The First 48- Vacation Edition

Well, we just got back from our much-anticipated vacation to Puerto Rico.  It was AMAZING and our best vacation yet!  That being said, if you know me in real life, you know NOTHING ever goes smoothly for me and my family.  Our trip to paradise was no exception.  Please join me as I recount the first 48 hours.  Any real true crime fan knows about the "The First 48".  Without an ounce of hyperbole, at LEAST twice in the first 48, we were within minutes or mere inches away from becoming a Discovery ID special.  The thought of hand-picking nice-looking pictures of all of us and sending them preemptively to Nancy Grace did cross my mind.  I don't want a picture of me all sweaty, or one from an unflattering angle to be shown on Dateline reruns in perpetuity.  Long story short, I didn't send Nancy G any pictures for fear of the slightest movement, even just using my fingers to text may cause all of our untimely deaths.

Now let's get into the story, but before I do, let me tell you about the 24 hours, BEFORE "The First 48".  I have been working really hard to get healthy.  I would love to lose 50 pounds.  I had set a goal of losing 35 pounds before our vacation.  I met that goal!!!  Yay me!!!  I did, however, have a little help crossing that finish line.  The day before we left for vaca, I had my first colonoscopy.  I was supposed to have it 6 months ago, but I couldn't handle the prep, I got about a third of the way through it but started throwing up, so I had to cancel.  Fast forward 6 months and they prescribed me the pills for my prep.  So, there I was the day before we leave for vacation, and I met my goal and then some.  I am not going to go into the details of my colonoscopy, but there is one story I feel I should tell.  I am in the pre-op area, for some reason I had some type of tag-team nursing and had 3 wonderful women helping me.  Something was said about what I could and couldn't wear in the procedure room and they gave me a blanket for "modesty" One of the nurses said, well at least you aren't getting naked in front of a bunch of strangers.  I said, "that is exactly what I am about to do" to which she replies, "well it would only be weird if the doctor was naked too".  I respond, "umm, no, that would be criminal".  The 4 of us just sat in awkward silence until it was my turn.  

So now it is the next day, the morning of our trip.  We are up very early to make our way to Logan for our 8 a.m. flight to San Juan.  Chuck has the car all packed, we are 3 minutes ahead of schedule. Great!  We are at the end of our street when Emily tells us her seatbelt won't buckle.   I had suggested we just switch out to my car, I worked in a Pedi ER, none of my kids are riding unrestrained. Chuck had strategically packed up the luggage in his car, so that was the car we were taking. We try for several minutes and finally we get her buckled in. That snafu should have been a sign of things to come...

Now, we leave our house at 5:15 a.m. with a plan of having breakfast at the airport after we get all checked in.  Simple enough.  Oh no my friends, nothing was going to be simple on this day.  Nothing at all.  You see, on this particular day, the one we had planned down to the minute months in advance, on this day, there was an unprecedented global IT outage that hit the airlines hard.  Not to worry, our plane was still showing as leaving on time.  So, we head off to find breakfast.  We come across Peet's Coffee.  When we get up to order, they tell us they are basically out of everything.  It was not even 7 a.m. and they had no breakfast sandwiches, no iced coffee, nothing.  I take that back; Anna got the last breakfast sandwich.  I am waiting and waiting at the pick-up spot, nothing.  I finally ask and they say all they have are items for Jerin.  The pronunciation didn't sound anything like me name with just a ~J~ in front of it, so after I take the cold sandwich, with my new Netflix profile name, I move on to find something to eat.  You see, even though my waist is looking snatched AF, I am STARVING!!  I hadn't really eaten much of anything since Tuesday night, and it was now Friday morning.  I find a pizza place and get a breakfast stromboli, and goddamn that's best stromboli I ever ate in my life, or it was just my Eddie Murphy/Ritz cracker moment.

We were so lucky; our flight was only delayed 3 hours.  I was panicking it was going to be canceled altogether.  Though our luck will soon run out and there is a cancellation in our future.  The flight was pretty uneventful.  We land in PR, go to the car rental place and get our car.  That wasn't without incident though.  The lady was trying to strong arm Chuck into buying their insurance.  He bought some through Expedia when he rented the car but couldn't find the confirmation email.  The lady is going on and on saying it is required, you can't rent the car without it, blah, blah, blah.  It was going to cost us at least another $350 dollars.  I was like, nope, we have our own car insurance, we don't need to get extra.  She was still trying to say we did.  I read the paper over and sure enough, you can check a box declining the insurance if you have your own.  So, after a little bit, we are able to get our insurance agency to email a copy of our policy, we check the declination box, with maybe a little stronger grip on the pen than required, and we are on our way.

We get in our rental car, which smells like bologna and to a vegetarian was pretty gross.  If I had to put money on it, the car rental lady keeps rancid deli meat on hand to throw in the trunks of those we do not take her up on the extra insurance.  It could have been worse; she could have had liverwurst in the fridge.

Our carefully laid out plan was to head over to the north-western coast, grab lunch along the way and explore some caves and spend the night in Isabelle, check out some waterfalls the next day and make our way back over to the south-eastern coast where we had our weeklong beach house rental.  We were 3 hours behind schedule, it was raining out, so we decided to just grab something to eat and head to our one-night rental.  Chuck turns the car on, powers up his phone to enter the address into GPS.  Chuck has his phone in his hand but isn't moving.  I look over at him and he is white as a ghost and his hands are shaking.  My first thought is someone is dead, he must have got a messaged someone died. One of the qualities I love about Chuck is that nothing fazes him.  He is always even keeled, has a plan and doesn't get rattled.  He is the calm to my chaos.  I have never seen this look on his face before.  I ask what is going on, did someone die, no, did our rental get cancelled, yes.  Holy sh*t, we are in a new place, have no idea where anything is or how things work on the island, we have 3 kids and nowhere to stay for the night.  I'm like, OK, we can just get a hotel for the night, no big deal.  A little minor inconvenience. 

Oh no my friends, it wasn't our quick, one-night stay in Isabelle that was cancelled.  It was our week-long stay in Yabucoa that was cancelled.  Now I am past the Holy sh*t stage, and into the what the actual f*ck stage.  We are in a new place, have no idea where anything is or how things work on the island, we have 3 kids and nowhere to stay for the WEEK, this isn't a minor inconvenience, this is a full-fledged disaster that no amount of paper towels can fix... IYKYK  ;)

The host that canceled on us gave a number for us to call.  We call and when I tell you this guy was a caricature of a southerner, he full on sounded like Mickey's dog Goofy, "well golly folks" kind of accent.  No disrespect Kristy B.  All he says is there is a 'water issue', never elaborated, just said he just came from there and he can't have us stay there due to a 'water issue' whatever the hell that means.  He wanted us to cancel, but I'm like nope, I am not cancelling last minute and have that on our Airbnb profile.  No one would rent to us again.  So, he cancels it.  He would have kept talking in his over-the-top, fake, folksy accent but I said, I need to go find a place for my 3 children to sleep for the next 7 days.  

We get in touch with Airbnb and explain our situation.  The guy was nice, but kept saying we were the one who canceled, so we had to keep correcting him.  He said he was going to email us some alternative rentals that he would help us book.  He sent us 3.  Now, in real life, I am not bougie.  Most of my clothes come from Target, JCPenney and Shein, our house has its fair share of IKEA furniture.  Buuuutttt, vacation Erin is bougie.  For that one week a year, we like to stay in really nice houses, we want it nicer than our house, we want everyone to have their own bedroom and if we are not directly on the beach, we want a pool.  I want to hear the ghost of Robin Leach whispering in my ear when I walk in for the first time.  The alternative houses we were sent had the swarmy whispers of Robin Thicke, definitely not the lifestyles of the rich and famous vibe we were going for.  One was a 2 bedroom in a high-rise, nowhere near the beach and one of us would have to sleep on a pull-out couch for the week.  Nope!  We spent weeks finding the perfect house, now I had 5 minutes to find a replacement.  I told the guy we need 4 bedrooms, air-conditioning, a water view and a pool, oh and we don't want to pay more than we had for our original house.  I find maybe 6 rentals on the whole island that meet our criteria, all above our price range, you know, because we are trying to book a week-long rental in paradise, in the summer, with less than 24 hours' notice.  I find one and tell the Airbnb guy.  Well, more accurately, Chuck has to talk to him, the guy kept asking for Chuck's permission before he would speak to me.  At this point, I'm not going to call out his misogyny, but I did tell him I found a place and it was more than we were willing to pay, we told him, they needed to make this right.  Guess what?  HE DID!!!  We ended up getting a new rental, way above our price range and on the opposite end of the island we had planned for, and Airbnb gave us a "coupon" towards the rental to make up the difference.  OK, so we had a place secured for the week. 

All the while we were working this out, Chuck was driving to our Friday night rental.  Now it is really dark out so we can't really see the area we are in.  Not much in terms of streetlights where we were.

We finally find the house, after driving by some sketchy houses with what I hope are very life-like statues on their balconies and not their kinfolk who have passed that they stuffed and propped up to watch over them.  The road leading to the house was a long, dark windy road. It is completely dark when we pull up, we get out of the car and the creepiest cat was sitting still and looking us over in a very judgmental way.  4 out of 5 of us are animal lovers and we were all scared of this feline.  We get into the house and at first glance the entry way wasn't that bad. The rest of the house....IT WAS THAT BAD.   Ketih Morrison has definitely done a voice over describing a suspicious death at Ocean Hideaway.  That was the name of the place we were staying at.  It is aptly named as it should be hidden away from the rest of the world.  

