On Holiday Traditions- Cannolis, Star Wars, and of course, The Doors

            It’s been another holiday season, and another Christmas full of tradition, joy, stress, and the all-important morning of squeals and hopping from my daughters.  I tried to take it all in this year, pausing and closing my eyes, breathing in the smells and committing as much as I could to memory.  I’m sure I failed, because no matter what we try to tell ourselves in the moments of our lives, they are fleeting, and they burst forth so rapidly, we can’t help but forget some of them down the road. 

            When I was a child, Christmas was dominated by car rides.  We would pack up on Christmas Eve in the early afternoon, and head to Passaic, where my NonNon, my Pop-Pop’s mother, lived on the second floor of a three story walk up. NonNon created everything from scratch, and I have no idea what time she had to rise, pull on her stockings and set her hair, so that the food would be done in time for supper.

            When we arrived, lugging gifts and wearing way too much outerwear, the windows would be fogged up from the cooking, the kind that only happens in the tiny kitchens belonging to little old Italian women, in dented silver pots bubbling over slow, steady flames.  The dozen or so adults would cram around the dining room table, with no room to move, and the seven children (myself included) ran up and down the linoleum hallway, between the bedroom housing the tiny television with rabbit ears, and the sewing room with fruit made out of pins stuck through glass beads.  The floor had a brown and yellow diamond pattern to it, and the bathroom was classic pink and white checked, with a pink toilet, sink, and tub.  NonNon would create a traditional seven fish dinner, starting off with tuna in the antipasto (which she pronounced “anti-past”), then spaghetti and clam sauce, and circling all the way through fried calamari and muscles. We were so stuffed, movement became difficult, and more than once I found myself falling asleep in the back room, on a comforter that smelled like Dove soap. 

The Cousins' Party

            But that was just the beginning.  After NonNon’s, we piled into the car, and drove to celebrate with my Grandma Bea’s entire family.   This was dubbed the “Cousins' Party” at some point, and grew larger as more and more cousins were produced.  I was the oldest, and often tasked with babysitting the younger brood.  Depending on the year, we were either at my grandparent’s in Passaic, or at Aunt Glore and Uncle Joe’s place in Wayne, with the hidden back TV room off the kitchen (accessible through swinging saloon doors) and a basement with a bar that was perfect for hide and seek.  We would pass around grab bag gift presents, and those of us in the younger set took to copying the thick NJ accents of our elders, oohing and ahhing and adding in some random adjective to the uwrapped present (our favorite being “ohh, ahh, how FLOR-al”, coined after someone opened a sweater with tiny flowers embroidered all over it). 

            The party has evolved through the years, and is now in rotation between Mom’s place, or cousins Beth, Diane, or Janice’s. Traditions still abound, the most glaring being the passing of the scarfette.  This is a small, burgundy, blue, and green striped mini scarf that was picked up in the early 80’s by Grandma, Aunt Millie, and Aunt Glore when they visited the motherland.  Apparently, it was supposed to be some trendy fashionista item over in Europe, and they decided their daughters absolutely had to have them.  On Christmas, each proudly handed over a box, and the three recipients opened their gifts with much confusion, before doubling over in laughter. The next year, one of the scarves was re-gifted, and has made the rounds ever since.

The Scarfette

            The final stop on Christmas Eve was my grandparent’s house.  They had a big blue Victorian on Albion Street, back in Passaic, with a double door entry that was air tight and always made my ears pop. My parents usually carried their sleepy children into the house, and Nicole and I would wake up only for the sake of opening presents and performing a “show.”  We, along with our cousins Jennie and Katie, ran up the staircase, past the three naked nymphs holding a torch (the oddest lamp I’ve ever seen) to the guest room, where a large oval mirror with ornate golden frame was the perfect place to practice dance steps or play acting. After our performance, the adults conversed in the living room, on brown antique couches that were once my great-grandmother’s, and ate cannolis Grandma Bea made from scratch, while we lay on the couch in the room next to the kitchen, wrapped in a hand-knitted purple and blue throw watching Rudolph on the big fat old TV. 

