Zoe left her beloved ring at hom– er, the hotel room — this morning.  When she discovered her lapse, she immediately fell into a puddle of tears, entirely proportional to the severity of the gaffe.  Proportional, that is, for a two year old.  Nevermind that she’s five.

She begged me to return to the hotel to get it.  I would have nothing of it.  The fit only intensified.

Zoe (through choking sobs):  Puh-lease, Mom. Puh-lease.  I need that ring.

Me:  I’m sorry, Zoe, we aren’t going back.  You can have it when you get home.  Now, please, calm yourself down.

Zoe: The only thing that will calm me down is my ring.

Me:  I’m sorry, Zoe.  We aren’t going back.  If you continue to ask, I will take away the ring once we get home.

Zoe:  Puh-lease, Mom.  Puh-lease go back and get my ring.

Me:  That’s one. (In our household, after a request and a consequence for failure to perform the request is declared, the child has “three strikes” before the consequence is imposed.  No arguing, no repeating of the consequence, nothing but counting follows.)

Zoe:  Puh-lease, Mom.  I need my ring.

Me: That’s two, Zoe.  You need to stop asking for that ring.

Zoe:  But mom!  If you go back and get the ring then I’ll stop asking for it!

I guess she has a point.

Hot off the press. Hell, it isn’t even off the press and onto the CDC’s website yet, but…

2005 Cesarean Rate: 30.2%

The rate is up 4% from the previous year, which was up 5% from the year prior to that.

And we’re still among the bottom among industrialized nations in maternal and infant mortality and morbidity.

Hmmm.

(Updated:  The official source of data, the CDC’s 2005 Preliminary Birth Data, is available here.)

Wow. How long has it been? I can’t imagine what has kept me away so long.

Oh. That’s right. There was that small matter of a fire. Silly me.

Don’t go expecting any well-thought out discourse on my experiences in the last two weeks. While there have been heart-warming moments — like the time a friend’s children held a bake sale –on their own accord– to raise money for us, or the time some other children gathered toys and gave them to my kids, or the time a nice bottle of wine was tucked in to a dinner delivery — I’m too…too…too something to put together in words my take-away from all of this. I know I will take away much from this, and all of it positive, but, right now? I’m a little distracted, you could say.

Distracted by paint colors and carpet choices and differences of opinion over whether some item is acceptably clean. Distracted by receipts and record keeping and weekly requests for reimbursement. Distracted by daily runs to the grocery store to get enough items for the day, because there just isn’t room for a week’s worth of items. Distracted by kids who are both excited and distraught by their worlds turning upside down. Distracted by an ever-present need for quarters to do laundry — again. Distracted by dog walks. Distracted by multiple trips to ground zero –er, the house– each day to pick up mail, drop off the dog, pick up the dog, and check on progress. Distracted by phone calls to return and email to reply to and lists to check off and and and and.

Distracted.

But, I do know, through all the distraction, that life has been good to us and that friends are here for us. Give me back my knitting and I might even say I’m complete.

A home-cooked meal.  A bag of children’s clothes.  A box of crayons, a pad of paper, and a pair of scissors.  An hour watching the kids.  A stroll around the block with my dog.  Two new blankets for the kids to snuggle under and love.  An invitation to lunch.  Well wishes and thoughts.  And a minute to cry, finally.

Thankful, indeed.  And blessed beyond words.

When I said I was handling all this fire stuff with aplomb? I lied.

Folks, this pretty much sucks.

I’m living in a two bedroom extended stay hotel with my husband, my two kids, and, as of this afternoon, an 80 pound dog — who’s name, by the way, has been changed to Firestarter.

Yes, folks, Calvin the dog appears to be the lead suspect in the fire investigation. A few bags of miscellaneous “stuff” brought in from the car and placed, ahem, upon the flat stove-top (really, it just screams “treat me like a countertop!”), appeared to strike his fancy. We believe he reached up on the stove-top to investigate, and, upon sliding back down, turned on one of the stove’s eyes. Poof! That’s all it took.

As it stands, we’ll be out of our house for 4 to 6 weeks. During that time, the contents of our house will be packed up, shipped to a special facility, cleaned and ozonated. Every single wall and ceiling in our home will be painted. Our hardwoods will be buffed and recoated. Our carpets will be replaced. A wall will be rebuilt.  A floor will be repaired.  Our kitchen cabinets will be replaced. A new stove, a new microwave, and possibly a new refrigerator will be installed. New countertops will be installed. And the pantry will be entirely re-stocked. Spring cleaning on steroids, it is. Except, as it stands right now, I’d take a dirty house over this hassle pretty much any day.

And, despite trying to be up-beat about it all, I’m still stuck inside these veryclosefourwalls, and eating out nearly every meal. I’m making my case now for the insurance claim to cover the weight-loss program that will be necessary at the end of all of this.

So, forgive me if I’m not at my most thoughtful and introspective these days. Sure, I’m certain one day I’ll look back and, well, at least not cry, even if I don’t laugh. But, for now, I’m going to do my share of whining. In the far-more-insightful-than-she-realizes-words of my daughter, “Why did the fire have to pick us?”

I sit here typing this on one soot-covered Macintosh in a pair of pants and shirt that I bought just yesterday — the only clothes I have at the moment.

Yesterday morning, while with my daughter on a school field trip, I received a call from the Fire Chief. “Ma’am, we’re at your house. There’s been a fire.”

In all honesty, things really aren’t that bad. I don’t have a kitchen, every.single.thing. I own must be removed from the house and cleaned, and I’ll probably be “homeless” for 4-6 weeks. But, no one was hurt, nothing precious was lost, and, well, some things are just out of your hands.

I’ve really handled most of this with aplomb. Sure, I got a little shaky on the drive to the house after receiving the call — imagining the worst, of course. And a quiver came to my lip when Evan’s dear, sooty “Gerald” was brought forth from the house. I even was up a little last night doing some extra tossing and turning. But, beyond that, I really have been “ok” with it all, keenly aware that it could have been much, much worse.

And when I look at the soot-covered and singed — but still salvagable — Wicker Chicken sitting atop the one cabinet still standing in my kitchen, I know it will be all right.