I am going to try and paint a picture describing this house, but Steven King himself would be at a loss for words in describing the Ocean Hideaway.  We walk through the house and at first glance, it wasn't awful, very low bar when we are thinking well, it isn't awful.  But it was.  It was awful.  In the foyer there was a pipe hanging out of the ceiling, it was being held up by some wires.  No worries though, the homeowners zhuzhed it up with a simple gold bow tied around it.  You know when you buy hand soap or something and it has a tag tied around the pump with a gold elastic string?  It was that.  Someone took the time to get up on a ladder and tie a friggin, gold, elastic string into a bow around the pipes that are falling out of the ceiling.  I mean, in the review would I give them 5 stars for attention to detail?

From the foyer we move on to the bathroom.  The pictures in the listing make the shower look spa-like with a teak floor and glass tiles.  I am going to go out on a limb and say they may have sent the pic to the Facebook Group called Photoshop Me.  In real life, there was a moldy cement floor in the shower and the whole shower room, which looked more like an old, abandoned prison shower and doubled as the utility room.  They had taken a marker to the chipping cement wall in the shower and wrote 'hot' and 'cold' in what can only amount to a serial killer's handwriting.  Forgot to pack soap?  No worries!  I found an old, dried out, cracked piece behind the water heater.  It was grey.  I have never seen grey soap in the personal care section at the store, so I am thinking it didn't start out that color.  I left it where it was just in case another weary traveler felt the urge to infect themselves with any number of STD's or at the least scabies.  Didn't want to ruin someone else's fun in stumbling across a crusty soap left behind from the Carter Administration.

On to the first bedroom.  Emily was terrified by this house and couldn't stop crying.  I told her we can sleep in the room together.  Spoiler alert, there was no sleeping to be had on this night by yours truly.  Something changed and Sara said she would sleep with Emily.  After crying herself to sleep, Em did get a few hours rest.  Turns out the creepy cat is a fraud.  It spends its days sitting in judgement of the renters instead of doing its job.  On the way home last night, while stuck in traffic, Chuck pipes up with, "well, enough time has passed, I can tell you what I found in the bedroom of the first house...fresh rodent poop under the covers of the bed".  F*ck you cat, I hope a Chupacabra comes out of the bushes and eats you.  

OK, back to the house tour.  We move on to the next room, which is a big open room, that has a kitchen, living room and oh, 2 queen beds.  Yeah, 2 beds right next to the kitchen island, because that makes sense.   There are also 2 sets of stairs to nowhere.  With signs instructing us not to open the doors.  WTF?  What is behind those doors?  Oh, wait, I'll tell you...other renters!!!  The listing showed up as the whole house, not just one floor of the house.  The girls discovered there was someone staying downstairs when they looked out the window and saw a person hanging face, down over the side of a portable hot tub.  Maybe he was dead or maybe he was tired from a long work week; it could have gone either way.   I made a mental note to myself to check again for signs of life.  For those curious, when I checked back 10 minutes later, he was in a different spot, one he would have had to climb out to and not just his corpse floating to.  

The kitchen beds felt like they were made out of cardboard, I mean, probably higher end corrugated cardboard, with either gauze pads or potholders for mattresses.  For the record, when we stayed there, and I said they were made out of cardboard it was before the Olympics started and I didn't know cardboard beds were a real thing!  These beds were so awful Bernie, Phil, Barry, Elliott or for my RI friends Ni-Ro-Pe wouldn't sell them.  Even Claymation Bob wouldn't have these in his stores.  Yes, they were that bad!  Next to the kitchen beds was one of the sets of stairs to nowhere.  Though, they did have protection in place to keep you out.  The stairs were protected by clear, thick plastic strips.  You know the kind they used to have in the grocery store meat department, they just push them aside to walk out back to get you some rump roast?  Truth be told, in this setting, they had more of a Dexter kill room vibe.  To the left of that was a wooden slat door with a padlock on it.  It was nighttime and the lighting wasn't great, so it looked like just a door.  In the light of day the next morning, we could see it wasn't just a door, it was more of a crate type structure.  Is that where Dexter puts his victims while he is waiting for the sedative to wear off?  I'm thinking it is.  You know why?  Because right next to those doors was the fridge.  The fridge had some questionable stains on it, like someone had to try and wipe something sticky off.  Give me some luminal and a black light and I'll give you a murder scene.  

Moving on from the kitchen beds to the kitchen.  The stove was actually a nice gas stove.  However, it had a note on it stating if it didn't light, to call the hosts right away, it may need more gas.  The f*ck?  Upon further inspection, on the balcony stood a propane tank.  The tank had a hose connected to it that somehow was jerry-rigged to the stove in the house.  Now, I am no HVAC expert or a lineman for Boston Gas, but I have a sneaking suspicion that is not up to code.  Fortunately, we stopped for dinner before arriving and had no need to use the stove.

We picked this house originally because the kitchen looked like something out of Tuscany, exposed washed brick, terra cottta accents throughout, a beautiful fresco painting.  The exposed bricks were more akin to glued on paper mâché squares. The terra cotta accent above the kitchen island was a big circle shaped piece of Styrofoam painted in a lovely burnt sienna by a second grader.  You know what, on second thought, there was some thought and effort into the orange striping, I'll go as high as to say a second semester 5th grader painted it.

The piece de resistance of this craptastic house were the wilted flowers in the center of the kitchen/bedroom/living room/murderous kill room.  It took me until the next morning to realize they were fake.  I sh*t you not, they were artificial flowers that were WILTED!  In the online listing, they were perky looking.  Now they are dead.  Either someone did it on purpose or this plastic, inanimate object knew they were the proverbial lipstick on a pig, and they just laid down their lives in solidarity or in tribute if you will of the poor, unsuspecting guests.  

I am exhausted, I am hearing creepy music that no one else is hearing so I decided to call it a day and get some sleep.  Anna and I take one of the kitchen beds and Chuck the other.  I feel something on my chest.  I have been growing my hair out, so I just think it is my long, luxurious locks settling in.  Then I feel it again on my bicep.  My hair is longer than usual, but not that long!  I flick whatever it is off of me, screaming as I do.  Anna somehow instantaneously jumps up on top of the bed before I finish my scream.  She is standing on the bed screaming, I'm screaming, Chuck wakes up with all the commotion and finds the culprit I flung across the floor.  It was the biggest effing cockroach I have ever seen.  You know what?  We have been lied to all of our lives.  You know that cute little ditty, La Cucaracha?  The one that sings, La cucaracha, la cucaracha ya no puede caminar, which translates to 'the cockroach, the cockroach he can't walk".  Bullshit! La cucaracha, las cucaracha si puede caminar.  He CAN walk!  My whole childhood was based on a lie first told to me by Mrs. Ross, my elementary school music teacher.  Though I can't blame her, it was a different time back then, when it was acceptable to teach 6-year-old racist songs that may or may not be about getting high, but I digress.

I decide I am going to spend the night sitting in the leather chair defending my family from whatever evils may be lurking within this castle of creepiness.  I mean, there are bugs, rodent poop, magically wilted plastic flowers, doors to nowhere, a potential corpse outside and the door to the balcony that has no lock.  There could be a million things wanting to do us harm in this mansion of mayhem.  I sit up all night debating writing my own obituary in case I don't make it to morning.  Right before we left, a report came out about all the hidden cameras in Airbnb's.  If these people had them, all they would see was a crabby, menopausal women (which the 3 tag-team nurses clearly made note of not 1 day prior) standing, I mean sitting guard throughout the night, bobbing her head up and down, back and forth like a teenage lifeguard at the community pool.  Though going back to the menopausal woman, I may be able to use that to my advantage in this situation.  I am on vacation, so that means I don't have my magnifying mirror.  Ladies of a certain age, you know what I am talking about.  If anyone comes to do us harm, I can start growling and snorting and with the whiskers that have grown in the past 24 hours, I could easily pass for a chupacabra and scare them off.  Come to think of it, where did that creepy, good for nothing cat go?

We all survive the night; I give up my post and explore a little bit.  The glass ceiling in the kitchen/bedroom/living room/ dungeon of dread, the one I thought was painted black last night, wasn't painted black at all.  It was clear glass and the people staying on the floor above could look straight down on us.  Nothing unsettling about that.  There did turn out to be a gorgeous view of the ocean and we saw cows walking along the beach, but other than that, we could not wait to get out of this place.  Funny side note, immediately after we checked out, we get an email asking if we will provide a review.  I mean immediately, so I think there is some truth to the report about the hidden cameras.  After thinking about it, I really don't want to give them a review.  I am afraid that it will 1., Prompt them to give us a bad review and we won't find anyone to rent to us in the future and 2., I am afraid they will murder us.  What I really want to do is hunt down the folks who did write positive reviews for the property that we based our decision on.  In my best Liam Neeson voice, I want to tell them; I will look for them, I will find them, and I will k*ll them.

We hastily pack up and find the most delicious breakfast spot ever!  All 5 of us agree it is one of the best meals we have ever had, so the day is off to a good start.  Our plan is to go to Gozalandia Waterfalls.  In order to get there WAZE sent us through El Bosque Estatal de Guajatace.  