            Nicole and I spent the ride home struggling to stay awake, calling out “Christmas” whenever we saw a house with lights outside on our side of the car.  Occasionally, we would shout “Big Christmas!” for a particularly large or impressive display.  Arriving home, we would drag ourselves up the stairs.  As we grew older, we hatched numerous schemes to catch Santa.  In a fit of inspiration when I was around 10-ish, we hatched a plan that involved using my canopy bed to our advantage- one person slept in the bed, while the other read on the floor to stay awake.  We strung a Dixie Cup with some water from the canopy, and when the reader got tired, she pulled the string, and tipped the water onto the sleeping sister, thus waking her up, and duties were switched.  At some point, though, we both fell asleep, and I woke with newsprint on my face. 

            In the morning, we would jump on our parents, shouting, “Ribbitt!” and pretending to be frogs.  Dad would go down to start the coffee, and mom would make us go back up for robes and slippers.  Then we would all descend the stairs, and tear into our presents. 

            At around 11, the Caldwell Brunch would commence with the arrival of my Dad’s family.  The brunch has been going on since long before I was born, and for the last 30+ years, it has been a gathering at Mom’s.  When I was younger, there were scrambled eggs, bagels with cream cheese, copious amounts of bacon, and even more copious amounts of Bloody Marys.  We sat around, my family along with Granny, cousins Dan and Mike and Aunt Cath, and the witty repartee was epic.  One year, I turned on a video camera, and caught us circling the room, the topics of discussion varying from Empire Strikes Back to Scooby Doo to bird watching.  Dad received a Han Solo mug that now sits in a place of honor on the same shelf as all the family-written books, and Granny entertained us by sporting her new birdfeeder as a hat.  Phone calls were placed to Uncle Steve at Better Farm, and to Aunt Joanna and Uncle Bob down in San Antonio.   Dad’s cousins Bill, Ax, and Toni arrived, along with Ax’s husband Tom, and Toni’s husband Dan and their kids Andy and Michael.  The house was full, the laughter was infectious, and the tree sparkled over all of us while we vied for seating on the antique furniture.

            Over the years, the dates of the holidays have shifted, as have the players.  When I was seventeen, I began spending at least part of the holidays with my then-boyfriend-now-husband’s family, who embraced me immediately.  We only missed one year together in college (as high school couples tend to break up for at least part of their college careers), and so I’ve been shuffling between a number of parties and towns for the better part of two decades.  After children, though, that hustle becomes quite a bit more difficult, so we’ve pared down the festivities so we only need to see one family per day. 

Franklin Lakes Nature Preserve

            This year, the Cousin’s Party occurred early, since cooler heads prevailed several years ago to avoid coinciding withChristmas Eve. As a result, I spend the day before Christmas exclusively with my husband’s family. We exchanged gifts at Mom-In-Law and Dad-In-Law’s condo and then I cooked a lasagna dinner and apple pie at our home for his whole family (they brought the rest of the food, proving once again that part of the reason I married him was for his relatives). In between, we enjoyed the warm weather with a hike through the Franklin Lakes Nature Preserve, around a former reservoir and next to a now-defunct golf course.  It topped 70 degrees, and when New Jersey’s weather is warmer than California’s, it’s something we won’t soon forget.   We ended the night with Grammy reading ’Twas The Night Before Christmas to the kids, as she does every year, while they nodded off to sleep.

            We woke on Christmas morning to my five-year-old sneaking down the stairs, where I promptly caught her and swept her back to her room.  After waiting an hour, we finally woke her sister, and as a group, crept downstairs to see their new dollhouse lit up next to the tree.  We then moved on to the annual pilgrimage to Mom’s for brunch.

            The weather grew warmer still, and led to discussion only the Caldwell’s could create, largely because of the weather anomaly and a one line text of “70 degrees- Strange Days?”  The text launched a half hour firestorm of typing, and later a roundtable discussion over strata, bagels, and lox on whether Jim Morrison really did wear the same pair of leather pants for two years straight, and if the Doors were the best or worst band of all time. Considering music (either Wagner, The Dead, Dylan, etc.) has often been at the helm of our holiday discussions, this wasn’t so far from the norm.

