It's Wednesday and.....

My daughter and I laugh at inappropriate things. I do it as a form of self-preservation. I assume (and yes, I do know what happens) that the same is true for her.

I should probably shut up now and just join a wordless wednesday group somewhere.

My mother has not spoken to me in 22 years. When I put a return address on cards, they are returned. I only did that once, actually. Now I don't put the address on them. In my imagination, she now opens them and reads them.

This is the same woman who is the grandma that loves my daughter unconditionally and vice versa.

Anyway, the newspaper where my mom lives is a weekly. Every Wednesday, I check the online version of Mom's paper, call my daughter and say, "It's Wednesday and your grandma's not dead."

We laugh. One of these weeks, we'll cry.

Traditions - Non-holiday

Sunday evening, after dinner (which I did NOT cook), my husband became ill. He blamed it on food poisoning.

Monday morning, my grandson's school called to tell me they had a sick child. I foreswore asking them, "Whose?" and went to pick up the lil man. He had a slight fever and a "tummy ache."

My daughter, who works nights, was sleeping so I brought the munchkin to my house.

We got home and I sent him to change into his jammies and get into bed. It is tradition, in my house and in my daughter's, that if you come home sick from school, you go to bed. You do not watch TV or play games or bake cookies. You are sick.

It was almost lunchtime and lil man said he was hungry. I decided to make him - you guessed it - chicken soup

.

Normally, when I make chicken soup from scratch, this is the recipe I use.

When my husband makes chicken soup, this is the recipe he uses.

When there is a sicko involved, this is the soup I make.

It is the soup my mom used to make when we were sick and the soup I made for my kids when they were sick. We only got it when we were sick. Period. I don't know why. I just know.

Now, if there is a sore throat involved, or (insert your own word for vomitting, yakking, puking, etc.) involved, Mom gave us this.

We did not get the sugar free variety (I couldn't find the right picture) and we usually got strawberry. We got it warm. Yep, warm jello. It slid down without hurting and well, you just can't beat technicolor puke. Once again, we only got this when were sick. Period. I don't know why. I just know.

And last but not least - for colds:

Mom would rub it on our chests and then give us one of Dad's white cotton (J.C.Penney pima cotton) T-shirts to wear to bed.

She would also smear it under our noses and occasionally stick it up a nostril. Sometimes, even though she was a nurse and I am sure that she loved us, she would roll some into a little ball and have us swallow it! Do not do this at home. It specifically says not to do this at home.

The smell of Vick's still makes me feel loved when I am sick, though.

So there you have it - winter supplies for the sickroom at my house. Lipton's chicken soup, warm jello, Vick's VapoRub, and an extra large man's white cotton T-shirt.

UPDATE

Little man, this afternoon, asked if he could have "sick noodle soup" even when he's not sick. I think a new name for Lipton's has been born.

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl

A few years back (OK, a few more than a few), I was in the middle of a divorce, my oldest child was staying with my sister because my head had come temporarily unglued and I was 10 1/2 months pregnant, living with my parents. Oh yeah, life was grand.

I woke up in the middle of the night in labor. My mom worked graveyard shift at the local hospital and my dad was at home. The hospital I needed to go to (insurance issues, don't you know?) was 60 miles away in the BIG CITY. There was NO way I was waking my Dad, the functioning alcoholic, horrible, terrible driver with the dirty, nasty, used for construction, reeking of beer and cigarette smoke pickup truck to drive me to the hospital.

It was a little after 6. Mom got off at 7. All would be fine.

I forgot that it was the day Mom got her hair done.

Mom got home between 10 and 11 and asked how long I'd been up. I told her since 6:34. She asked how long I'd been in labor. I told her a while longer than that.

Did I mention that I was in labor with my first child for 4 hours?

We got in the car - the 3 day old Ford Grenada. If you do not remember the Grenada, it is because God loves you. This car was SO underpowered it was unbelievable. My mother had always driven big Fords - big gas-guzzling Ford V8s that could GO! Then my first husband was killed in a car accident, we all lost our minds temporarily and went for safety and conservatism and really crappy cars. Anyway, as we were driving to the Big City, me with very little sleep and Mom with no sleep, she kept telling me that if I ruined her upholstery, she would kill me and I kept telling her to put her foot in it then and it wouldn't be a problem and a Volkswagen Beetle, a friggin' VW Bug, passed us. It was mortifying.

We got to the hospital. They checked me over, told me I was not in labor and to go home. I told them I was in labor and that, since home was 60 miles away, I was not going home. They very snottily decided to put me in a labor room and said that they would check on me in a few hours.

Mom made sure that I was settled and went to lay down for just a bit in the waiting room. This, obviously, in the days before "birthing suites". Well, long story short, 3 hours later they came back to check on me and barely had time to wake Mom up.

They wheeled me into delivery and the same rocket scientist who had decreed that I was not in labor was exhorting me to "Wait till I get my gloves on!" He got his gloves on and my mother got there just in time to welcome the child of my heart.

Happy Birthday, Baby. Know that you are loved.