 Keep in mind, we were supposed to be heading to the other side of the island, so originally there was a different route we were supposed to take.  Because of the change in location, we were coming in the back way.  No big deal, right?  Wrong.  I mean so wrong.  Like polar opposite wrong.  We start out on our way, and up until now the roads have all been tight, windy and not in the best condition.  Now that Chuck has a few hours driving time in Puerto Rico under his belt, he is feeling a little more comfortable as we start winding our way into the forest.  About a mile into our drive, we see a sign welcoming us to the forest and with some friendly reminders; keep your headlights on and beep your horn as you go around the corners, that way oncoming traffic know there is someone coming.  How polite.  Ok, we are all in a great mood, happy to be out of the house of horrors and ready to start our real vacation.  Chuck is driving and giving some meek little 'toot-toots' of the horn as we round the curves.  Well, I am not an end-of timer or a doom -monger, but I quickly started to believe we were driving our children to their deaths.  When I say the road was only as wide as our rental car, with maybe an inch to spare on each side, I am not exaggerating.  Oh, and keep in mind, this is a 2-way road.  Meaning, it is meant for cars coming and going, simultaneously, at the same time.  We are noticing we are gaining in altitude.  Turns out the forest goes through a mountain.  The turns and curves are no longer fun afternoon out for a drive turns and curves.  They are hairpin curves at about 150 degrees, think like a zigzag furiously drawn by a 3-year-old sneaking a crayon.  

I have never been so scared in all my life, because not only was the road extremely narrow and designed like an accordion, but there are also no guardrails.  Not only was the road extremely narrow and designed like an accordion, with no guardrails, there were sheer 500-foot cliffs on each side of us.  Thank Christ I had a recent colonoscopy, or I would have legit sh*t myself.  Chuck is no longer giving a cute little toot-toot of the horn; he is basically putting the full weight of his adult male body into that horn as if our lives depended on it, because they literally did!  One of us had a full-on panic attack screaming we are all going to die, one was sobbing, one was silently holding their head down, so they didn't see the danger all around us, one of us suddenly found Jesus amongst the jungle canopy, several of us heard curse words only found inside a supermax prison.  Did you know the word "f*ck" can be used for any part of speech?  That day it was used as a noun, adjective, verb, adverb, and even a past participle.  I honestly thought we were going to die, the slightest move in the wrong direction and we were going off the side of the cliff.  If we did go off the cliff and on the off chance we survive the fall, we would die anyway.  There is no cell service, the jungle is so thick no one would ever see our car.  No one knew where we were going so no one would know where to look if we came up missing.  Now, as you all know, my PSR (primitive survival rating) on Naked and Afraid is about a -.12 baseline.  There is no way I could make my way out of a jungle.  I felt so bad that my children were not going to grow up, that Chuck and I were going to be responsible for killing our children.  

I was terrified there was going to be a sudden rainstorm, which would cause a landslide, or Chuck would sneeze and that would make us sail right off the road or hell, even a strong gust of wind. We are halfway through our trek, oh, keep in mind this road is 5 miles long, we round the corner and come face to face with a huge tow-truck towing a smashed-up car.  Chuck and the guy are kind of in a stand-off as to where to go.  Obviously the local with the big truck won, fortunately, at that point in time, we had a little bit of an embankment next to us that Chuck was able to back into giving the massive tow truck about 1/8 of a millimeter to pass us.  I have no idea what we would have done if we came across him at a point that had sheer drops on both sides.  Back up the whole way down?  Given up and just lived up there?  I was seriously kicking myself for not finding the good pictures and preemptively writing our obituaries, I was certain we were all going to die on that jungle road.

Since I am writing this several days later, you know we survived. I am not a civil engineer, nor do I pretend to be one, but in my humble opinion, that road doesn't quite seem safe.  Honestly, if any of you go to PR, do not go on that road, it has got to be on a list somewhere of the most dangerous roads in the world.  

We make it to the trails and head off in search of waterfalls.  We find one and Anna and I made our way under it, and it was amazing!  There is another trail with another waterfall that has a big swimming hole.  We find it and Anna, and I go to the big watering hole and hang out.  We start to head back down the stream to where the rest of the fam is hanging out.  We all brought dumpy sneakers to wear on these jungle treks.  The rocks in the streams are super slippery, but it is a catch 22, you can try your luck climbing over the rocks or you can walk along the super muddy, super slick riverbanks. I opt for the rocks.  I am just about to the spot where Chuck and Sara are swimming when suddenly my legs give out from under me, and I start to slip.  I land hard on my ass with one of my legs caught behind me a la Rick Flair's Figure Four wrestling move.  In that position I slide down a bunch of rocks, they seemed to go on forever, I kind of felt like I was in the Goonies movie when they slide down into the cave. I am holding my backpack with my new Fit Bit in it.  I hold that bag gloriously up over my head as I slide into water that is about 4 feet deep perfectly sticking the landing on one leg just like Kerri Strug in one of the most incredible Olympic moments in history.  I think my family would attest to it being slightly less than Olympic Gold Medal worthy, but I was proud of saving my Fit Bit.  Chuck immediately informed me it was waterproof.  My only regret was this triumphant feat of strength and endurance was not caught on camera.  I wish I could have seen it from everyone else's perspective.  You know, I do take comfort in the fact that my misfortune and dislocated hip will be the subject of many family's vacation memories for years to come.  I picture them sitting around their tables years from now talking about their visit to the waterfalls of Puerto Rico, when one of them will inevitably say, yeah, remember that chubby lady that fell on her ass and slid into the water and they all will laugh and laugh sharing in a common experience that brought them so much joy.  Some people leave great legacies behind, foundations in their names, curing cancer, etc.  This is me out here building my legacy.

So, after I pop my hip joint back into its socket, we start our trek out of the jungle.  Now, this time I am being super cautious, carefully watching each step I take when I am suddenly, and without warning viciously attacked with a huge club, right on the side of my head.  In my haze I am thinking there must be some marauding gang of thieves trolling the jungle looking to rob innocent tourists and I am their latest victim.  Apparently, there was no gang of thieves, there was no marauding going on.  While paying such close attention to my feet, I walked headfirst into a huge tree.  I had a big scrape that was bleeding and a huge knot on my forehead.  Chuck once again showed great concern and kindness making sure his bride was ok.  Turns out he is a way better human than I am because no sooner had I wiped my bloody brow, Chuck slid down the muddy riverbank into the water and I nearly piss myself laughing.  I guess we balance each other out.  I do believe I had/have a mild concussion from my literal run-in with the tree, but I soldiered on. I did google if it was ok to fly with a mild head injury and Dr. Google said it was ok, so here I am back home.  I was a little nervous Homeland Security or the TSA was going to pull Chuck aside and ask me if I feel safe at home as I had lots of bruises, cuts and scrapes along with some weird rash on my face that made my jaw look swollen.  Fortunately, Chuck made it through security no problem.

So, there you have it, the First 48.  If nothing else, we are consistent and own our sh*t show, even when we take it on the road.

There were a few funny things of note after the first 48 that I will share...

We took a trip to see the light house and cliffs.  We couldn't understand why GPS was showing it was going to take another 25 minutes to go a mile.  Well, if you have to walk the rest of the way, it takes slightly longer than driving.  So not only did we need to walk a mile in the 90-degree, super humid air with blazing sun over us, we had to do it through salt flats.  The salt flats were absolutely stunning to look at.  They smell like a public bathroom after a deviled egg eating contest.  The smell was horrendous, and it stuck to you with the humidity.  We persevere through the smell and long, hot walk with the promise of seeing stunning ocean views and the final reward being a deserted private beach we could cool off in.  The views were out of this world beautiful and so worth the walk.  The beach, yeah, not so much, it was full of seaweed and debris from storms so we couldn't get to it.  We had to walk back through the heat and acrid smell of the salt flats without the pleasure of cooling off in the bright blue sea while trying not to succumb to heat stroke.  If I am being completely honest, I think both Chuck and I were feeling inspired by the murderous house and running scenarios through our heads and what we would with the life insurance payout.  But alas, we all made it back to the car alive.

The other funny incident happened on the way back from the bioluminescent bay.  It was close to 10 p.m., we had dinner around 5 so we were all a little hungry.  We stop at an authentic Puerto Rican Restaurant, Burger King.  Side note, they have Impossible Chicken Nuggets in PR.  Anyway, Chuck doesn't feel comfortable doing the drive through in Spanish, so we all go inside. Now just a few days prior my kids thought it was a flex that I could understand the menu, help them order and speak to our waitress in Spanish.  That tiny little breakfast place was a local place and they only spoke Spanish.  Without me, who knows what they would have eaten.   So, we are in line at BK, everyone in there is speaking Spanish, not a word of English to be heard.  It's my turn to order, I get halfway through my order, completely in Spanish, thank you very much, and the girl taking my order asks me, in perfect English, no hint of an accent, how many nuggets do you want?  Sara and Anna burst out laughing, the girl behind the counter is laughing so hard, she has to put her microphone down and has her head down with tears coming out of her eyes.  My kids now think I am so 'cringe' for speaking Spanish.  The girl at the counter who is about Sara's age now thinks I am 'cringe'.  My kids ditch me at the counter and head to the other side of the restaurant, God forbid they are seen with me after that.  Somehow, I went from being a flex for them; having a mom who speaks another language to a total embarrassment in the matter of 2 minutes.  Again, I am sure I will provide them and their families years of entertainment when they are sitting around the table years from now telling their kids about the time Grandma embarrassingly spoke Spanish when the girl spoke perfect English.  Brick by brick my friends, that is how I am building my legacy.  Brick by cringe worthy brick.

I am happy to report the rest of the trip was wonderful!  Puerto Rico is absolutely beautiful, and I would highly recommend it.  The house we stayed at was amazing and I am happy to share it with anyone that is looking for a place to stay.  The beaches were out of this world gorgeous, we went to the bioluminescent bay and were blown away with how cool it was, we went to El Yunque Rainforest, which was really neat to see, and we ate some really yummy food.  I have already started looking at Airbnb's for an adult only trip to PR for just me and Chuck, I know 1 for sure I can cross of my list ;)

I am Lindsay Clancy...

Like everyone else in Massachusetts, I have been shaken to my core by the Lindsay Clancy case, but not for the reasons you might think.  For those not from this area, here is the quick backstory; last week a mother of three young children, suffering from post-partum depression/post-partum psychosis, killed her children and tried to end her own life.  