Caldwell Brunch circa 1984

            The crew has shrunken over the years- Dan and Mike moved away, Dad, Cath, Bob, Steve, Tom, and Granny passed away, and Bill spends most holiday mornings up in Massachusetts with his grandkids. But the rest of us still faithfully call Joanna (now in South Carolina), and strike up the conversation while giggling and laughing over shared memories and slightly more sophisticated food.  Star Wars was back in the conversation this year, as we did our best to avoid spoiling the newest edition for those who haven’t seen it. And we introduced Michael’s fiancé, entertaining her with stories of how Andrew, Michael, Nic and I created our own newspapers featuring bodily functions as children, which is clearly what led to all four of us publishing writing or illustrator work this year. 

            Our non-immediate family headed back to Toni’s to prep for dinner, and the rest of us exchanged gifts.  The highlight was when my sister handed me a letter, which outlined my daughters’ big present.  They had just opened two puppets- a horse’s head and pony, which immediately made me think that The Godfather had to be involved. But instead, the letter explained that she was adopting a horse for Riley and Ella, who would be residing at Better Farm early next week.  After stuttering through “you got my kids a pony?!” and the initial shock, there was much rejoicing in the idea that the Nicole “won” the gift giving of the year, since how do you compete with an actual pony?

The Writer's Circle

            By dinner, we were back to family memories, and the discussion strayed over to why my Aunt Dot never served gin at parties (apparently, it made people mean), and how my Grandpa Bob used to have to make the rounds after the holidays, bearing flowers and apologizing for his raucous behavior the night before to the hostesses. 

            I love spending time with my parents’ generation, because I hear these stories, and learn more about the people that have grown to legend status through their tales. Each story adds a few more pieces to the puzzle of those who came before, and the traditions and antics we’ve adopted into our own lives. 

            Someday, I’ll tell my own daughters about how Dad used to watch the entire Twilight Zone marathon with us on New Year’s Eve, and how Thanksgiving hasn’t felt quite complete without the smell of Aunt Cath’s cigarettes and cats, and a tv in the next room blasting Empire Strikes Back.  And the girls will eventually know the story of the scarfette, and hear about the secret ingredient in GG’s cannolis.  But for now, they’ll settle for happily chattering away while they play with their new dollhouse, and dream of the pony they’ll visit over spring break.  As a kid, that’s really all that matters- that, and the love in the room surrounding them, reminding them we’re all connected, no matter where we are.

Caldwell Christmas 1995

HELLP Me (On Riley's Birth and Allergic Reaction)

Below are two stories- one written after my daughter Riley was born, and the other written a week after she had a severe reaction to something.  I combined them a few weeks ago, when I thought I'd be using this as part of my thesis for my Master's degree.  Instead, I'm posting them here.  Both remind me of how much I love her, and how absolutely lucky I am that I'm here with my daughter, celebrating her 5th birthday tomorrow.  

            I had plotted out what I wanted with my babies from the start.  Life is funny that way, especially for those of us type-A women who have that “go go go” do everything mentality.  Riley’s birth was to be a serene event, all calmness and essential oils, my doula by my side while I held my husband’s hand and delivered our perfect daughter.  I didn’t want any drugs, I wanted to be able to walk the halls of the hospital, use their birthing tubs and shower, and have a holistic, transcendent experience.

            The best laid plans and all that.  

            At my 39 week appointment, I remember that the office was cool, and the thin white gown didn’t cover much of my nine-months-pregnant body.  I lay back as the blue gel squirted onto me with a squelch, and I was simultaneously repulsed and comforted by its warmth.  He ran the white plastic heart monitor over my stomach, as the baby kicked in protest, its heart rate audible through the little speaker system.  After, he gently prodded my stomach, the skin so tight I could see the tiny mound where I knew my child was trying to moon Dr. Weidman.

            When the exam was over, he removed his gloves, cheerfully saying “Well, it looks like you’re going full term. No effacement, fingertip dilation.”

            Damn, I thought.  I wanted her here NOW.  For once in my life, I wasn’t able to will something to happen.

