Halloween, A Bit Late

To those of you who haven't given up on me, and keep checking my blog, thank you so much.  I'm so sorry to make you wait so long between posts.  I feel like I'm so behind in just about everything in my life and am constantly in survival mode, from one day to the next.  But I do consider this blog to be part of my journal, so I wanted to report back about Halloween.  I never heard from Dylan about his care package.  I sure miss that kid.  But Lyndsay was thrilled to receive hers, and she was even a good enough sport to decorate her pumpkins and send me pictures.  It was a welcome Sunday afternoon creative diversion for her.

Here are her pumpkins and the pictures of her desk area in her dorm, all decorated.  She's so cute.

You can see all the other drawings and paintings she has up.  She's so creative and talented.  I loved seeing her space up there, that looks so much like her.

She even got herself a little costume of sorts to be in the Halloween spirit:

Back here at home, Aiden was a nerd for Halloween, but still so cute.

We did something funny with this picture for his upcoming birthday party invitations, that I'll show you later.

And little Conor was a triceratops, costume courtesy of my angel mother, who once again saved Halloween for me.  I didn't know what to do, since I have zero time and no sewing machine.  We got by purchasing Star Wars costumes for the boys last year, but I just couldn't do another store bought costume this year.

He actually won the costume contest at his school on Halloween.  He also got a serious heat rash from it though, and missed two days of school.  That's a story.  I'll finish with the pics of the Big Night, and then tell that one.

Halloween was unseasonably warm this year.  That week had temps in the 90s, but the evening had cooled down considerably.  Still, by the end of trick-or-treating Conor's face was flushed and his hair matted with sweat, poor baby.  The next day in school (I was at the hospital doing my clinical rotation), Adam got called to pick him up because his face was swelling and itchy and everyone was afraid it was one of his serious allergic reactions.  He was given Benadryl and seemed to be fine.  The next morning he came downstairs around 5:30am while I was making lunches and was scratching his face saying it was swelling up again and itchy.  He had raised wheals on his face and neck and his torso was covered in a rash.  I gave him Benadryl again, but knew I couldn't send him to school.  This didn't seem like one of his usual allergic reactions, which go straight to his respiratory system.  I thought, "Oh, great, he's got a new allergy developing."  But we couldn't for the life of us figure out what it was.  The Benadryl controlled the itching, but not the rash, as it usually will for a mild allergic reaction, so I called the doctor who wanted to see him.  

So, there went my day of studying.  It's always something, I tell ya.

The doctor was very puzzled too.  It didn't fit his usual allergy pattern.  We went round and round trying to get to the bottom of it.  Then she said, "It looks like a heat rash, but it hasn't been that hot.  What was he wearing?"  Jeans and a t-shirt, I said.  "What about the night before?" And as she said that, we both just looked at each other with recognition of having solved the puzzle.  The night before had been Halloween and he was in head-to-toe polar fleece.  There it was.  A gazillion blocked sweat pores.  Wheals formed from the scratching itself.  Got it.  What a relief to know the cause!  She said it might hang around for 5 to 7 days, but then it would clear up.  But she did want to do more allergy testing, so we headed over to the hospital for a blood draw.  Conor was less than thrilled with that news, but we were so close and the day had been blown anyway, so I was not coming back.  

"It will be cool," I told him.  "Don't you want to see how pretty your blood is?"  No, not so much, but he was brave.  I held him on my lap and there were two techs helping.  One to do the draw, one to hold him down, somewhat.  His first question to them was, "How many seconds is this going to take?"  The tech told him 20.  "TWENTY?" he repeated, completely shocked.  "Well, that's for the first vial, and then 10 for the next, 10 for the next, and then 5."  This was clearly more than he had bargained for, but I told him it only would hurt a bit while the needle went in and then not at all.  Boy, did he take his counting seriously.  

And when it was done, I let him hold the vials and swish them around and see how lovely his blood was and told him how many things about his body his blood could tell the doctor.  I showed him the labels with his name on them, to which he responded, "They spelled my name wrong.  Conor only has one 'n'."  He felt like a hero though, and he had been very brave.  He got a milkshake on the way home.  

