse appeared briefly from behind the curtain. I hurried to see my baby girl. I pushed past the curtain prepared for wires and monitors and machines. I saw none of that. There was none of that. Just my baby girl, swaddled in blankets, laying on a gurney much to large for her little body. No beeps, no humming, no noise. Once again I froze. I had to ask the nurse "Is she breathing?". A simple "no" was muttered. I leaned my body over my baby girl like a blanket. The nurse sat me on a stool and placed her lifeless body in my arms saying "hold her", before exiting.

I sat and held her little self, rocking her gently, sure that she would start breathing again any second. This was not happening. It couldn't be. It all had to be a mistake. It. Had. To. Be. I prayed. Prayed like I had never prayed before. I was sure that she would breath again. She had to. I needed a miracle and I knew God would provide it. I cursed again that my husband wasn't here. Where are you. I need you. Where the F%$@ are you?. I sat and rocked and cried in disbelief. Eventually, a doctor walked in and sat beside me. I couldn't speak. All she said was "I'm sorry". I couldn't make eye contact. All I could do was rock my baby and cry. She left. I held my baby. I begged her to breath. I begged God that this be all a mistake.

Soon, a policeman came in. He would need me to come make a statement at the police station. "Is that where my husband is?" 'Yes" was replied. "Does he know?". "I think so" was all that was said. I needed to be with my husband. I didn't want to leave my baby girl. I made sure that they wouldn't move her until after we could come back together. I could be with him just as soon as I gave my statement. I asked if I could drive myself to the station and was told "you're in no condition to drive". I rode in the front seat of the cruiser. Everything seemed surreal. I sat in the squad room and the officer ran to go buy me a cup of coffee after apologizing that none was made. I answered some simple questions. All was in order and I asked to see my husband. I was brought to him. He had been locked in a cell. This is why he never came. This is why he couldn't answer his phone.

When our friend arrived at the house to care for the children, he went to the car so he could join me at the hospital. The senior officer asked him "where do you think you're going?". "To the hospital with my baby and my wife". At that point he was cuffed and stuffed into the back of a cruiser. He was arrested and locked in a cell. Without cause.

Once locked up and not understanding why or what was happening, he screamed and yelled for them to allow him to go to the hospital and was ignored. He continually hit the call button and was told to stop because he was being "annoying". He screamed that he needed to see his wife and daughter. The officer that had him arrested came to the door and stated coldly "Your daughter is dead" and then slammed the door shut again. It wasn't opened again until after he collapsed from a panic attack.

He was only released after I gave my statement.

We were driven back to the hospital together and for the first time to be together with our lifeless baby girl. A priest still not had been called. We baptized her ourselves in the little sink in the curtained room. We held her, but also knew that we must soon go home. Our other children would be awake soon and would need us. We didn't want someone else telling them that their beloved baby sister was gone.

When we arrived home the police were still there. The kids had remained asleep, with the exception of Eldest who never went back to sleep. As the kids awoke, we told them all individually about the death of their sister. None of them believed us. They all had the same reaction. Each went immediately to her empty bassinet to look for her as our hearts broke again and again each time we had to crush our children, their reality and their feelings of safety and security.

I went to the back porch to sit. My best friend and her mother were sitting and waiting, just wanting to help. They poured me some coffee and asked what they could do. I sat like a zombie and told them that I was sure that any minute I was going to wake up. I was certain of it. This had to be a nightmare. It was a nightmare, for this was far worse than anything life could throw at us.

I never woke up. In fact, I never actually slept again. At least not how normal people expect to sleep.

Later that day, after not knowing what happened or why. After fretting and fearing about why our precious baby had died, we heard from the coroner. It was her heart. A congenital heart defect, that usually does not interfere with any aspect of life, blew wide open and her heart stopped pumping correctly. All of her blood flooding into her tiny lungs and it was over immediately. It was a one in a million thing and the only lottery we have ever held the ticket for.

Welcome to all of you arriving from Dad-Blogs Fatherhood Friday. Thanks for taking the time to read this. If you got this far, you might as well leave a comment.