            I groaned, looking up at the wallpaper where it met the ceiling. “Really?  Because I’ve felt so nauseous.  I was really hoping-”

            There was an almost imperceptible flicker on his face, his eyebrow twitching just a bit.  “Nauseous?”

            “Yea, can you believe it?  Not a hint of morning sickness until now, and all of a sudden, I feel dizzy and sick.”  I shook my head, which made the dizziness slightly worse.  He looked at me, nodded, and glanced at my chart.

            “You know what?  Let me just have the nurse run a blood test.  You don’t have any of the major physical signs- your protein is +1, your blood pressure is a little high for you, but pretty normal for other people- but I think we should do this, just in case.”  He opened the door and called out.  “Barbara?”

            I saw the nurse with the curly greying hair and big glasses walk down the hall, and they conversed briefly.  I got off the table, and waddled towards her, while Dr. Weidman tapped my back, and said he’d call me with the results.

            “Do you want me to order it stat?” Barbara said, looking at my puffy hands and wrists as we turned into the blood drawing room.

            He nodded, and wrinkled his brow.  “Yes. I think that’s a good idea.”

*          *          *

            “Come on,” I said, bending and grunting, willing the shoe to expand just a little more, the fluid in my foot to shift enough so that it would fit into the sneaker.  I could hear ringing coming from my bedroom, and, fed up, I dropped the shoe, and ambled over in search of the noise, while simultaneously casting glances around for my flip flops.

            GYNO flashed across the top of the screen in bold letters, as I sat down on the bed, which creaked under my oppressive weight, and I flipped open the phone.  “Hello?”

            “Hi, Kristen.  It’s Dr. Weidman.”  His voice had just a hint of nasal to it, and was almost monotone in its calmness, rather reassuring.

            “Hi there.”  I leaned on my back like an upside down turtle, and tried to use gravity to get my flop flops onto my feet

            “I just got your test results back, and they’re a little abnormal.  Your levels seem to be a little off, so I want you to go to Valley to get retested.  It might be something called HELLP syndrome, a bit of pre-eclampsia, but we want to be sure.”  I detected a hint of urgency in his voice, but wasn’t sure if I was imagining it.

       The flip flop slipped on, and I did a little wriggle victory dance.  

       I didn’t know until much later that HELLP was ridiculously rare, affecting only 1.2% of pregnancies in the US, and was an acronym standing for H (hemolysis, which is the breaking down of red blood cells)
EL (elevated liver enzymes)
LP (low platelet count).  I didn’t realize that it can cause a woman to bleed out, her liver to quite literally rupture, or cause a stroke.  In my mind, it had a cute title, something you ask for politely: “Excuse me, but I have a case of HELLP- can you please help me?”  Liver levels over 200 are considered high.  The test revealed mine were over 1000.  Dr. Weidman told me later he thought there was a clerical error and that the person added an extra 0 to the end.

       “Okay.  I can do that.”  I looked out the window, noting that PSEG was blocking my driveway with a forklift while they worked on the road outside.

       “Do you have someone who can drive you?”  He stressed this, as though it were an important point.  I glossed through it.

       “Sure.  Sure.”  I struggled to get to a sitting position.  “Should I bring my bag with me?”

       “That’s probably a good idea.”  I could picture him nodding.  “If the results are the same, we’ll probably induce you tonight. “  I was almost giddy, thinking about the possibility of meeting Riley.  Finally.  

*          *          *

            “This is Dr. Weidman’s patient- I need you to get her a room.”  The nurse’s skin was dark against the shiny white countertop.  Another woman walking by guided me into the room, swiftly handing me a gown.

            “Fasten the ties in the front.”  She turned to input my information on the computer, and hooked me up to a baby monitor and a pic line.  I marveled at the efficiency of the nursing staff.   Jeff arrived, bag with a sandwich I insisted he grab in hand  (seriously, it’s fine. If anything, they’re going to induce, so stop off and grab yourself something for dinner, in case it’s a long night, I’d said while whizzing through the streets of Ridgewood, phone on speaker and my foot tapping the pedal).  He gave me a quick kiss, and went to have a short tete a tete with the female doctor on call in the hallway.