So a food allergy panel was done, and I also had them do a Celiac test while we were at it.  All of that came back just fine.  (relief!)  He will have a skin allergy test as soon as I can work that in.  His bloodwork did reveal that his iron is very low (like, it should be 23.9 and his was 7.4, but he's not anemic because his hemoglobin was normal), which is weird, because he eats really healthy foods (green veggies and lots of beans, but not much red meat), so he's getting an iron supplement for the next three months and will then have his blood drawn again.  

The rash lasted 3 days and was gone.  Everything is fine.  Life goes on.  

And my favorite part?  Halloween is over.

Halloween Care Packages

Just about the only thing I like about having my children living away from home is the excuse I have to make up care packages for them.  It is so much fun to get a package in the mail, and I love the idea of making them happy, surprising them, and cheering up their day with a little something unexpected from home.  Plus, I always want them to know that wherever they may live, they are continually on my mind.

So, I wanted to send some sort of Halloween care package to both Lyndsay and Dylan.  Of course, pumpkins come to mind, but pumpkins would be ridiculously expensive to ship, so I thought of Jack-be-Littles and their bigger cousin Tiger Stripe.  And since they're too little to really carve (and carving would be messy in a dorm, in Lyndsay's case, and in Dylan's, he'll probably get to do that with his dad), I thought that decorating them with markers could be satisfying for both of my artistic children.  So began my hunt for mini-pumpkins, which I finally found at Trader Joe's.  (Should have started there.)

Of course, some candy had to go in the package.  The Cadbury Screme Eggs are new to me this year (thank you, Cadbury!) as are the White Chocolate Candy Corn M&Ms.  I sent more candy to Lyndsay, because I imagine Dylan will still have access to lots of candy either through Trick-or-Treating, or from raiding the bags of his younger brothers.  And, I wanted Lyns to have some to share with roommates or friends.

I went to Office Depot to get the markers for the pumpkin decorating (which I'm sure will get lots of use beyond that), and I saw this cute owl USB that practically screamed Lyndsay's name to me, so I picked that up and tossed it in her package too.

Plenty of color options.  Little ribbons for the stems would be cute too.  They each got their own set of markers and 3 pumpkins.

And I sent Lyns some Halloween-colored lights that she can decorate her dorm with.  I think they'll fit perfectly on the shelves above her desk.

Then I got them each a card and we all signed it for them with a little message.  I asked them in my message to take a picture of their decorated pumpkins, so we'll see if they do, and what they come up with.  Off they went to the post office!  I hope they enjoy!

(And I hope they're not reading my blog, or that others who do will not spoil the surprise!)

Ice Queen, Melted

I kept Conor home from school today.  He stopped throwing up yesterday, and had begun eating and drinking small amounts, and his fever had passed, but I just wanted him to have one more day of rest.

I'd made a doctor's appointment for Aiden this morning to have his foot looked at.  I don't know what it is with my kids and their feet, but we've been through it, and thankfully have a wonderful podiatrist.  Aiden started complaining of foot pain after his first football practice, and I thought, "Oh, dear.  He will come unglued if he can't play."  We'd been getting him through the best we could with tape, ice, Advil, and prayers, but it needed to get looked at.  His doctor's appointment was for 8:45am, so I got up at 6:30am with the following plan:

6:30   Pack Sean's lunch--he was at Seminary (Sean lives with us now, have you heard?)
6:45   Make breakfast for Sean
7:00   Have scripture study with my kids
7:15   Feed Aiden and Conor (oh, and me)
7:30   Go shower and get dressed
8:15   Leave for the doctor's office

But, you know what they say about the "best laid plans."  Adam had stayed up all night working, so he was really tired, and when he heard that I was going in the general direction (sort of) of the town where Sean's school is, he asked if I could just take him "on my way."