This family's story has been all over the news and social media.  I have been glued to the coverage of this case.  The comments people who have never met her are making are making me sick to my stomach.  Things like, "she is pure evil", "she deserves to rot in hell", "she knew exactly what she was doing", "what kind of loving mother would kill her children?" 

This is an unspeakable tragedy for sure, however, therein lies the problem...unspeakable.  Post-partum Depression and Post-Partum Psychosis, which I will refer to as PPD/PPP are a taboo subject.  No one talks about it, and very few people will ever admit they struggled with it.  PPD is the most underdiagnosed obstetrical complication in the United States.  Let that sink in for a minute.  It is the most underdiagnosed complication, and it is estimated that 66% of cases go undiagnosed.  In a country with unquestionably the best and most advanced health care in the world, we are failing our new mothers.  

I know exactly what kind of loving mother would kill her children, because I was Lindsay Clancy.  I had a pretty significant case of PPD/PPP after my first baby was born.  I didn't talk about it for several years after she was born, I did start talking about it, but if I am being honest, I would gloss over what it was really like for me.  I was too ashamed to tell people what it was really like.  This local tragedy brought all of those feelings I kept locked deep down back up to the surface.  I feel as though I am right back in the thick of it, reliving the darkest time of my life.  I have responded to a few social media posts with glimpses of my story, just barely scratching the surface.  I have had several people message me, thanking me for telling my story, that they also struggled after their children were born.  A friend suggested that as a way to honor the lives of Cora, Dawson and Callan Clancy people need to share their stories, start a true conversation about PPD/PPP with the hope that getting it out there might just save another family from an unspeakable tragedy.

If you know me in person or have read my blog in the past, you know that I always try to find the humor in any situation and I love telling a story with the ultimate goal of getting someone to laugh.  This is not that post.  This is my PPD/PPP story.  This time, I am not glossing it over.  I am not leaving anything out, this is my story.  I am going to be brutally honest, raw and vulnerable.  The Clancy children along with their father deserve that.  But this blog is for Lindsay Clancy too, she too deserves grace.

Here goes...

I had my first baby at 35 years old.  It was a typical pregnancy.  We were very fortunate and got pregnant right away.  My life was everything I had always wanted.  I was a newlywed madly in love with my husband, we had a brand new, beautiful apartment, we were financially stable and so excited to be parents!

I had a lengthy 36-hour labor.  When my baby was born, I was so exhausted. I kept falling asleep, so I didn't really hold her all that much the first day.  My plan was to try to breastfeed and if it worked great, if not, we would formula feed.  I was working with a lactation consultant, and she was determined to make me a successful breast feeder.  Keep in mind, I had a breast reduction 5 years prior so there was a 50/50 chance it wouldn't work.  This woman was relentless.  Looking back, she was pretty much a bully.  She insisted on no formula. Since I was a new mom and delivered at one of the best birthing hospitals around, I figured she knew better than I did. My baby would be screaming, and she would have me try all sorts of ways to get her to latch on.  Finally on day 2 or 3 when the baby had crystals in her pitiful little bit of urine she relented, and we were able to supplement with formula feeds.  So, things were off to a stressful start.  

I ended up having a c-section, so I was in the hospital for 5 days after delivery.  About day 3, things shifted for me.  It was as if I wasn't me anymore, all of these experiences were somehow happening to someone else, but in my body.  Chuck had left for a little bit to feed the cats and run errands.  The nurse took the baby to the nursery so I could get some sleep.  I fell asleep and when I woke up, I was terrified.  The nurse took my baby and hadn't brought her back to me to feed.  I got up and ran down to the nurse's station, mind you I was still healing from the c-section.  I was yelling at her, asking why she didn't bring my baby back, she needed to give her back to me, she hadn't eaten in hours.  The nurse was all confused and told me it had only been 10 minutes; the baby was fine.  I would have sworn I was asleep for hours.  The nurse got me settled back in my room, though I knew she was lying to me about it only being 10 minutes, no matter what the clock said.

The last night of my hospital stay, I was wide awake in the middle of the night just sitting up in bed.  The night nurse came in and introduced herself and said, you must be mom.  I told her no; I was her aunt.  Chuck was on the couch and must have heard what was going on and said, "oh she's just tired, she is so used to being called auntie and not mom".  I couldn't understand why they both thought I was the baby's mother.  I was just the aunt, why did everyone keep calling me mom?

My OB came to see me the morning of our discharge. She must have known something was not right with me, she sat on the end of my bed and was asking how I was doing.  She told me I needed to not only take care of the baby but take care of myself as well.  She told me it was important to get up, take a shower and get dressed every day. 

We get home and settle in as a family of three.  I had it drilled into me, that I can breast feed and to use formula sparingly.  At this point OCD had ramped up.  I became obsessed with breast feeding and pumping.  Thing was, I would pump every 2 hours for days on end and would only get a 2 ounce bottle every couple of days.  I kept hearing the lactation consultants voice in my head telling me that breastfeeding is natural and with practice and consistency we would figure it out. I was a mess.  I was only wearing the mesh underwear and I was constantly hooked up to the pump.  The pump was taunting me.  The swishing noise from the pump was saying "fuck you, fuck you, fuck you" in an evil voice.  I didn't understand how Chuck couldn't hear the pump mocking me, the voice was so clear.  Even the mechanical pump knew I was a failure.  The LC told me that if I were to use formula I should put it in a syringe, connect the syringe to a tube and tape the tube to my breast, so when the baby would latch, they would be getting a little food and that would encourage her to nurse.  So that became part of this improbable endeavor.  This lasted for 5 weeks until our amazing pediatrician gave me permission to stop.  Normally I am very decisive and free thinking, but I was like a robot and would only do what the medical professionals told me to. He was so generous and told me that even though he was a pediatrician, and his wife was an OB, they went the formula route because nursing wasn't working and that it was not only OK to stop, but it was also what was best for my baby. 

It didn't help that the baby was extremely colicky.  Turns out she had a milk protein intolerance, but we didn't figure that out until she was almost 3 months old, so we were basically torturing her by giving her basic formula.  I kept calling the pediatrician, but the gatekeeper that would answer the phone kept telling me it was fine, babies cry, no need to call every time the baby had a crying fit.  I also called because she hadn't pooped in 14 days, and she told me sometimes babies don't poop for long stretches.  She must have been right, I mean she works at a pediatrician office, she must know more than I do.  Every instinct in me told me something was wrong, but obviously, I was a terrible mother, and my instincts were ridiculous.  I called another time because the baby had a small red mark on her head that wasn't there before.  Did I mention the gatekeeper was someone I knew from the hospital I was working at during that time?  They basically laughed at me and said, Oh Erin, relax, you are a first-time mom, no need to worry so much.  It is probably just a scratch from her clothes or your fingernail.  I looked at the clothes she had on, and it was a fleece zip-up that didn't go over her head and my nails were short and smooth.  Even though I knew something was wrong, I am a terrible mother with shitty instincts, and she knows better than me, so I dropped it and told myself that from now on, when I think something, I was going to change my mind to the opposite because I was stupid, always wrong and didn't deserve to be a mother.  By the way, turned out it was the start of a hemangioma forming, so I was right.  

I was very fortunate to have Chuck home with me for the first couple of weeks because I was failing with this whole mother thing.  It was around this same time the intrusive thoughts started. This is the stuff I have only spoken out loud to very few people, which I am sorry I haven't talked about this sooner.  Turns out, over half of new mothers report having intrusive thought.   This is where things got very dark and scary.  Buckle up.

At night, when it was dark, the baby's eyes would glow bright red.  Bright red like a character in a horror movie.  I couldn't understand why no one else noticed.  I figured they had to see it too, but like me, they were afraid if they said it out loud, the baby would become evil. I didn't want to be the one who caused her to become evil, so I never said anything.  

I was getting up and showering everyday like my OB told me to, taking care of myself, so I thought that I was OK.

I was so exhausted, but I couldn't sleep.  I was afraid if I fell asleep something bad would happen to her.  The day came for Chuck to go back to work.  My sister had planned on coming over but called early in the morning to let me know she couldn't make it.  There must have been something in my voice because after we got off the phone, she called my parents and said something was wrong with me.  My mom called and asked how things were going and I burst into tears saying I can't do this.  I can't be a mom.  My parents were at my house within an hour and came every weekday for weeks after.  It was obvious something was wrong with me.  At that point all people knew about PPD was Andrea Yates drowning her children.  My mom would follow me if I went into the baby's room, she didn't really let me be alone with the baby. I joked that I wasn't going to pull an Andrea Yates.  But deep down I wasn't sure I wouldn't.  

I didn't give her a bath by myself.  I would have these visions of her in the tub, slipping under the water, staring up at me with her eyes wide open and me doing nothing.  Just watching her as she lay underwater.  We lived on the North Shore at the time.  If I was going to the South Shore, I would go the long way making sure to avoid the Tobin Bridge.  I would have visions of her car seat falling off the bridge, hitting the water and me just watching her in the car seat slowly sink to the bottom of the Mystic River.  If I was carrying her on the sidewalk, I would wonder what it would sound like if I dropped her on the concrete, or what it would feel like if I smashed her head into the corner of the wall. I didn't think I would do any of these things, but the thoughts were constantly running through my head.

My OCD was in overdrive by now.  If I took a diaper out of the stack of diapers in the diaper holder, I immediately had to put on back and they had to be perfectly aligned.  The carpets in the house had to have vacuum lines at all times.  The sheets in her crib had to be perfectly taut.  Her swaddles had to be on point.  I had to have everything just so, if not, something bad was going to happen.  I didn't know what would happen, but there was always something terrible on the verge of happening and the only way to keep us safe was to make sure everything was perfect.