            “My wife was hoping for a natural birth- our doula is on the way.  Is there any way we could at least induce her?” he nodded towards me.

            She looked at him, her face serious and solemn.  “She has HELLP syndrome.  It’s a severe form of pre-eclampsia, and the baby needed to come out.  Dr. Weidman is on his way, and I’m scrubbing in just in case.”  She put a hand on his arm, and Jeff noticed she was shaking.  “I’m sorry, but we have to do this, and we have to do it now.”

            The anesthesiologist came in next, and started talking about low platelet counts and potential clotting issues. My husband looked nervous, and I squeezed his hand.  Our doula arrived, all smiles and reassuring back pats.  I only saw the baby coming, the daughter I’d been dreaming about since I toted around dolls as a child, naming them and giving them personalities and backstories. Now I had a real baby, one I could feel stirring in my body, her tiny arms and legs pushing against my taut skin.

            The C-section itself was surreal.  I’ll be honest- I felt like a failure in my first effort at motherhood, lying on a gurney, blue sheet separating me from my daughter.  There was no pushing, no lavender oil, no walking around (my body was numb thanks to the epidural).  I felt very biblical with my arms splayed out and strapped down.  There was an unreal amount of pressure as the doctor pushed down on my stomach, and a huge release as he began the incision, saying “it’s time if you want to look!”

            I made a note to myself that with any future children, I would not look.  Seeing your internal organs is not something I want to make a habit of and there was a lot of blood as they reached in and pulled out my daughter’s purplish-red body.  The nurse used an aspirator to clear her nose and mouth, and the doctor held her above the curtain, her tiny face contorted in a cry while I blubbered and shook, the oxygen tube in my nose blowing cool air.  They took a second to place her next to my head, and I was able to just touch her cheek with my finger (they freed my arm for this moment before subtly retying it), and then she was paraded out of the room by men and women in scrubs, their mouths covered by masks.  

I could feel my skin being tugged as they sewed me up, and heard my doula ask for Zofran for me when I whispered how nauseated I was.  The gurney shimmy shook around the corner while they wheeled me to recovery.  The clock’s hand ticked past, heading towards the next hour with vigor while I chit chatted with the nurse on duty, asking for my daughter’s Apgar score (which was a 9 out of 10- her first test, which determines how well the baby tolerated the birthing process, was a rousing success.  “Already overachieving,” I mentioned to the nurse), and wondering when I would next see her.

            Jeff walked in, pale and shaky.

            “Where is she?” I asked, smiling through the drug induced fog.  “She’s okay, right?”

            He nodded, and then the tears started coming.  “Her temperature started to drop and she had trouble breathing.  She swallowed fluid on her way out.  She’s okay now.”  He sucked in a breath and I exhaled. “They had to bring her to the NICU and tubed her twice. I couldn’t do anything.  I just stood there.  She’d hooked up to monitors, and has a little breathing tube in her nose…”

            “But she’s okay?” I was confused.  This was triumphant birth day, the culmination of over 15 years together, of all the love we had and the effort put in to have this perfect little girl.  I had done everything right- eaten healthy, taken my vitamins, stopped working when the doctor said to.  I never drank, hadn’t been around smoke, and had exercised and walked right up to the last day.  And the C-section had been flawless.  Her Apgar was a 9, for goodness sake.  He looked at me, then at the clock.

            “Go back to her.  I’m fine.  Just let me know she’s okay.”

            I passed out soon after, the effect of a number of calming drugs, and woke up shortly after midnight, when Jeff wheeled a plastic bassinet into my recovery room.  I struggled to sit up, and realized the epidural had worn off, leaving in its wake a tugging, aching sensation in my abdomen.                  

           “You ready to meet your daughter?” he asked, gently lifting her from the plastic tray, like a waiter revealing the night’s wine selection.  

            Her eyes were open, and her mouth formed a tiny heart.  I reached out while he laid her on my chest, and her little hands curled around my fingers.  Her dark brown hair was soft as I brushed my lips against it, and she looked up at me sleepily, her eyes big and round with wonder.  She yawned.