So, that's why I didn't get to shower today.  And sort of why Sean was 5 minutes late for school (Adam told me it started at 8am, but at 7:49, stuck in traffic, Sean clarified that it starts at 7:50.  Precision isn't Adam's forte.)  And why we got to the doctor's office 38 minutes early.

Good thing we'd both packed books.  And I, mascara.

Aiden was relieved to hear that his growth plate had NOT broken again.  This time, just as his sister had earlier this year, he "just" has tendinitis.  And he is not forbidden from playing football, provided he follows some basic rules.  He is excused from all running in P.E. for a month, however.  But he is over-the-moon happy about it not being the worst case scenario he'd been dreading.

From the doctor's office in Glendale, we drove to Burbank to pick up an ankle brace, and then clear out to Northridge, where his school is.

On the way home, Lyndsay called me in hysterics about her Calculus 2 test.  She'd taken her first college exam and it did not go as she'd hoped.  I could barely understand her on the other end of the phone.  I pulled into a parking lot and talked her down for thirty minutes.

Things like, "It's okay.  You are allowed to do poorly sometimes.  It was your very first college exam."

And, "Who cares?  You're still awesome, and smart, and capable, and every wonderful thing you were before you took that test."

And, "This test, even if you do fail (which I know she won't) is not your semester grade, and all your preparation and hard work is not wasted.  You're finding your groove.  Hang in there."

And, "YOU are not your grades or your test scores, and you've got to separate your identity from your performance."

And a whole bunch of other things, some combination of which seemed to work, since by the end I think she laughed a little.

I didn't get home until just after noon.  Noon!  Tuesday mornings are my study hours.  (And this is prep for another exam week!) And after all that driving and the emotional highs and lows I was so tired.  I just wanted a 15 minute nap.  Maybe 30, if I got lucky.  Because Tuesday afternoons are piano hours.  But when I walked in the door, Adam was ready to hand off Conor to me, with an added, "The freezer repairman will be here within 30 minutes."

Crap.  There went the nap.

And my study time for the day, because at 1:30 back to back lessons begin.  Seven students on Tuesdays, which finish up right at dinnertime, and just before Scouts and bath time and bedtime.

Don't get me wrong, I was thrilled the repairman was coming.  Our ice maker, for the last YEAR has not stopped making ice.  It's a daily chore to keep up with it.  It just keeps on making ice!  And if you don't keep on top of things, regularly emptying out that bin, it overflows and ice comes crashing down on you when you next open the freezer.  And, about 4 months ago, it got worse.  Not only does it perpetually make ice, but now it also drips water into the ice bin, so that the ice slowly melts and refreezes into one gigantic block of ice.  Every single day, the bin has to be taken out and has to be manually sprayed with hot water to melt the entire thing out.  Because if you forget (and I did sometimes), the water rises up over the top of the bin and freezes to the bottom of the ice maker, making it near impossible to remove from the freezer, and spills down the sides and freezes and creates stalactites and stalagmites of ice throughout your entire freezer and everything inside of it.  I can't even tell you how annoying it's been to have this as a daily chore in my life for MONTHS.  Or of the nights when I've awoken in the darkness with terror seizing my heart: "I FORGOT TO DO THE ICE!"  When I've gone out of town I've had to leave specific instructions with the babysitters.  And I've called home, "Don't forget to do the ice!"  It's been a nightmare.

I called the landlord months ago about it, but his resident repairman gave me a "Uh, you have to lift that little metal bar up," at which point I wanted to climb through the phone and grab him by the throat till his eyes bulged.  "This is way past lifting the little metal bar up," I said, sarcastically.  Jerkwad Stupidface Male Chauvinist Pig, I wanted to add.  (This was the same guy who when I called him over here to fix our leaking-for-the-7th-time bathtub faucet, told me that maybe I didn't know how to properly turn off the water and I was wrenching it too tightly.  I replied, "Um, I've been turning water off and on now for going on 40 years and I think I've got it."  Retard Butthead Womanhater Pig.)  Well, if it wasn't that little metal bar, then he had no idea how to fix it, and I'd have to call an appliance repairman.

