Don’t Drink The Lemonade
Max has thrown up exactly three times and twice was outside of Cheesecake Factory. I don’t want to slander Cheesecake Factory. On the contrary, David and I are rather big fans of the Cheesecake Factory and it is a favorite destination for date nights (we split the Chinese chicken salad, and if we’re feeling saucy we get the pot stickers). And Max has eaten at some Cheesecake Factories with no such reaction, but the Cheesecake Factory at the Stonebriar Mall in Frisco, Texas – well, bad luck.
The first time was when he was two and he was misbehaving at the table. By the time we left he was throwing a full blown temper tantrum. We walked out of the restaurant, into the mall, David carrying him. Max was screaming the whole way and then he promptly threw up all over David. It was actually funny and I laughed out loud. David holding Max with puke all down the back of his t-shirt was a sight to behold. I don’t know, something about years of wearing shirts with baby spit-up seemed to all balance out in that one instance.
Tonight, we waited for close to an hour to get food and by the time the pizza arrived for the kids Max was past the point of reason. He was starving, tired and cranky. He refused to eat, complained that he was cold and whined non-stop. It was a Friday night, so the place was packed and I was trying desperately to keep Max’s behavior exempt from scorn by the fellow patrons. I inhaled two fish tacos and told David to have the rest packed up I was taking the kids out into the mall before any serious temper tantrums began.
I walked outside of the restaurant with Lucy and Max and before I could clear the waiting area Max coughed and vomited brown pumpernickel bread all over the mall floor. Women gasped, teenagers gagged, and I was left with only one option; “Lucy, you and Max stand right here against the wall. DON’T MOVE!! I’m going to go get a towel”. I made a dash back into the restaurant hopeful that he neither vomited again nor a stranger abducted them. I grabbed the first waiter I could find who was holding two freshly starched napkins and I said firmly (but not rudely) “Do you have a towel?” and I boldly eyed the napkins he was holding. “Well” he said slowly “what do you want to clean up? Because these don’t really hold a lot of liquid”. I could not believe that he was going to question the type of spill I was trying to rectify at this moment. I stared right at him and said “I just want a napkin.” I didn’t even wait for a reply, I grabbed the napkin and ran outside where Max was standing horrified and with vomit all down his jacket. Lucy standing next to him shaking. However, they hadn’t moved, as instructed, and for that I was proud. I cleaned up the vomit off the ground and threw away the napkin. (Yes, Cheesecake Factory, I took a cloth napkin, cleaned vomit and threw it away. If you want me to pay you back then bill me). Lucy was shaking with panic and had a thousand question; “Should we tell Daddy? Is Max going to throw up? Should I go get Daddy?” I could see she needed a job and so I told her to go back into the restaurant and tell Daddy. She perked right up and didn’t hesitate to run back into the restaurant.
I walked Max to the mall door so he could get some fresh air and watched the restaurant door for Lucy to return. She bolted out of the door minutes later her eyes brimmed with tears. I flagged her down and she came running up to me tears spilling over and a quiver in her voice; “I couldn’t find Daddy, and I got scared, and is Max going to be okay?” Poor Lucy, so desperate to help with the situation and not able to complete her mission. Max, in the meantime was not crying but was shaking from head to toe – past the point of exhaustion.
I don’t know if it is the Cheesecake Factory at the Stonebriar Mall in Frisco Texas or the fact that both times Max was tired or the Strawberry Lemonade, but something at that Cheesecake Factory does not mesh well with Max. David came out, we gathered everybody up into our arms and walked out to the car. Honestly, I’m just glad I didn’t also throw up. I’m not a mother who handles puke well and I’m amazed that I didn’t make the situation worst but was actually helpful. And for now, I don’t think we’ll be returning to the Cheesecake Factory in the mall.
First Comes Marriage And Then….Hmm
I hate the fact that I am once again piggy-backing onto the latest momversation, but this one hit close to home. Fertility medicine. While the whole world is abuzz about some random, inept doctor who purposefully got some crazy woman pregnant with 8 babies, millions of other women are desperate for just one. I was one of those women.