One of the things that would make her stop crying, which she did for hours on end, was to lay her on her changing table.  I would stand there staring at her for hours.  A friend called and asked what I was doing.  I told her I was standing at the changing table to keep the baby from crying.  She said why don't you take the pad off of the table, put it on the floor so you can sit down next to it.  That had never crossed my mind.  My mind was so scrambled I couldn't think rationally.  I would put the baby in her swing and lock myself in my closet and cry.  At 3:45 every weekday I would stand at the back door waiting for Chuck to come home from work at 4:15. Without fail, the baby would stop crying as soon as Chuck would walk through the door.  She knew I was a terrible mother and couldn't wait to get away from me.

About a month after the baby was born, we went out to celebrate our wedding anniversary.  This should have been such a happy occasion, our one-year anniversary, a beautiful new baby, from the outside, our life looked pretty good. Chuck made dinner reservations and my parents came to babysit.  It was the first time we left her without one of us being there.  We went to the super swanky Mandarian Oriental in Boston for dinner. Chuck paid a pretty penny for me to sit and sob through the entire dinner.  It was a few days later when Chuck told me he missed my smile.  That he hadn't seen me smile in weeks.  Hearing that broke my heart and that is when I realized I couldn't do this anymore.  I needed help.

I was educated, had a strong support system, financial resources, had worked in a hospital for almost a decade at that point and knew how to navigate the health care system.  None of it mattered.  It was nearly impossible to get help.  I called my OB's office and was referred to the maternal psych program.  When I finally got someone on the phone, she asked if I felt as though I was going to hurt myself or the baby and when I told her no, she gave me an appointment for over a month out.  I said OK.  Over the next few days things continued to decline.  

I came up with a great plan to get things back to the way they should be.  I was going to have the baby kidnapped.  I drove to the CVS in Peabody.  Parked in a spot with heavy foot traffic and rolled the back windows down.  My though was, if I left her alone in the car, someone would see her, kidnap her and my life would go back to normal.  This was the perfect plan.  I ultimately left without following through with my plan, not because I came to my senses.  No, only because I didn't know how I was going to tell Chuck his baby was gone.  At the time, this plan was so well thought out, rational and made perfect sense.  Looking back, I am horrified and ashamed of having come up with such a diabolical plan.

That event made me realize I couldn't wait over a month to be seen.  I called back and asked to speak directly to my OB.  I told her some of what was going on.  I couldn't tell her all of it because even though her devil red eyes were real, and the breast pump would come to life and yell at me when I turned the power on, I was afraid she wouldn't believe me, and my child would be taken away.  I didn't feel connected to her in any way.  She was well taken care of, always clean clothes, always fed on time, daily tummy time, but it was just the basics.  That was all I could do. The name I had loved for so long sounded like nails on a chalkboard to me, and even though she was a beautiful baby, so much so, strangers would comment, I couldn't see what they were talking about.  That being said, I knew that I loved her on a primal level and would have clawed anyone's eyes out that tried to harm her.  My OB was amazing.  She called in meds immediately, called me back letting me know the prescription went through and called an hour later to make sure I had picked them up and started taking them.  Now, reading this story you might think she didn't do enough, that she should have had me come in immediately, but keep in mind, I only told her a fraction of what was going on, she didn't know any of the dark stuff.

There were times I would sit on the floor next to her sobbing for hours, telling her how sorry I was, that she deserved a better mother.  There was a time I called out of work without telling Chuck and I started driving to New York, so I could leave everything behind and just start over. I only got about 25 miles before I turned back, not that I felt compelled to stay, but it wasn't fair of me to make Chuck be a single dad.  

While on maternity leave, I went to a holiday luncheon at the hospital.  It was the first time a lot of my co-workers were meeting the baby.  Everyone was fawning all over her and I just wanted to scream I was a fraud.  I am an awful person, and she deserves so much better.  It was the first time I had a panic attack.  I was sitting in the conference room, and I felt like I was going to die.  I didn't tell anyone what was happening because I was ok with it if I died that day. 

I went to a Christmas Party at one of my co-workers homes a few days later.  I went without the baby, and it was a nice break.  While there, the conversation turned to PPD, I don't remember exactly what it was, but there was something that had happened related to PPD, I don't remember if it was a patient that came in the ER or a mom over in Labor and Delivery, but anyway, they were saying they couldn't understand how a mom could do that, she had a beautiful baby what was she depressed about. I was furious!  These were health care professionals. They had no idea they could have interchanged my name for hers and tell the same story.  But you know what?  I don't blame them.  A few months earlier I would have joined right in the conversation because none of it makes sense.  None of it.

We went to a Christmas party with Chuck's family.  I felt like everyone was staring at me.  I'm sure they weren't but I felt like everyone could see inside my head and see the awful thoughts ticking by.  I overheard someone in another room say they had the baby blues after their baby was born.  I wanted to scream I don't have the baby blues!  I am going insane.  But I didn't say anything because I was embarrassed.  I was also so angry at Chuck for saying something about my struggles in the first place. I felt betrayed that he told people.  What I didn't realize at the time was he was suffering too.  I can't imagine how alone he felt, his wife had lost her mind, he was working full time and then coming home and having to take care of me, the baby and everything else that needed to get done. Of course, he had to have an outlet for his feelings.  To his credit, he was unwaveringly supportive during all of this. He never once complained, never once said anything disparaging to me about my behavior, and never balked at all the added responsibilities he had to take on.  

After a few weeks the meds started to take effect.  I found a therapist.  She was OK, I don't think she really understood PPD/PPP but she did her best.  I never did come clean with my intrusive thoughts.  I don't think she could have handled it. I did start to feel better, the baby got on the right formula, and I finally started to feel a connection to her.

I did go on to have another baby just over two years later.  As the 2nd trimester was starting my OB gave me several options. 1. To start meds during the 3rd trimester. 2. Start meds immediately after delivery or 3. Start meds only if symptoms show up.  We decided option 1 was best.  I had complications with the pregnancy.  A mass was found on my ovary during a routine ultrasound.  They referred me to an oncologist because they thought it was ovarian cancer.  I needed to have surgery to remove it when I was 18 weeks pregnant.  I wasn't on the medication yet and my brain started to get the best of me.  I was convinced this was the universe's way of paying me back for being such a terrible person, who thought terrible things with my first child, and I didn't appreciate what I had.  I started to go back to that dark place.  Fortunately, the surgery went well, it wasn't cancer and I got on meds right after that.  At about 4 months post-partum I felt great and took myself off the meds.  3 days later when I was nursing her, I looked down at her and thought, what would it feel like if I punched her in the face.  I immediately restarted the meds and got right back on track.

I had another baby about 6 years after my first.  Maternal mental health was starting to get a little more attention but not nearly what it needed to.  I know this, because with my 3rd, Chuck only stayed the first night after she was born and then he was back and forth with the other two.  This was right around the time that hospitals were doing away with nurseries and keeping the babies with the mothers the whole time.  Not me, they must have had my chart flagged because they did not let me be alone with my baby.  They would make sure someone was with me in the room, have a staff member come in or take the baby to the nursery.  I get their thinking, but it made me feel like some kind of monster.  They even discouraged me attempting to nurse her despite successfully nursing my second baby.  Being my 3rd, I felt confident and spoke up for myself.  They had a lovely social worker come and we had a long conversation and after that they would let me be alone with the baby.  

There are still very few resources for PPD/PPP.  It is hard to find anyone who specializes in it. Then if you find someone, they aren't taking new patients, or the waitlist is not realistic.  I had several medical professionals tell me I have a beautiful baby what do you have to be depressed about, snap out of it, have a good cry and move on.  If this is the advice from the so-called professionals, a mom in crisis doesn't stand a chance.  Then the societal pressure to be the perfect mom is overwhelming.  If you are already struggling this pressure can seem insurmountable.

This week has been a tough one.  The Clancy family tragedy has brought it all back as if it just happened yesterday.  I have felt compelled to tell my story so people can see it can and does happen to anyone!  I remember hearing Brooke Shields had PPD.  I got her book and was so cynical thinking she is rich and famous, what does she know about PPD.  This after I went through it myself!  I got her book, and it was as if she wrote my story.  Famous Actress, Child Life Specialist from the North Shore, Labor and Delivery Nurse from the South Shore, it doesn't discriminate!  It doesn't make sense and unless you have lived it you can never truly understand how devastating it really is.  This poor mom has been charged with murdering her children.  How does the court handle this?  When she regains her clarity of mind, there is no punishment that can be handed down worse than what she will do to herself.  I know.  This week all the shame and guilt came flooding back to the point there have been times it was hard to breathe.  The intense guilt of robbing Me, Chuck and our baby the magical fairy tale we all deserved.  The guilt of hatching a plan to have my baby kidnapped.  The guilt of not bonding with my baby early on because my mind was unbalanced.  The guilt that I came very close to destroying the lives of everyone I love.  Many of the tears I have shed have been for the mom Lindsay.  I was her and by the grace of the universe my story has a happy ending.  So yeah, I know what kind of loving mother would kill her children, one that has been to the depths of hell through no fault of her own, simply because her mind betrayed her.  

When I see any red flags of PPD/PPP I reach out.  When I was working in the NICU and thought a mom might be struggling I would bring it up to the medical team. I tell my friends that are pregnant, if you don't have that instant connection with your baby that is portrayed in the movies, you are not a bad mother, it doesn't happen right away for all moms. if I notice a pregnant mom posting a ton on social media but her posts become flat after the baby is born, I have reached out.  I usually start with, I may be off base, and you can tell me to mind my own business, but I struggled after my baby was born and I see some of the signs in you. I would rather 100 women tell me to fuck off, then let one woman go through what I went through.  It is preventable.  We need to take it out of the shadows and talk about it. I have given my number to so many new moms and tell them they can call or text me anytime, I will always be available to listen, never judge and they can tell me their scary shit, because I went through the scary shit and came out the other side. 