(LIKE WHAT DO YOU GET PAID FOR????)

So, that being the situation, I had to wait until I had money to do that.  Which was today.  At a little after noon, when I was supposed to be studying, and wanted to be napping, and was about to get hit with a barrage of piano students.

"I hate today," I said to Adam when he told me.  He giggled.

But then, when I went downstairs to wait, I decided to change my attitude.  I could feel Grouchy setting up a tent, and he wanted to stay. Yes, it's true that I'm a creature of habit, predictability, and constancy.  I don't like errands and driving around, and changes to my schedule.  However, I melted, I was able to help Adam out by taking Sean to school so he could sleep.  I have a really good podiatrist who knows me and my children, and even better, their feet, and then he rarely charges me for his services.  I got to spend the morning with Aiden, whom I adore, and we didn't get the bad news that he'd have to quit football.  I had the gas to drive all over creation.  I was available for Lyndsay when she needed me.  Conor had recovered.  The freezer was about to be fixed!  I am really, really blessed.  This has been a good day.

The repairman did not show up in the next 30 minutes.  (Do they ever?)  I could have taken a nap after all, but instead of feeling grumpy about that, I was grateful that in my waiting, I'd vacuumed the downstairs, thrown some chicken in the crockpot, and swept up the laundry room.  The repairman showed up at the same time as my first students.

Well, come on in!  Because I just got 20 minutes a day back on every day from here on out, now that I'm off of ice duty for good.

Conor's Heart

I love this boy of mine.  What a gift he is to me, each and every day.  His little heart is huge, and the depth of his feelings and compassion, combined with the way he sees the world are such a privilege to behold.  He just came this way, and it's really fun to watch him grow.

Conor adores his 1st grade teacher.  She is a member of our ward at church and the mother of one of Lyndsay's best friends, so he was familiar with her before she became his teacher.  Several weeks into the school year, she was out sick for a day.  He was worried about her.  In his prayers that night he prayed, "Please bless Mrs. Pinkston to get better and to not be sick anymore.  Not even a bit."  The next day, more of the same.  Once she was back to health, he kept up the prayers for her: "Please bless Mrs. Pinkston to be so grateful that she is not sick anymore."

But while she was under the weather, he wanted to "make a craft" for her.  He asked me for black and white paper, which I gave him, and he pulled down the scissors and glue and crayons.  Then he proceeded to cut out black and white squares and glue them to another paper, and then draw each of the chess figures, placing them in their positions and folding them up so they stood aright.  He worked for several days, a little at a time.  He was so proud of his homemade chess set when he was finished.  I almost hated to see it go, but he'd labored over it as a gift for his beloved Mrs. Pinkston, so the morning after it was finished, he toted it off to school.

Conor loves adults, if you haven't noticed.  Other children are fine, though he prefers them just a bit older than himself, but he makes interesting connections with adults in his life.  Take the Iranian bus driver.  Conor doesn't even take a bus to school, but every day the busses line the streets in front of his school and the bus drivers wait outside their busses for their children to board.  Conor and I would walk by them each day on the way home from school, and for some reason, he really took an interest in this one.  They didn't exchange too many words, but once that bell rang, Conor would run down the street to see him and give him a high-five as he passed.  The driver would say in his thick accent, "Have a good day, Mister."  And Conor would say, "You too! Have a great day!  See you tomorrow!"  And that was it.  Every. Single. Day.  And the bus driver wouldn't take his busload until he had seen Conor.  He stopped me one time on my way to the school to ask if it would be okay if he gave Conor a small gift.  I said sure, so he brought Conor a small toy school bus.  And he gave him several other toy school busses of various sizes over the months, which Conor cherishes.  Towards the end of the school year, the driver asked me when Conor's birthday was and I told him it was the day before the next school year started.  So he brought me a gift to save for the summer and give him when it was his birthday.  Conor was so thrilled to receive a gift after a summer of not seeing his friend.  (Another toy vehicle.)

Well, when this school year started, and we headed home that first day, passing by the busses all lined up, Conor's old friend was not among the drivers.  Each day that week we looked for him, but he was gone.  I think his route must have been changed.