Contest Clarification

Many of you are submitting some lovely and fitting epitaphs (–noun

a commemorative inscription on a tomb or mortuary monument about the person buried at that site).

However, I have that under control. Your task is to write the Eulogy ( noun -
a speech or writing in praise of a person or thing, esp. a set oration in honor of a deceased person).

The deadline will be Friday at midnight. Winner will be announced Saturday. Please make sure to include your email address so that I may inform the winner.

Best Contest Ever!

I have been just a tiny blip on the radar lately, hopefully you've noticed. No big shakes going on, just busy family life, including an unwelcome house guest that doesn't know when it's time to leave. Influenza has descended upon our humble abode. I have been dispensing medication, taking temps and serving ice cream for dinner. All of the Weasels have contracted flu. Three of them were well enough to make it school today, but not wanting Mom to be left out of the latest family craze, decided to give it to share it with her too.

I had been been fighting it off really well. Using mind over matter to bounce the germs off of me as Weasels coughed on my face. I had willed myself to push away thoughts of that tickle in my throat and to ignore the feelings of fatigue and congestion. Yesterday I lost my battle.

I have begged Mr. Weasel to take me out back and play "Old Yeller", you know, just to end the suffering. He doesn't want to be the next Drew Peterson, so it's a no go. Everyone else seems to have survived and he thinks that I will too. I have my doubts.

Just in case, I am pondering possible epitaphs for my tombstone. The best I have come up with so far is "Please Curb Your Dog". I am also looking for a volunteer to give the eulogy. So that is your task boys and girls. Write WeaselMomma's Eulogy. Email it to weaselmomma@yahoo.com or leave it as a comment. The winner (whoever writes my favorite) will receive a $25.00 Amazon giftcard. Be creative and have fun.

Pink Cadillac

I am living the life. You know me, complete princess non grata. All the Glam, all the time. St. Patrick's dayjust like any other Tuesday found me with full staff taking care of all of my beautification needs.

The reality of it is, a friend recently became a Mary Kay consultant. She gets extra points (or something) for bringing 'a model' to practice on to the weekly meeting. I sit and apply multiple products to my face. They ooh, aahhh and applaud. I get a free gift. You have never seen people so sincerely excited about the application of eye shadow. Seriously folks. This group was way too into this.

My girlfriend saw how very amused I was with these kool-aid drinking, cult of skin care fiends, and laughed right along with me. There were only six people, including me. The room was no bigger than a pop-tent. There were no less than 30 applause breaks. Really, they applauded every possible accomplishment for the week from "I sold a Gabonzo amount of products" to "I didn't break any finger nails" My mad mascara application skilz had them down right giddy.

I was so glad that I politely turned down the coffee and refreshments that were being offered. I am sure they were laced with some mind altering substance.

Just when I thought I couldn't get any more amused and entertained by watching this over zealous group of skin care consultants and their unnatural affection for facial cleansers, it happened. One of the women, for her achievements this week, was presented ~ and I kid you not~ with the "Pearls of Sharing"! She stood up to raucous applause and was handed pearl earrings.

I said to my self: "self, They didn't actually just say that, they couldn't have. Oh, yes they did".
Just when I thought this night couldn't get any funnier, in a creepy way, The presenter followed up with "and here don't forget your Pearl Necklace". I almost fell off of my chair! My friend too was holding back her laughter for dear life.

I have known many Mary Kay consultants. All of them were very normal people. I like and use Mary Kay. I am a fairly normal insert NukeDad smartass comment here. These women were not normal. These women were like the the Octamoms of foundation and powder. Lip gloss gave them a star-struck kind of awe as if Brad Pitt just sent a personal love note. I kept looking for the ghost of Alan Funt.

After the cult jam, she and I headed out to share a few drinks and laughs about the evening. This was not her normal group to meet with and she agreed that they are pounding the kool-aid of skin care as a religion.

Overall, I had a great time. Lots of laughs, time and drinks with a friend and a free microderm abrasion set. Who could ask for more?