            “Hi Riley. I’m your mommy," I whispered, tracing her tiny eyebrows with my fingertip.  Her skin was soft, covered in a thin layer of downy hair, and her skinny legs kicked against her swaddle.

            I promised myself in that moment that I’d always keep her safe.  It’s an impossible promise made millions of times a day by parents around the world.  But we try.  And we fail and try again.

            When she was a week shy of her third birthday, I was completely exhausted, and trying to find some way to spend time with her, play with Ella, and still get all the stuff done related to work.  Sleep was an afterthought more and more, and on one afternoon, I finally found a quick moment to sneak into the back room. 

            I fidgeted, burrowing under the Lightning McQueen comforter snatched from the family room, and buried my face in the pillow.  The bed creaked under my weight, and that of the small creature who climbed over the edge of the bed, and onto my back. 

            I hadn’t slept in ages, and the “to do” list in my head danced by, as though each activity were a sheep I needed to count.  1. Grade papers on Allegory of the Cave.  2. Wash dishes.3. Fold laundry (note: did I switch the laundry?).  4. Answer business emails.  5. Organize Riley’s clothes and move things that are too small to Ella’s room.

            "Mommy," Riley whispered.  

            Children never understand the importance of naps, I thought.  

            I sighed into the pillow, trying to hold onto the sleep that was steadily drifting through the dark recesses behind my eyes. 

            "Mommy, my eyes hurt.  Blow on them."

            This is my own fault. 

            Any boo boo, any scratch on her arm, or soreness from bumping into something, mommy blows on it and everything is okay.  More often than not, one of my children asking for me to blow on something is a push for attention in this crazy hectic world.            

            And a push for me to not sleep.

             Riley knew how to make an entrance, knew how to interrupt.  My stubborn streak and ambition were somewhat legendary in our family.  If I wanted something, I went after it, and got it.  She was the same way, both modeled after me, and something I’d wanted forever.  I wondered if her impatience was a direct result of my own when I’d been pregnant with her.

            In the darkened room, I remembered the dizziness as a wave lapped over me as I  rolled to face my older daughter. Her father was in the other room, relaxing with our one-year-old, Ella. Opening my eyes, I intended to blow into Riley's, so that I could go back to pursuing sleep.  But in the haze of my contacts sticking to my eyelids, and the soft light coming in from between the shade slats and the hallway, her eyelids looked like puffer fish. 

            Normally bright blue, the whites and irises were black slits.  Her cheeks were smooth and round like steamed dumplings, and even in the shadows, I could tell her skin was pinker than usual.  The blanket tangled my legs as I kicked free, grabbed her, and swung out of bed, literally running as I hit the floor.  My dogs lifted their head, in case I had food on me, and my husband looked up from his computer screen as I, with all the calmness of Peyton Manning in a two minute offense, said "She's having an allergic reaction.  We need help.  I’m going to Valley."

            I grabbed my purse and keys from the pile of papers and mail on the counter, and swung myself towards the door as Jeff called out, "Wait- I'll get Ella and we'll-"

            Thundering down the stairs to the side door, he was cut off by my voice.  "There's no time. If this is what I think this is, I need her in the ER NOW."  I left them in the living room, him reaching under the sofa to find shoes for Ella’s tiny feet.

            Buckling Riley into her car seat was done on autopilot, my hands shaking as I snapped the metal buckle into its plastic holder.  She was whimpering.  Thrusting the keys in the ignition, I cursed as a plastic water bottle rolled beneath my foot.  It was promptly kicked into a strawberry-banana bar wrapper, and rolled to a stop next to a small rubber ducky with a mohawk. 

            There were too many cars on the road for one in the afternoon.  The minivan sped around them, a curving red bull racing over straight double yellow lines, maneuvering past the brick townhouses with bright white trim and the antique Victorian homes with turrets and grand front porches.  A woman in an SUV was driving slowly, inching along while chatting on her phone and fixing her hair in the rearview mirror.  I waved my arms and leaned on the horn, swerving around her and screaming out “I’m sorry!  Hospital!” as she gave me the finger and went back to her hair.  