Thank you for reading all the way to the end.  This was a lot.  This was hard.  This was therapeutic for me.  This was necessary.  If this story makes one person feel less alone, it was worth putting it all on the table.  Oh, and I am still madly in love with my husband!

Lord of the Flies

So here we are, sitting at home, isolated due to a global pandemic.  That sounds like a funny way I would have started a blog post in the past.  Unfortunately as everyone knows that sadly is the truth.  About a month ago a few of us were chatting at the bus stop.  One of the moms told us a family member told her to stock up on food and essential supplies as we were heading into uncharted waters.  I laughed at the idea and thought it was overkill.  Joke was on me because here we are, stuck in home, limiting our trips to the store, only going when absolutely necessary.

Some women are made to be a stay at home mom and I think that is great.  I always knew working outside of the home made me a better mom.  I love my children fiercely but this home confinement has confirmed what I always knew; if I were an animal of lesser intelligence such as a hamster, I would eat my young.

In the beginning I was like all the other ambitious parents that printed off a Covid 19 Daily schedule.  We were going to stay on top of the kid's school work, stay engaged and really make the most of this extra, bonus family time.  Didn't last long.  In fact, the other night I sat alone in my car, in a parking lot for over an hour because I was afraid if I stayed in my house one minute longer someone would die.  I honestly want to throat punch people posting about all the baking they are doing so their children can use their emerging math skills, going on a nature hike to learn about local flora and fauna or how they are having these cozy family game nights where everyone is getting along and sharing their feelings.  I'll let you in on a little secret; it is like the Goddamned Lord of the Flies over here at the Lavallees.  The first day or two they were into doing some school work, or so they thought.  Sara (12) would spend the first 47 minutes complaining that Emily (6) should be doing more than just coloring sheets, that even though in Kindergarten she should be doing real work.  The other 3 minutes she would text me complaining that I liked the other 2 more than her.  Emily would happily work on her packet, singing and humming while getting death glares from Anna.  The same Anna that claimed to be doing work in Google Classroom, but, since she was sitting on the couch in the living room, with a decorative mirror above her I could clearly see she was watching Youtube videos instead.  Once they caught on that these assignments were optional and none of it would be graded I lost all control.  The amount of protesting, screaming, crying and carrying on wasn't worth it anymore.  Now I know some of you are thinking; For God's Sake Erin, you are the parent.  You are in charge.  They shouldn't dictate what goes on in the house.  Normally I would agree but this time I just gave up.  I did, I threw in the towel.  It all is too much.  All of it.  The gravity of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks last week.  Our amazing school teachers put together a teacher parade.  We were all excited for it, I mean it was the only thing we have had to look forward to in a while.  We made signs, we got showered and dressed and we went out to wait for them.  It was so exciting to hear the parade enter our neighborhood.  When the first car came into sight tears starting streaming down my face.  It made it all so real.  Our kids are not in school.  I am not at work.  Nothing is the way it is supposed to be.  People are getting sick.  People are dying.  People are losing their jobs.  Businesses are closing.  I can't see my dad, my family, my friends.  My children are missing their teachers, their friends, their routines.  It is too much.  The tears wouldn't stop.  I cried that whole afternoon and have cried at least once a day since.  It is all too f-ing much.

The school work is too much- I am not good with technology baseline.  Throw in any amount of stress and I am done.  There is way too much information being thrown at me; the class Facebook pages have posts every 3 minutes from the superintendents, principals, vice principals, teaching teams, individual teachers, specialty teachers, the PTA, random school staff members I have never heard of, school clubs all giving activities/assignments that the kids can do. What is required?  What is optional?  Then on top of the Facebook pages I have apps for all the kid's schools as well pining notifications left and right.  I have 3 children at 3 different schools.  My head looked like a cartoon character that gets all steamed up and is about to explode.  I turned everything off and we have done nothing for several days.  Literally no school work.  Do I feel guilty about it?  Yes.  I have started reaching out to the individual teachers asking for a "school work for dummies"  list of what they need to be doing.  Nothing more, nothing less.  I can't friggin stand the people who are posting pictures of their kids doing all these extra projects.  Like one of the memes I saw said; they aren't passing out awards for the best homeschool mom.  I am literally trying to get through the day without yelling something at my kids that will psychologically scar them for the rest of their lives.  This is coming from someone with a degree in child development, someone who has worked with children and families in crisis for over 20 years.  I am losing my shit left and right, I really feel for those parents in the same position that don't have a background that involves showing patience with children that are anxious, scared and overwhelmed.  This is all just too much.

The social distancing is too much-  I have congenital heart defects that could potentially put me at greater risk of getting really sick if I contract Coronavirus.  I have a child with an autoimmune disorder whose flares are triggered by respiratory infections so she is at greater risk as well.  We are taking this very seriously.  We have to, not just for our immediate family but for all of the vulnerable people in our community.  It sucks staying home.  I get it.  I would much rather be out and about socializing with friends and families but I am doing what has been asked of us and what is the responsible thing to do.  I have had to take a break from Facebook for a few days.  I have quickly been losing respect for people and I had to step back before I post or say something that would tick a lot of people off.  I get so angry when I see people walking around/hanging out/posting selfies with people that are not in their immediate family.  I want to scream WTF are you doing?  If I am stuck home with a hormonal, moody, preteen with diagnosed anxiety disorder and an autoimmune disorder and am financially sacrificing for the greater good of my community stay your ass home!! Why do some people think they are so entitled like the recommendations don't apply to them?  I know 3 people that have been hit with this virus.  It is no fucking joke.  The longer you assholes are still going around like nothing is happening the longer this virus will be around.  Why is that so hard to understand?  Just because you don't feel sick doesn't mean you aren't a carrier or aren't infected and just not showing symptoms yet.  I have heard people say, well we don't have Coronavirus so we can't give it to anyone.  These are so called intelligent people, I don't get it.  I am learning some people I know are really ignorant idiots.  I hope to get back online soon.  I was having fun posting silly memes and I know people were looking forward to my daily meme dumps.  I just am too sad the past few days.  I am just too overwhelmed the past few days.  I am just too angry the past few days.  It is all too much.

The financial instability is too much-  I am out of work temporarily.  That means I am not getting paid.  I am 47 years old and had to file for unemployment for the first time.  I finally heard back from them yesterday and the amount I am going to receive is just about half of what I normally bring home each week.  I keep hearing about the extra $600 from the federal government to supplement those receiving unemployment but when I finally spoke to a live person from the Unemployment Department they had no idea about it and if and when it is happening how they would even get it out to people, so that was not reassuring in the least.  Chuck's work is reliant solely on the economy.  If the economy is tanking so is his work.  No or limited construction projects mean no great need for electrical engineers.  So instead of laying people off his company has decided to temporarily reduce salaries.  So between the both of us we are losing close around $2,600 a month.  That is just too much.  I have been trying to get in touch with our mortgage company to see about a forbearance, but they aren't taking phone calls, everything has to be done online.  Same with the banks that hold our car loans, no one to talk to in person, all online.  So here we are at the first of the month when our mortgage is due just waiting for something, anything from our mortgage company.  Hopefully they are willing to work with us.  If not, I hope all of you asshats that aren't taking this social distancing seriously are the first ones to donate when I set up a Go-Fund me to pay our bills. I have been paying attention, I know who you are.  For those of you who may be thinking why don't you have any money saved for emergencies?  Due to those aforementioned congenital heart defects that decided to rear their ugly heads last fall, combined with several other unforeseen medical issues that resulted in an unplanned surgery, multiple x-rays, scans, doctors visits  and procedures any rainy day fund we had was depleted. 

The worry is too much-  I am worried about staying afloat financially if this shutdown goes longer than April.  I am worried that someone I love gets this virus.  I am worried that I might get it when I am at the grocery store.  I am worried that I will then pass it to my children.  I am worried about my children's academic future.  One of my kids struggles academically.  Will she be able to keep up next year after missing so much work this year? I am worried about the psychological impact this is having on my children.  We try not to show stress and fear in front of them but children are perceptive.  They can sense it.  I am worried about the psychological impact on me.  I am worried about my relationships with my girls and my husband.  This is A LOT of togetherness, with little opportunities to find time alone.  We are getting on each others nerves.  A. LOT.  I worry about my health.  I am a stress eater and I have put on almost all the weight I had lost.  I worry about the children at my school.  Are we going to have to start over at square one with routines again?  Will relationships that have been fractured over how people are handling this virus or where they stand on how the administration is handling the crisis be mended?  I am worried that I am missing out on valuable time/memories with extended family.  I am worried about my friends that work in the ER that don't have the protective equipment they need, or any of my friends in the medical field whatever department they work in for that matter.  I miss working in a hospital a lot, but I am so grateful I am not in a hospital setting right now.  I worry the cereal box I take off the grocery shelf was just touched by someone with the virus right before I came along.  I worry my kids will look back on this time years from now and only remember me yelling at them to get some school work done and not remember the chalk drawings and afternoon drives we take.  I just worry about it all.  I am not one that worries about things I can't control but this feels so different and I can't stop worrying.  I usually can find the humor in any situation but the past few days have been hard.  F-ing hard.  I am hopeful this will pass and I know I will find humor in everyday life again soon, but not today.  Today it is all too much.  I don't want anyone thinking I am going to jump off the deep end.  I am not.  I am just having a pity party today.  I am allowing myself to feel what I feel and not make apologies for it but I know it is not good to wallow for too long and I promise I will be back to my regular fluff filled blog posts soon.  In the meantime, wash your hands and stay the F- HOME!!!

