Langer Loksh

New Deals at Disney

Summer has been saving up coins in her coin bank for over a year for this trip, and she wanted an Ariel dress-up dress. We went to the world's largest Disney Store to buy it. There were two, a sparkly mermaid style and a layered wedding gown. They both cost $60. I approached a store employee who was talking to another customer. "Excuse me," I interrupted, "is this all of the dress-up? Or are there less expensive ones somewhere else in the store?" The man didn't know--uncharacteristic of Disney's famous customer service. The customer woman pulled me aside. "What are you looking for?" she asked. I told her that Disney princess dress-ups are closer to $20 at Target. "I know," she said, "but they're not like this." She was right--the wedding gown was a fabulous thing with gold edged tulle petals. "Listen," she said, "I have an employee discount because of my husband. If you can give me cash, I can get you 40 percent off."

Summer and I streaked through the store looking for an ATM, withdrew $100, and ran back to the princess room. She handed me a big plastic bag and I slipped her $40. That woman could get in big trouble for that. "I sell stuff on eBay all the time," she admitted.

New at the store this year is the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique, where little girls get elaborate princess hairdos. We did not indulge.

Back at our hotel we found out that as convention attendees, we can get deeply discounted theme park tickets as long as we don't enter the park until after 2:00 or 4:00. We paid $30 to go to Epcot after 4:00; we stayed through the fireworks at 9:00, with Charlie applauding on his auntie Alissa's shoulders.

We have not entirely escaped our diseases though. Summer has bit of an upset tummy and had two soft poops at Epcot. She fears the automatic flush toilets. Normally I hold my hand in front of the sensor for her, but with that Ariel wedding gown, I had to hold up all the skirts. Thus was born the newest attraction at Disney World: Big Poop Mountain. I sat on the toilet and blocked the sensor with my back and Summer rode ahead of me with her skirts piled up to her chin. "Am I going to die?" she asked me. "No!" I answered. "Then why do they call it diarrhea?" she asked. I laughed. "An excellent question."

So far, we're having a great time.

Cleared for Takeoff

The doctor said she couldn't even tell Charlie had an ear infection!

Dad's Turn

In most families, its the mom who takes the kids to the doctor. The mom knows all about the poops. If your kid has bonus features, the mom becomes the expert on both the kid and the disease or condition. And though Jeff comes to appointments whenever he can, our family is like most others. I am the one storing the complete medical histories of Summer and Charlie on my hard drive.

Jeff just backed out of the driveway with Charlie to take him to the doctor to have his ear checked for fluid. We don't want to put him on a plane if there's any chance of the cabin pressure damaging the ear drum in his one good ear. The car seat is still in Jeff's truck from yesterday, and rather than move it, and since it's good for dad to take a turn in these situations, I sent the men off alone.

"Take your phone," I said as they walked out the door. "And here," I said, pressing a diaper, wipes pack, and Charlie's insurance card into Jeff's hand. "Call me if you have any questions," I said, as Charlie waddled across the porch in his puffy parka and fleece hat.

I am more nervous right now than I was when I took Charlie to the cardiologist at 10 weeks old to find out if the holes in his heart had closed. (They had.) I know the worst-case scenario is that we'd have to delay our trip a couple of days and pay a hundred bucks in plane ticket switching fees. Big deal. I've already checked the 10-day forecast for Orlando and it sucks. There's just something about not being there at the doctor's that's giving me a touch o' panic. 

Also My Mom

who this morning told me that one time when I was really little she was too sick to get off the couch and I had a banana and I peeled the banana and used it to write on the couch.

You Cannot Keep Us from Cinderella's Royal Table, You Evil Germs!

We are alive. Here is how we did it:

1. Shaina. (Shaina goes back to college on Sunday. Sunday, bloody Sunday.)

2. Honey Orange Flavor Alka Seltzer Plus Flu. Like Charlie with his cherry flavor baby Tylenol, I jones for this stuff. I drink Fresca in between doses because I'm only allowed to take it every six hours. Alka Seltzer that tastes even better than Fresca. Why don't they sell it in a can?

3. Tarzan.

4. Robin Hood.

5. Both children napped.

Jeff will be home in T minus 59 minutes.

Very Sad House

Charlie has an ear infection and may not be able to fly to Orlando on Monday because we can't jeopardize his good ear with the pressure. They made special arrangements to check his ear on Sunday at the doctor's office. All this week as I've suffered through my sinus infection (which is worse than ever this morning; I feel like I have the flu) I've been carefully monitoring Summer for any sign of illness because I'd hate for her to be sick at Disney World. Last night at 11:30 she vomited. Hm, do you think that's a sign? I don't know how we're going to make it through today.

America's Favorite Condiment

January! How could I forget! It's time for my fabulous annual sinus infection! Wohooo! The left side of my head feels like someone shoved a bowling ball up my nostril. Jeff went to the pharmacy for me and picked up some amoxycillin and some Ghirardelli chocolate.

