I have been harassed about the names I chose for my children more times than Pete Wentz has deservedly been called a pussy.

Nine times out of ten, people will pronounce Karis’ name wrong. They call her Karen a lot. Or Kuh-reese. It’s a quick fix though – I just tell them, “It’s like ‘Paris’ with a ‘K’” That usually does the trick.

When people hear Brecken’s name they usually do a double take and ask what kind of name it is. That’s a harmless enough question, but they ask it with an expression normally reserved for when you smell rotting skunk carcass.

“It’s Irish.”

“Oh. It’s so, interesting.”

My parents are the most vocal in their dislike of Brecken’s name. They think it’s feminine and will encourage him to go to beauty college. Maybe that’s because they associate it with that old school shampoo “Breck”.

I was very surprised to hear anyone considered the name Brecken to be feminine. We chose it in part because we thought the opposite. It sounds very strong and masculine to me.

Even those of my relatives that would normally be too polite to show distaste for a name have been caught shooting it down. You see, Karis would have been named Brecken had she been born a boy. When we found out we were having a girl, everyone rushed to say, “Thank goodness she wont be stuck with that awful boy name!”

My mother-in-law didn’t like it at first either. I  read her a few different names just to see what she thought of each one. When I told her I was strongly favoring Brecken she tried to back pedal.

“Oh. Uh, what does it mean?”

“It means ‘pure of heart’”

“Oh! That’s beautiful. I really like that meaning. That’s a great name!”

It actually means “freckled one”. I know, I know – not quite as sweet as ‘pure of heart’ huh?

The truth is, I actually named my children after opposite gendered hula-hoop enthusiasts. Ok, I didn’t know about the hula-hoopers until recently – but what a fun coincidence!

If you Google the name Brecken you will most likely stumble upon this sweet young lady.

She is a 24 year old hula-hooper in Philadelphia.

(Oh, and Dad – before you go pointing out that the Brecken in the link is a GIRL, statistics still show the name to be used 1.5 times more for male children.)

Next, if you Google the name Karis and hula-hoop, you will stumble upon this delightful creature.

He is a transvestite hula-hoop performing artist in the L.A. area. He has great flair! Brecken in Philly could learn a thing or two from this one.

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This little piggy went to the market.

This little piggy stayed home.

This little piggy had hot tea.

This little piggy had none.

And this little piggy went to the E.R. today and got officially diagnosed with swine flu.

Day nine of fevers over 101 degrees found us lounging in the E.R. today. Jesse was poked, prodded,  hooked up to I.V. fluids, and had his chest X-rayed. He is home now, his ever complaining self, happily tucked into fresh clean sheets. (That will be soaked through with swine sweat by tomorrow.)

Thank you Patrick, for staying with the kids while we were at the hospital. They thought it was a special treat to hang out with “P”.

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So, yeah. The vomiting? It has begun.

Jesse started puking at midnight last night, and proceeded to retch every hour on the hour afterward.

I am not a heartless person. I feel bad for people when they are sick. I cringe and shake my head as they vomit in an effort to portray to them my feelings of Bummer dude, wish there was something I could do for you. Last night was no exception. I cringed for him at every retch, but am I evil for thinking Oh my God if he wakes up the children I’m going to kill him!

You see, Jesse is no ordinary puker. He possesses one of the loudest retches this side of the Mississippi in the WORLD. Every time he yelled his vomit into the toilet bowl I found myself asking, “Is all that noise really necessary?”

There must be some way to control the volume of retching, no? Don’t thousands of unhappy teenage girls and professional horse jockeys vomit in relative silence after every meal? Ok, maybe not the jockeys – they’re very outspoken about the fact that they purposefully starve themselves in order to stay light enough to race atop the backs of giant thoroughbreds at break neck speeds. They even have special vomit recepticals in their bathrooms. But the girls – those tragic young ladies suffering with bulimia – surely they have mastered the art of the silent retch.

Now, before everyone jumps on me about being insensitive to bulimics let me just say that I know bulimia is a very serious disease and I in no way mean to make light of it. (No pun intended.) I am simply trying to draw attention to the fact that retching need not be loud enough to break the sound barrier in order to be effective.

I truly hope Jesse is able to keep liquids down soon. If he is still bellowing retching at noon I will have no choice but to take him in to get I.V. fluids. He may be a loud vomiter, and leave his shoes and briefcase right in the middle of the hallway EVERYDAY for me to trip on, but he is also my husband, and I love him, and it would really suck if he were to decide to become a statistic of swine flu.

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I shot this footage back in May. The original video was over six minutes long. Yeah, my kids are cute, but six minutes of watching them destroy the living room gets tedious. Three and a half minutes gets a little tedious too, but it’s still definitely worth a watch. Hey – at least you didn’t have to clean up the mess.

Busy from Theprimamomma on Vimeo.

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Last week, before this whole swine flu nightmare began, I participated in a bake sale to benefit the families of fallen soldiers.

It was organized on behalf of a young military wife and mother who found out she was pregnant with her second child just days after learning of her husband Brian “Bubba” Bunting’s death in Afghanistan.

Nicki, Bubba and Connor

Here is the website dedicated to her cause. And here is Bubba’s story.

Please pass the link along and help spread the word.

Whether we support the war or not, we should all support our brave soldiers and their families in this difficult time.

People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf. George Orwell

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Jesse has been violently ill for the past four and a half days. He has had a fever ranging from 101 to 103. I have set him up in our bedroom with water, ginger ale, tea, saltine crackers, and Advil.