 Earlier this week, after Conor had been put to bed, I heard him crying.  I went in to see what was wrong.  "I miss the bus driver," he sobbed.  And his little heart broke wide open with his sadness.  I tried to comfort him, but I felt so helpless.  I didn't even know the man's name (Ashat?  Ashrat?  Something like that, but still, that's only a first name.)  Conor wanted to write to him, to find him somehow, and I didn't know how to do that.  I sat with him for several minutes, and then, in such an astute way, he asked, "Can I get up and draw a picture of a bus?"  He knew that's what he needed to do to process his grief.  He does that sometimes.  When he was missing Dylan, he would ask to draw pictures for him.  When he was missing Lyndsay, sometimes even late at night when his thoughts become more clear to him in the silence of his darkened room, he would ask to get up and draw pictures.  I understood that that was what he needed to, much in the same way that when I am processing emotion I am overwhelmed with a feeling to turn on the light and write.

I didn't care that it was past his bedtime.  I loved that he loved this Iranian bus driver for LAUSD, and I loved that he was so in tune with his feelings that he could channel his grief into action that would be healing for him.  So, I let him out of bed and he came downstairs and got out his journal.

(I'm not sure why the bus is purple and blue, except that maybe purple and blue are "sad" colors for Conor.)  He dictated just a few sentences to me, which I wrote on the top of the page, but when I prompted him to see if he wanted to talk more about his feelings of missing the bus driver, he said, "No, I'm done."  And off he went to bed.

He knows so innately how to take care of himself, and he seems to realize, even at age 6, that taking care of his heart and his feelings are just as important as taking care of his body, which is astounding to me.  He reminds me to honor my feelings and express them in healthy ways.

Just part of the magic of raising a child.

Summer Accounting

Well, here is that Summer To-Do List I made way back in June.  And you can see how I fared.

1.  Read a lot.  I have a whole pile of books I've been saving for my summer reading.

2.  Make the jam for the year.

3.  Get the kids' schoolwork organized and in file boxes. (started)

4.  Go to the temple once a month with the kids.

5.  Start teaching Conor piano lessons.

6.  Start reading the Book of Mormon with Conor.

7.  Summer school-ish program for Conor.  (eh)

8.  Go to the Getty Center with Lyndsay and Aiden.

9.  Clean out closets and drawers and donate!

10. Make a memory video for Lyndsay (started)

11. Go through bookshelves and donate to the library.

12. Lose 10 pounds. (well, lost 6, gained 4, lost 2, gained 2, lost 2: so, only 4lbs down, but I'm not giving up!)

13.  Go to the California Science Center.

14.  Go to the Norton Simon with Lyndsay and Conor.  (And the Perkins family!)

15.  Hike Eaton Canyon with the kids.

16.  Get renter's insurance.

17.  Back up my photos and music.

18.  Get broken things fixed around the house.

19.  Make homemade ice cream. (I bought the ingredients!)

20.  Get kids (and me!) to the dentist.

So, progress.  But still a list of things to do.  

I did other things though.  Like, took a trip to Mesa very unexpectedly so that my daughter could say goodbye to her beloved Pop-Pop before he passed away, and then helped her deal with that. (The boys were already in Arizona.)

Took a Mother/Daughter trip with Lyndsay to Las Vegas and had a blast together.  Celine!  (I don't think I blogged about that.  I should!)

Was able to take Conor to swimming lessons for several weeks when the Perkins family moved here.  

Canned tomato sauce and salsa. 

Celebrated Lyndsay's 18th birthday in Beverly Hills.  (I don't believe I blogged about that either!)

Planned the week with all of my children home, and had a great time with everyone.  (Whew!)

Successfully got Lyndsay off to college.  And am surviving.  

Boy, it's been some kind of summer.

But tomorrow morning I start back at school.  My third semester of the nursing program.  I guess I'm ready.  I mean, I'd prefer to hang out just being Mom around here, but it's time to kick it into gear for the final year!  