Some people were wondering if we could leave Charlie's ear alone. Yes. Yes we could. Sometimes I feel like we should. Then I think we should change his ear before he realizes what's happening. Then I think we should wait for him to be big enough to decide himself. Then I change my mind again. So there you have it.

Some people were wondering if I bought the Cinderella toaster. I did not. Rusty has earned a reprieve. The sexy toaster is in my wayback, waiting for me to rise, phoenix-like, from the sinus infection and return it to Target. But my mom thinks I should get the black Black & Decker one that's just like Rusty only black. Feel no need to comment. I think we've covered the toaster thing.

But just for you, here is a picture of a jug of salsa that Jeff brought home. Imagine the business possibilities! It answers the phone, it types 80 words a minute... Actually the salsa would probably clear out my sinuses. Now that would be ideal.

Secret Agent Man

Michael, the boy we met in New York who has the same birth defect as Charlie, now has his new ear. It is a Medpor plastic implant ear. I wanted to show Jeff the pictures so we logged on to my microtia discussion group. We hadn't looked through the pictures in a long time so we got sucked in for quite a while. "Remember RJ?" I said to Jeff. RJ is a man in his 20's with hemifacial microsomia. He has a prosthetic ear. Jeff couldn't tell which ear was fake.

We scrolled through the picture albums and found some kids with prosthetics. We turned to look at each other, speechless. They look much, much better than surgical ears. You really can't even tell they're not real. We decided that even if he ends up leaving it in a mailbox, we have to at least consider the prosthetic ear for Charlie. It's the only one that will do his handsome face justice.

We looked up the guy who makes them, Robert Barron. It turns out he is a former CIA secret agent disgise maker. He makes whole fake faces and fake face parts for people who have horrible burns or birth defects or botched ear surgeries. The ears attach to the side of the head with little titanium clips. You  have to check it out for yourself.

I called him on the phone and told him about Charlie. "He's got a pretty good-sized chunk of ear there," I said. He told me that Charlie's little ear would probably have to be removed for him to wear a prosthetic. This would preclude Charlie from having the rib graft surgery at a future date, because Dr. Brent will only operate on untouched skin. I believe the Medpor ear guys will work on skin with scar tissue, though. This Bob Barron has very strong ideas about the surgeries, though. He thinks they're barbaric. "Whatever you do," he told me, "don't do surgery. Just don't do it."

I'm sending pictures of Charlie and his ears down to Bob Barron in Virginia. If he thinks he can help Charlie, we'd have to wait until Charlie turns five--later than Medpor, but sooner than rib graft--and before kindergarten.

Who knows? Someday Charlie may be Secret Agent Charlie with a detachable ear and a license to break hearts with his secret weapon: his crooked smile.

   

Circle of Smiles: Whenever I See Your Smiling Face, I Have to Smile Myself

Damn, Those Colonials were Short

I like where I live, but the one bathroom thing isn't ideal, so I keep an eye out for slightly bigger houses for sale. Last week a real gem came on the market. The listing said it was built in 1760 and had four bedrooms and two and a half baths. The price was right so I thought I'd drive by.

It was gorgeous. I called the realtor from the driveway and set up a showing.

Although in my mind we were already moving in and grilling pork chops on the back deck for our dinner under the arbor, I played it cool. I calmly handed Jeff the listing sheet. His eyebrows went up. Summer complained, "This is our house! We can't buy another house!" I showed her the picture I'd snapped with my little digital camera. A smile slowly spread across her face. Even she could see it was a beaut.

But that night I couldn't sleep for thinking of my neighborhood. How could I, after eight plus  years, give up being able to walk to the pharmacy for more athlete's foot cream? I never seem to have enough. Or to pick up the jacket I'd left at the dry cleaners two months ago and would have forgotten had I not just found the slip in my other jacket pocket?

The next day, all four of us went on a tour. The woman who lives there now is a photographer and artist, and funky stuff hung on every wall. The layout was forgivably bizarre--one of the bedrooms was in the middle of the house and everyone would be walking through it all the time--because old houses are like that. Previous owners had preserved gorgeous antique beams and upgraded to modern recessed lighting. Through the thick glass of the original windows, the landscaped backyard looked like the gardens of Versailles. As I wound my way from the top floor down, I began to imagine life in a house one hundred years older than the one my centenarian grandmother assumed had dirt floors when I told her we'd bought it.

Finally I stood in the kitchen in my brown leather clogs--with the crown of my head wedged into a gorgeous antique beam. The ceilings were so low, Jeff and I couldn't stand up straight on the first floor of the house. I imagined Greg, who is almost 6'6", walking in for Shabbat dinner on his knees. Obviously a deal breaker.

For a little longer, at least, I might have to wait in line for the bathroom, but I've still got 24 hour access to Ben & Jerry's without burning a thimble of fossil fuel.