Dear old Uncle Morty

So as any parent knows, once you have children nothing is yours anymore.  What's yours is your children's and what is your children's is your's.  In my house that is a half truth.  What's mine is my children's, what's Chuck's is still Chuck's.  With 3 girls my things go missing all the time; I have found high heels in Emily's room being used as a bed for Barbie, on a recent cold day I went to reach into my jacket pocket for my gloves only to have my cold hands met by an empty pocket.  Lately there is a whole subgroup of missing shit; grooming items.  Now I know what you are all thinking; I have free and unlimited access to their bedrooms and bathrooms just go in and get your crap back.  1. Yes, I do have free and unlimited access to their rooms but, 2. Two-thirds of my children live as if they are auditioning for an upcoming episode of Hoarders, I take my life in my hands going into those deathtraps.  I have a hunch I know where those U.S. cases of the Coronavirus that are of "unknown origin" originated.  Have no fear though, the antidote to the Coronavirus lives within those 4 walls as well.  The mold growing in their rooms is so abundant the CDC can cultivate enough penicillin to keep this pandemic in check.  Thank Christ, Mike Pence can now stand down.

So let's take a little inventory of all the missing items, shall we?

My nail clippers were one of the first to go missing.  I don't need them so much for my fingernails-they don't grow anyway but I do need them for my toes.  I used to get pedicures on a regular basis but since having kids it is an expense I just can't justify.  I did however invest in a decent pair of nail clippers, lest my toenails turn into talons.  I know TLC airs a show about crazy addictions and from time to time there is someone with toe nails as long as Rapunzel's hair but, umm, yeah, NO!  I personally subscribe to the belief that one's toe nails should never have the opportunity to grow past one's toe tip.  Call me crazy but if I am snuggling with someone and they can scratch my head with their little piggies sh*t will go down real fast.

So back to my fingernails.  Again, I used to get bi-weekly manicures before I popped out my kids and again, it is an expense that I just can't justify.  So every Sunday while watching America's Funniest Videos I give myself a proper manicure.  Well, that hasn't happened in a while.  My cuticle tool is missing!   I am sure it is being used to dig a wick out of a candle or to stir some concoction I find in their bathroom sink. I had the pleasure of cleaning their bathroom last weekend.  I was on strike for about 6 months and refused to clean it.  I broke down and finally did it because I was afraid our dog Mary Alice might contract some dreaded third world disease from drinking out of their toilet.  The girls get typhoid, serves them right but once you add Mary to the equation all bets are off.  I would lay down my life for that dog.  It took hours and almost a full can of Comet, yup I use chemicals to clean, no vinegar and water here-I want my house to smell like a pristine operating room not a goddamn douche.  I was almost done, I just had to clear the drain on the sink. I worked in an ER, I have seen it all; blood, guts, pus (my favorite-seriously), burnt flesh, brain matter but nothing, nothing could have prepared me for what I pulled out of their bathroom sink drain.  The smell coming from the ball of gelatinous slime I pulled out made me dry heave so violently I think I may have broken a rib.  I seriously considered sending it off to the CIA.  The most hardened terrorist would give up their next plot the second that ball of death entered the room.  Yes, it was that bad and mind you, I lived with a rancid, decaying hole in my belly for months after Emily was born.  I thought the smell of my own rotting flesh was bad, that, that my friends was a bed of roses compared to this malodorous, noxious, sphere of necrosis.  But I digress.  Back to my DIY manicures.  I bought a new nail polish and of course it just walked away.  No one knew what happened to it.  Well I knew where to look.  I went straight to the Nail Polish Graveyard.  Anyone with little girls most likely has such a graveyard.  Bottles of once slick polish now look like a washed up queen after partying a little too hard at the Pride Parade. Dried up glitter dripping down the side of the bottle, the handle is crusted half in/half out of the bottle at such an angle to allow enough air inside to dry it out or the more horrifying brush stuck to the table next to the opened bottle.  Either way they brush bristles will never be used again, they can't--they are clumped so tightly together that no amount of polish remover can penetrate them.  Of course it couldn't be my $1.97 Wet & Wild polish, nope it had to be my $6.87 bottle of Sally Hansen.  Doesn't seem like a huge expense but when you are paying for these lacquer funerals on the regular it adds up.
 
Another day I went looking for my Nair hair remover and of course it wasn't where it should have been.  I set out on a one person search party.  I found it in the girl's shower. It was the pump style bottle. Christ's sake that's all I need, one of my kids mistaking it for shampoo or cream rinse.  Can you imagine if one of my kids came out of the shower looking like Steve Wilkos?  I would try my best to be understanding, supportive and compassionate but you know what would come out instead? "Stand up, you don't deserve a chair" all while doubling over in uncontrollable laughter. Steve Wilkos fans will get that reference.

While looking for my Nair I found cold wax strips all rolled in a ball under their bathroom sink.  It looks as if an attempt was made to use them.  I would've paid money to be a fly on the wall when that all went down. To whichever of my girls that experimented with those;  be grateful it isn't tank top and shorts season.  Your cover would be blown when you show up to the BBQ with super raw legs and armpits that look like they are ready to be thrown on the grill.

So you can probably gather I was trying to winterize my legs; shaving ones legs is such an arduous chore.  I hate it and truth be told, and I can almost guarantee I am not the only female to do this; in the winter I may or may not on more than one occasion shaved only the bottom 3 inches of my legs whilst skipping the rest of my upper leg.  You know, shave just enough that will show when wearing pants and add 2 inches to be safe in the event you cross your legs and your pant leg rides up a bit.  I am sure half of my readers are nodding their head knowingly.  I am not a complete animal and to not run Chuck off completely I will Nair my legs a few times in the winter so I don't turn into a sasquatch, you're welcome Babe.  Since the wax and Nair were gone I figured I would just shave but, alas my razor was missing.  Well technically I still had the razor, just the set of replacement blades were missing.  How the hell can one use just the blades with no handle?  You don't need to be Olivia Benson to figure that one out.  Whoever comes to dinner with a thousand tiny little slices on their fingertips will be the culprit.  Guess I won't be serving finger foods any time soon.

My deodorant has gone MIA on a few occasions too.  Please know I purchase my children their own deodorant and any other age appropriate personal hygiene/grooming tools they need or want so there is no real reason for them to take mine other than to drive me bat shit crazy.  So I was at the store the other day and I picked up a new deodorant for myself; Secret Brand Coconut Breeze.  Hey I figured, why not?  Every time I wear it I will be transported to a deserted island and can have a brief escape from reality.  Now, if you know me in real life you know I am not a fan of the heat.  If it is over 50 degrees I am physically uncomfortable.  I don't believe in much; ghosts, psychics, Bigfoot, Donald Trump is a stable genius, but I wholeheartedly believe in spontaneous human combustion and there may come a day soon that I just burst into flames.  So unfortunately I have my sweating working against me.  Instead of smelling like an ocean breeze on me, the coconut deodorant smells more like an old, dirty sand bucket you find in your trunk at the end of the summer with dried up snails and starfish in it.  Still no drain rot but close to it.

The one thing missing that really ticked me off was my tweezers.  They were missing for about a week and I swear to the walking, upright Gods it was as if I had Miracle Grow on my eyebrows.  Everyone has that one crazy uncle with a rogue 3 inch hair sprouting from their brow.  That was me.  I was Uncle Morty.  But that wasn't the half of it.  Now that I am a woman of a particular age I have these gross, blond (really grey, but humor me) whiskers growing on my chin.  I was without my tweezers for over seven days!  I'm over here like Rip Van Winkle and to top it off my magnifying mirror I need because I'm blind as a bat is cracked in 3 places!  So now I have 3 reflections, insult to injury when I look in my mirror I look like one of those biker dudes that parts their beard down the middle.  For F's sake, leave my sh*t alone!!  Tweezers are an important part of my life.  I invested in the good ones, no Walmart Equate brand tweezers for me.--I went straight to the man, all the way up the food chain to the Tweezerman!   I loved them, it was double ended and had the most perfect point to it.  Sadly they never turned up.  I had to replace them.  They didn't have the ones I wanted and was forced to get the subpar ones they had.  I tried them the other day and it was like trying to pull my eyebrows out with salad tongs.  No grip, they kept slipping off the hair.  So upsetting.  I came very close to just shaving them off and buying the Tatbrow micro brow pen that keeps showing up on my Facebook feed.  But since my razor blades are still missing I wasn't able to.

I just wish there was something of Chucks they would take, just so he could understand my frustration.  I don't foresee this thievery ending anytime soon.  I am thinking of investing in a loss prevention system for my bathroom, you know like the ones they have in stores.  I will put little tags on all my stuff and when they try to leave my bathroom with it an alarm will go off.  Though, I believe most of the thefts occur when I am not home so that won't work.  Maybe I can design a system kind of like the Ring Doorbell system so when someone tries to enter or leave my bathroom it will ring my phone and I can see the culprit.  I'm just blue skying here but maybe I can just cut out the middleman and straight up hire Shaq to guard my bathroom.  Until then just call me Uncle Morty.