Here we go!

Blessings: Food Edition

I feel so lucky!  Look at all this food I was given!  Some friends of ours are moving out of state and it was more expensive to have their pantry packed and shipped than just to restock their new one, so they let me come over and have their food!  I saved it from a dumpster death!

All of this food sat in big tubs on my kitchen floor for the last week and a half, until I could get to it.  But today I sorted it all, and reorganized my cupboards to find room for it all.  It makes me feel so blessed and secure to have cupboards full of food.

Now I will need to use it up!  Right now I have a pumpkin cake cooling and it smells so good!

Thank you for the blessing!

Of Boxes and Blown Tires: A Tender Mercy Story

I am one who believes that God is intimately and personally involved in each of our lives.  I believe He has His hand over each of us, and that one day we will be allowed to really see how many acts of intervention and protection we were privileged to have while here on earth.  Some we are aware of presently, but I believe that many, many others go unnoticed by us because we simply cannot see from His vantage point.  But I also believe that the more we look for His guiding influence in our lives, the more we will see.  Maybe that is because a parent loves to give to a grateful child, or maybe it is because, like a divine radio signal, we simply become more attuned to the frequency of heaven.  David Bednar called these little miracles "tender mercies" and I have tried to become more aware of them in my life.  Sometimes people will call them coincidences.

I don't believe in coincidences.

After saying my tearful goodbye to Lyndsay, and enjoying my lunch with Annette, I drove back to Kelli's house with my van load of Lyndsay's dorm belongings.  Kelli had agreed to store them and then take them to her on Saturday night and help her settle in.  My luggage was still in Kelli's guest room, so I went in to pack up, and Kelli and her husband, Greg, unpacked my van and loaded the contents into their car.  But before I went inside, I took out two boxes of books that I had picked up for Luisa (copies of her recently released novel, Dispirited), from her friend in Provo, which I would bring back to California and deliver to her.  It was an easy errand to run for my friend, and I was happy to do it.  I set the two boxes aside and mentioned something about, "everything but these two boxes," before I went to retrieve my bags in the house.

When I came back out, luggage in hand, I had another emotional goodbye with Kelli, thanking her for her help, and asking her to take care of my girl.  Kelli's mother, who was also a good friend, passed away when she was a senior in high school, back when I was her Young Women's leader in Church, so she knows something about missing one's mom.  I was keenly aware of the time, now past 2pm,  knowing I had a ten hour drive ahead of me, so I threw my suitcases in the car, and backed away from her house, my vision blurred with tears.

To marinate in my sorrow, I cued up an audiobook I had selected for my journey home: Joyce Carol Oates' memoir, A Widow's Story.  I figured I'd lose myself in her grief, and maybe feel strangely cleansed by the time I arrived home.  And, I hoped that focusing on her elegant prose would keep me awake as I drove.  (I think I am plagued with driving-induced narcolepsy, if that exists.)

I watched the scenery change to farmland.  Then, with a bolt of adrenaline, I whipped my head around to the back of the van.  The boxes!  The boxes of books!  Oh, my gosh, I hadn't seen them in the back of the van.  They had been packed into Kelli's car!

Of course, I was instantly irritated with myself.  My sadness had completely clouded my mind.  I was about 20 miles out now, and there was no way around it.  I would have to turn around and go back.  20 miles back, 20 miles again on the road, just to break even.  What a colossal waste!  Of time, of gas, all because I was absent-minded.  And now it would be that much later that I would get home.  I called Kelli and told her I was coming back.  She was so sorry, she hadn't heard me say anything about those two boxes.  They'd just packed everything.  Of course, it was not her fault in the least.

I got back to her house, pulled into the driveway, dug the boxes out of the back of her SUV, and got back on the road, conscious of the ticking clock.  I was already so frustrated that I had to go back to California so late in the day just for a fingerprint clearance that could easily have been done on another day.