Fertility is a strange thing. From the time I entered puberty my cycle was so predictable you could have set a clock to it. My mother was the same way, as was my sister, both of whom got pregnant without planning or problems. The idea that I would have any difficulty conceiving was the furthest thing from my mind. I was married later in life at 30. Not my fault – I couldn’t really control when I met my soul mate. Please take that issue up with God. Within the first year of marriage we decided to have a baby. At the time I thought it would be easy. Stop using birth control, have sex, here comes baby.
Soon months went by without any success. We started being more “purposeful” with our attempts at baby-making. Still no success. Before I knew it the monthly home pregnancy test started feeling like a pee-stick of failure. We went to the doctor and the testing began. We found ourselves at eighteen months of temperature taking, chart making, timing, tests, and nothing. All we wanted was one child of our own. Fertility problems are heart-wrenching. Every month you start hopeful with a new game plan. THIS is going to be the month. You just KNOW it. As the end of your cycle approaches every symptom can either be a signal for hope or despair. You find yourself developing a hyper-sensitivity to your body, “my boobs hurt I MUST be pregnant” or “I feel a little nauseous I’m pregnant”. And then when you pee on that stick and it once again turns up negative all of that hope goes down the toilet. You’re left empty, hollow, desperate, sad.
I don’t know I would have survived that process, that gut-wrenching, emotional roller-coaster without David and my doctor. My sweet, wonderful doctor who never once lost hope. After eighteen months she regretfully told me that she could do no more for us and recommended that we see a fertility clinic for IVF treatments. I knew that at that point our chances for having a baby had just dramatically dropped. David and I would only be able to afford one round of IVF and with only a 50% success rate it might not work at all. I made the appointment and tried to remain optimistic. A week before our appointment at the fertility clinic my first home pregnancy test came back positive. We were going to have a baby.
My story ends there, but there are millions of people whose stories continue. Millions of wonderful, loving, sweet families who want a child of their own and cannot conceive. In most cases it is nobody’s fault. They did not wait until they were too old. They do not live outrageous lifestyles. On the contrary, most have basic biological issues that can easily be resolved with modern medicine and treatments. Of those that cannot be resolved with simple biology, IVF and other fertility treatments are miracles. You can ask any family who has weathered the storm of fertility problems and they will tell you that they would have swapped places with anybody who was able to get pregnant without such assistance. It is an awful, painful experience that I would not want any couple to face.
Most couples would not wish for nor seek multiple births. Every parent wants the same thing; a healthy pregnancy and birth. Purposefully trying for multiple births puts everybody at risk and if we are finger pointing it should be at the doctors that irresponsibly agree to implant multiple eggs. Banning, or over regulating, fertility treatments is going to cause additional stress to families that are already suffering an extremely stressful situation.
Democracy? No, Breakfast Cereal.
I’ve mentioned before that breakfast cereal is a banished product in my household. David has a 
severe addiction to the crunchy, sugary goodness that can be found in every box and has been known to eat a whole box in a day. When General Mills offered to send me a free box of cereal I knew it would be met with glee and delight. Indeed, when the box arrived it was greeted by screaming, hoots and hollers. The kids tore open the box exploding with the excitement that is usually only reserved for packages from Grandma and me baking cookies. Lucy instantly wanted me to pour her a bowl “with milk” and Max could barely contain his delight at the Madagascar penguin that was found inside. Indeed, he has slept with that little penguin EVERY night since excavating it from the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. To say that my children enjoyed the cereal would be an understatement in the line of “hey Disney World might be fun”. The box didn’t last 4 hours in my house. It was a new record for the Morley household and when the last tidbit of cinnamon yumminess was gone it was as if the iron curtain of communism had fallen down upon us. The grey cloud of disappointment rolled in and the realization that once again we were a household with no cereal left the children bereft of glee.
I’m beginning to re-think my no cereal policy. Especially since Lucy is close to being the age that she could, theoretically, make herself breakfast in the morning. Maybe I’ll just introduce Cheerios and see how we handle that first.