Rage Against the Machine

I know, I know it has been a minute since my last post.  It's this whole working full time thing that kind of gets in the way.  However, I do have something I want to write about.  Something that has been simmering under the surface for some time now and I finally have a free morning to tell you about.  I wrote that last statement as if; 1. Someone is going to read this and 2. As if anyone really cares what I have to say.  Despite the unknown of my actual readership, I push on.  I have to push on you see, because in our society it is becoming abundantly clear that no one will do it for me.  Our society is rapidly changing and I am not a huge fan of the changes I see.  Bearing witness to what I consider the decline of our society can be heartbreaking. I have seen the strongest of relationships crumble when one person chooses one side and their partner is diametrically opposed.  Our country has become so divisive lately and unfortunately we are forced to pick a side.  I have picked my side and I dare any of you to convince me otherwise; SELF CHECKOUT LANES ARE WRONG!  Hear me out on this one folks;

The takeover has been gradual; first it was self-serve gas stations.  Yeah at first it seemed like a good idea, you jump out fill your tank and you are off.  I was a lot younger when this petroleum revolution took place.  I was driving a Chevette and could hop in and out of the car with ease.  Most stations had a self serve lane and a lane with an attendant.  When it was raining or when the frigid New England winters were just too much I could go to the manned side.  He would fill the tank, check the oil and wash the windows, remember that?  Seriously, they would check the oil and wash your windows while your tank was filling.  I swear to Christ I can't remember the last time I cleaned my car windows, I'm sure Chuck has done it from time to time when he borrows my car.  It was gradual but full service gas stations are pretty much non existent, though we do have a few in our town but I have had issues at both-one the guy filled it when I clearly said $20 so I had to pay for a full tank and the other one I have been a victim of attempted proselytizing, neither of which I want to fall prey to again so I am forced to purchase my gasoline elsewhere.  The majority of stations in proximity to where I live and work are all self-serve.  Now that I am a woman of a certain age, I can no longer hop in and out of my car with ease, it takes some effort these days, forget about it when I was pregnant, there is no longer an option of staying in a nice warm car when a Nor'easter is raging or snow is piled high.  It's all on me now.  In addition to being a wife, mother, daughter, friend, Child Care Director I am also a part time gas station attendant.

Next up in the revolution came online shopping.  Not a fan, yes it comes in handy when I need to purchase items for work, and I was bitten by the Walmart Grocery Pick-Up bug for a while but I am not in the online shopping camp.  I like to go into a store and see, feel and try on what I am buying.  Yeah, I know free shipping can be enticing, but I find it all impersonal.  Plus real people are losing jobs, real brick and mortar stores are closing down and people's online shopping has become so pervasive in their everyday lives that it can now be classified as an addiction.  I just read an article about it in Psychology Today.  I may or may not know someone who purchased a family members birthday card through Amazon.  I have since broken up with the Walmart Grocery Pick-up and went back to my weekly trips to the Basket and all is right in my world again.  Which brings me to my next point-self checkouts in stores.

Yup, we have all seen them.  Walmart was the first one I ever encountered.  I get why people like them, you just have a few items and you want to get in and out.  You feel like you can scan the items quicker than the cashiers.  I will admit there are a few cashiers I have come across that look at each individual item, ask about it and take time to bag it with like items.  Yes, that can be frustrating- just scan and bag please, scan and bag, no need for conversation-a few pleasantries absolutely-no one is above a "Hi, how are you", a comment on the weather or local sports team sure but when you scan garlic, tomato paste, meatball mix and a box of spaghetti no need to ask what I'm making.  Tuna Casserole obviously.  Just scan and bag.  Shaws, Price Chopper and most of the other grocery stores have self-checkout too.  So far my local Market Basket hasn't sold out to the man, but I honestly think I will succumb to broken heart syndrome the day I walk in to the Basket and have to check out my veggie sausage myself.  Stop & Shop makes you scan your groceries as you add them to your shopping cart.  The f*ck is that about?  They want you in and out so fast they don't even want you wasting their time by loitering around their self- check out.  Here is something to think about, a way to stick it to the man, if you are so inclined, I am not because I don't like to break the law.  If you put your grapes on the self checkout scale who's to say you have to hit the picture of the $.69/pound bananas versus the $2.99/pound green seedless grapes?  Or tap regular apples when you in fact are weighing your organic apples?  Hmm, just like Ed Sheeran I'm thinking out loud.  Oh, so along the lines of me not liking to break the law here is a semi-short digression; on the way to and from work I drive 12 miles down a long, winding somewhat rural road.  9 days out of 10 there is a police car somewhere along those 12 miles watching for speeders.  9 days out of 10 there is always someone who flashes their lights at me to warn me of said police car.  The light flasher is making some pretty broad assumptions about me; 1. That I am a scofflaw and I am speeding to my destination,  now my kinfolk may be from Southie but I am no means a descendant of the Winter Hill gang and 2. I want to be part of their criminal enterprise.  I know most people would love to get the universal police are ahead signal but I do not.  If I am speeding that's on me.  I should take ownership of my actions, whether right or wrong.  Do I look at the speedometer and adjust accordingly when I get flashed.  You bet your ass I do, but I am against it on principle. 

Back to my original post.  I went to our local CVS recently.  I hadn't been for a while and sure as shit they have self checkout now too. Our CVS is on the smaller side and the checkout area is already heavily congested so it makes absolute sense to add a few self-checkouts right in the most obnoxious spot possible.  It was like a scene out of Black Friday; a mob of people pushing to get ahead of the others.  One more store I can't go to now.  Our McDonald's was closed for renovations.  Was it to upgrade the 70's looking facade or interior?  Nope, it was to add self serve kiosks.  McDonald's is a fast food place, do we really need to speed up the ordering?  Plus, our McDonalds is the meeting place for every octogenarian within the Blackstone Valley.  I wouldn't want to be in line behind them on a Saturday morning.  I would be there until the dinner rush.

The final straw for me happened over Christmas vacation.  We took the girls to see Frozen 2.  Now, granted it had been a while since we have been to the theater, all 5 of us going to the movies is pretty much the equivalent to a car payment so we don't go often. This may have been in place for a while but it was the first time I saw it.  You now are responsible for getting your own drinks.  They have a few of those huge Coke kiosks.  If you have ever seen one of these behemoths you know there are at least 16 different screens with each screen having at least 20 different drink choices.  You now need to add an extra 45 minutes before the movie starts to get your concessions.  You have the elderly who don't understand the concept of touch screens, you have young children taking 27 minutes to look through each screen (sometimes more than once) to pick what they want and then the ever annoying teenagers trying to come up with the most ironic drink combos to impress their friends.  So yeah, there's that.
But what really got a hair across my ass and made me come out against these machines is the buttered popcorn situation.  I ordered my popcorn the way I always do, and really the only way a civilized person should, with butter throughout.  So back in the day they would fill your popcorn bag half way, drizzle the golden nectar over it, add the rest of the popcorn and give it another drizzle.  Well my friends, those days are gone!  You now have to add your own butter.  So I had to get the full bag of popcorn and take it over to a disgustingly dirty table and add my own butter.  I am not employed there, I have not been trained on what popcorn to butter ratio is appropriate and to top it off they would not give me an extra bag to dump some out so I could properly butter my popcorn throughout.  Oh the humanity!  So I had to butter just the top and take a small plastic condiment cup, without a cover, and fill it with the melted butter to add as I ate.  Now 2 things wrong with this, 1. If I am paying almost $10 for a bag of popcorn there should be a butler that comes with it to feed me, short of that I should be able to get my goddamned butter throughout and 2. the condiment cup had no cover so I had to precariously balance it on my armrest and spent the whole time making sure it didn't spill, thereby missing the whole movie.  Oh and another thing, so I guess that make 3 things.  The "butter" never solidified in any way.  Now I am not so naive to think it was real butter but science would lead me to believe that when a warmed liquid cools down it would solidify in some way, shape or form.  There wasn't even a skin on top of it.  So not sure what kind of scientific voodoo they use to create that stuff but I don't believe there is any edible components to it.  That being said, I will still use it to butter my popcorn throughout on the rare occasions I go to the theater.  And for the record, I did teach my girls the proper way to eat movie theater popcorn.

Why am I taking the side I am?  That question deserves a multifaceted answer.  These machines are supposed to simplify life for us.  How many times have you been in a self check out line behind an old person who is figuring out how to scan their hard candy?  Or where they can insert their check they just spent 10 minutes writing out?  Or the incompetent teenager that is trying to discreetly buy condoms and is so nervous they end up scanning the box so fast it throughs the machine into overdrive.  Then we must wait for the pimply faced teenage manager to come over with their key, only to type in 792 buttons to no avail.  Or have to wait in the self checkout line for 20 minutes because no real lines are open just to ring up my $.89 roll of paper towels.  My favorite is the overly permissive parent that lets their snowflake scan in all of the items in their basket.  Drives me nuts!  I am all for teachable moments and if there is no one else in line I let my kids do it, but the instant someone else enters the line I take over.  I refuse to be that person someone will snarkily blog about later.  My biggest reason is due to our hurried lifestyle we are putting real people out of jobs.  Walmart used to have multiple lanes open at a time, now you are lucky to see one lane open and an employee or 2 at the self checkouts.  What happened to all the others that used to work there?  McDonalds used to be a great place for teens to enter the workforce and earn spending money.  Those jobs are all being phased out and we are losing out on human connections.  There was a cashier at Walmart that used to ring me up when I was buying stuff for my Girl Scout troops, she would give me great activity ideas from when she was a troop leader now I have no idea where she is or what happened to her.  Dora from our local McDonalds would always tell me how to order things separately instead of combos so I would get more bang for my buck.  Now with my math skills and those computers I am almost certain I will overpay everytime.  Take a minute and think back to the way things used to be; I am sure you will realize there was someone along the way that you would connect with on a regular basis and over time they just disappeared and you never even noticed.  Do you wonder where they are?  Do you think they are happy self checkouts took over so many facets of our daily life?  So there is my argument, no convincing me otherwise.