I kept my audiobook playing loudly, over the sound of my tires on the road, the blasting air conditioning, and opposing traffic.  I was lost in the story, a story of loss but also of survival, and now and then I felt a tiny whisper of strength in my Mother Heart.  Something that said I had done something hard, given my precious daughter a gift in sending her off, and that not only would I be okay, but that she would soar, and we both would always look on this sacrifice as a sacred time between us.  We had to part ways as Mother and Daughter in a day-to-day sense, so that we could come back together at a later time as more.  Always Mother and Daughter, but also Woman and Woman, and Friends.  I felt a spark of hope for what the future held for both of us, and I felt proud of myself for doing this hard thing (that was much more than a single act, mind you, but many years in the making) largely alone.  I had helped her cross a gulf that had been impassable for me when I was her age.  I had given her what I wished I had been able to have.

I was thrilled to make it to St. George, my first major milestone.  That was four hours done.  Six to go, but I would focus on the two to Las Vegas first, and then the last leg home.  The traffic was in my favor, and my energy was sufficient.  I was feeling good, even though from time to time I let my mind wander to those lost 40 miles.  Adam called me as I drove through Vegas.  I paused my audiobook to chat with him.  Things were good, I was okay, I told him.  He was worried about me driving alone.  And then, just past the Strip, I heard an odd noise.  A flap, flap, flap that was not right.  I didn't feel anything, but I knew something was off.  "What's that noise?" I said to Adam on the phone.  "I need to let you go." And I hung up, and pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road just across from the South Point hotel and casino.  I climbed out on the passenger side (where I'd heard the noise) and looked at my tire.  The rubber had blown.  Not all the way, yet, but there were strips of rubber hanging off of the tire, and the wire mesh underneath was completely exposed.  A short distance more on the freeway and it would have been much more dangerous, driving at that speed.  I called Adam back and told him the situation.  Initially he wanted me to turn around and head back into Vegas, but there was no way I was driving that car another mile.  Instead, he offered to call our insurance and utilize our roadside assistance coverage.  I was frazzled and emotionally drained.

I thought to myself how grateful I was that he had called me when he had, because I don't know if I would have heard the flapping noise over the volume of the audiobook I was so engrossed in.

So, began a very long night.  The first help came and was completely worthless and inept.  I'd noticed by that time that my other front tire also had splits in the seam and was about to go.  It was his advice that I go ahead and just drive on it.  That's what he would do.  And he attempted to put on my spare that had a huge slash in it with an old patch job oozing through.  And exactly how was he going to tow me in that old white Honda Civic of his?  I told him I just didn't feel comfortable with his level of expertise.  Did he realize I was a woman driving alone, and in just a few miles I would be in the middle of nowhere for a very long time, in the middle of the night?  I sent him off and my insurance company, who'd called to check on me, dispatched another tow service.  I needed two new tires, no way around it, and I had to get home that night.  I ended up waiting several hours on the side of that freeway for a tow truck who finally took me to a 24 hour tire joint in a seedy part of Vegas around midnight.   The tire place could only sell me used tires, and they didn't recommend I drive a long distance, but I had the tow guy come and assess them for safety in getting home to Los Angeles.  There was just no way around it.  I was grateful--grateful that I had the insurance coverage, grateful for the tow service, grateful for the money to get the temporary tires, grateful that Adam had been on the other end of the phone helping me long-distance--but so very exhausted by this point.  I didn't know how I would physically be able to make the drive home.

And then I had a peaceful awareness come over me.  The boxes.  Had I not forgotten them, I would have been 40 miles further down the road when my tire blew.  There ain't a lot going on 40 miles outside of Vegas.  The freeways are a lot darker, and I'll betcha 24-hour tire joints, even seedy ones, are non-existent.  My insurance coverage only provided for 17 miles of towing service, and that would not have been sufficient.  Forgetting those boxes had been a blessing.  A tender mercy.

I pulled into the driveway just after 4am.  I was so relieved to turn the engine off.  I'd made it home, safely, miraculously, and in time to get my children off to school and head over to that blasted fingerprint clearance appointment.

No, I don't believe in coincidences.

I believe in Heaven watching over me.