            I was  panting, and Riley was weaving in the rearview mirror.  "Riley, sing 'The Wheels on the Bus,'" I encouraged, trying to gauge if she was having any problems breathing or speaking.

            "No mommy, ABC's."  In the middle of utter terror, I laughed at my daughter's obstinance, noting that one, she seemed to be breathing, and two, that even in the most dire of circumstances, it's nice to know she is little miss bossy pants.  A red light loomed, and I said a quick prayer as I slowed, made sure no one was speeding through, and turned right. Careening into Valley, I saw the men in their valet jackets, and left the keys for them, grabbed Riley out of the car seat, and ran through the doors that opened with a whoosh.

            The front desk was a wall of glass with a podium in front, an off duty guard listlessly leaning on his fat forearm.  The hospital, for all its bright lights, was markedly dimmer than the blue skies outside.  There was someone ahead of me, giving his name and information, but the nurse off to the side took one look at my daughter, and said "Allergic reaction?"

            "I think so," I said, grateful that she, in one motion, opened the door, and ushered us through to the pediatric ward on the right.  The fluorescent lights hummed above, and the floors were slick and hard beneath our feet.  It looked so much like the labor and delivery floor- all side rooms, curtains, and people walking quickly and not really looking around. 

            "I need a room," she stated, not so much a question, but a "don't mess with me" statement.  Her tight blond bun bobbed on her head ever so slightly, and her face was stern and sturdy. 

            "Well, this one is available now, but w-" the male nurse shrank as he spoke, all thin limbs and gesturing hands.

            "Get me a doctor- allergic reaction," she said as I followed her past a curtain and into the small room, smoothing my daughter's hair the whole time, and kissing the top of her head.  Her brown hair was falling on her forehead, and her skin felt hot to the touch.  She whimpered a little, and clung to my neck, burying her little face in my hair. 

            I was amazed at the number of people who appeared within seconds.  There was a nurse with a dark, loose ponytail, holding a syringe in her hand, and a small bottle.  There was another woman, with a fairer complexion, hooking my daughter up to the blood pressure machine, and placing a little gripper on Riley's tiny finger to check her oxygen intake.  The third woman, who I am assuming was a doctor, made a game out of checking Riley's other vitals.  Her smile was cool and reassuring, a practiced facsimile of the real thing.  She bent down over Riley on the white table, one hand on the metal handle. "Can you open you mouth big?"

            I finished with a silly rhyme I knew Riley would recognize "...and wide.  Where's your tongue?  It hides inside!"

            On cue, she stuck out her tongue, opening her mouth wide enough that the doctor could see her perfectly shaped little uvula.

            "Good news- her airway is clear," the doctor nodded to me, smiling.  Then, she turned to the nurse holding the syringe.  "No Epipen, but give her 10 mL of prednisone, and 6mL of Benadryl, and let's see if that works.  Let's try it orally- I don't think we need an IV."

            I breathed for the first time since I'd seen Riley's swollen face.  The professionals continued to check her out, noting the blotchy, raised hives taking over he belly, legs, and arms, swarming like dragon scales, while I answered questions at length about our family history of allergies, our health insurance, and Riley's food intake that day. 

            There are moments in your life when you realize there are more important things than sleep.  That no matter how strong willed you are, your world can be turned upside down, and no matter how prepared you are, how well you’ve plotted everything out, it doesn’t matter.  A random disease, ingesting something new.  On a random Tuesday, the world can fall apart, or come together like a jigsaw puzzle.  Peering down at my daughter, I ran my hand over her hives, which had begun to go down. The miracle of modern science.  Around the half hour mark, Riley's light blue eyes were once again visible.  She was curled against me, her breathing slowed and steady from the Benadryl.  She closed her eyes and began to softly snore.  I knew sleep for me wasn’t going to come.  And that was okay.  Watching her sleep, feeling her moving next to me, that was more important than the most glorious afternoon nap.  The machines around us hummed and whirred, and I curled around her on the child sized stretcher, curving my fingers around her tiny hands.