Always a work horse, he has his laptop and Blackberry ever by his side. When the Advil is working and he has the strength, he will attempt to take business calls. I check on him often and try to keep him as comfortable as possible, but I also purposefully limit my time spent in his presence. I can NOT get sick right now! I have been pounding vitamin C and dosing the kids as well.

During one of my sojourns into the sick den I overheard one of his buddies via the speakerphone on his Blackberry. (I just read that last sentence and giggled at the notion of my great grandfather reading it. “A speaker who on a blueberry what? You’re not making any sense.”) His buddy was bantering with him in a teasing way, and I heard him ask Jesse about a “sick jerk”. It took me a second to figure out that his buddy was referring to giving himself a tug.

Jesse answered in the negative. He has barely been able to muster up the strength to stand while I change the sweat soaked bed linens, let alone even think about playing solitaire with his man bits.

The subject next came up via Facebook. One of my girlfriends asked if Jesse needed extra wifely affection as he convalesced. “Not this time around.” I answered. I found it an interesting question to have been asked. Jesse normally does like extra lovin’ when he is sick. I had always assumed it was an anomaly unique to him. Apparently I was mistaken.

An entire chapter in The Guy Book is dedicated to the illustrious “sick jerk”. Apparently being sick makes everything more sensitive for them. This is just one more example of how very different men and women can be. If you try to touch me in an amorous way when I have the flu, you may very well pull back a broken hand.

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Having run out of sympathetic ears willing to listen to his whining last night, Jesse called his mom. Laura, or Mugga as the kids like to call her, is the quintessential old school Italian mother. Anyone sick within a five mile radius of Mugga will be plied with home made chicken noodle soup and given foot rubs. Mugga believes there are few ailments in this world that can not be cured by the right combination of comfort food and essential oils. Naturally she had explicit instructions for her only son.

“Oh, son. Nino mio. You need to drink lemon water and get into a hot Epsom salt bath, right now. That is the best way to draw the bacteria out of your liver!”

Jesse frowned at my snickers. Raised in a medical family, I am continually amused by the outlandish, nonsensical claims Mugga makes in regards to bacteria. Mugga means well. She has even been known to give good advice from time to time – she just doesn’t always realize the “why” of her “what”.

She is always quick to site personal examples of a particular remedy working for her. “Last month when I had food poisoning I just managed to crawl to the tub and soak in an Epsom salt bath. I felt much better afterward. I’m telling you – take an Epsom salt bath.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a beep from Mugga’s call waiting.

“JJ, hold on. That’s Donna, I have to take it.”

Donna is Jesse’s step-mother. Donna and Mugga are good friends and can often be found vacationing together. Yes, you read that right. Jesse’s mother and step-mother are chums. They are polar opposites and yet eerily similar all at the same time. Suffice it to say that Jesse’s father, David, does not have a “type”.

After a short pause Mugga clicks back on the line.

“Jessalino, good news. It’s not swine flu! Donna says.”

Did I mention that Donna is psychic?

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Hahahaha! I just watched some young punk – Djokovic, I think – call out John McEnroe. McEnroe came down in his casual suit and showed Djokovic how it’s done. Two hits. The silver fox McEnroe may be 50, but he’s still got it.

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I made Brecken a few pair of play pants this weekend. These are my favorites. They are little retro space explorers. Jesse says they’re MC Hammer pants, to which I respond, “You gotta problem with Hammer pants?”

Rocket Man

Angst

The sneaky hair pull technique

The saddest boy in the world

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My legendary inability to recognize faces has been well documented. This handicap of mine does not extend to the animal kingdom. I’ve worked with animals for years – pet stores, vet hospitals, ranching, animal rescue. While I could rarely put a name to an owner’s face, I always knew the animal.

Whenever someone forwards me those Amber Alert emails I always carefully study the child’s picture, knowing that it’s an exercise in futility. That very kid could knock on my door minutes later, and I would not recognize them. I give the same respect to lost dog notices. I take a good look at the dog, note it’s breed, sex, and name, and file the info away in one of the crevices of my  mind.

In the last four weeks or so I have seen two lost dog notices. One of them is for a female Jack Russell terrier named “Rocksy” and the other is for a blond, male corgi mix named “Bosco”.

I took the kids to the park on Sunday to watch Jesse play tennis. As we approached the slides a very excited little boy asked Karis if she wanted to pet his dog. Karis said, “No.” and we continued on our way. The boy enthusiastically dragged the dog around to each piece of equipment and tried to get it to go down slides and jump off platforms. A few boys came over and started to play with the boy and his dog. I overheard the boy say, “My mom said she wouldn’t buy me a dog, but I found this one on the street for free!”

This sent alarm bells off in my head. I looked again at the dog and noted that it was a blond, male, corgi mix, very much like the dog from the lost dog notice. I walked over to the boy and scratched the dog behind the ears.

Me: “What a nice dog. Did you say you found him on the street?”

Boy: “Yeah, he’s a good boy.”

Me: “What’s his name?”

Boy: “Bucky.”

Me: “When did you find him?”

The boy hesitated for a moment, then answered.

Boy: “Uh, three days ago.”

Me: “Well, he matches the description of a lost dog in my neighborhood.”

Boy: “Well, he’s not a lost dog. He’s MY dog!”

Me: “You said you found him three days ago.”

Boy: “Uh, I meant three years ago.”

Me: “Really? So if I call this number on his tag, your name will come up as his owner?”

Suddenly the boy became very uncomfortable. I called Jesse and Patrick over so I could use a phone.

Boy: “I want to talk to my mom. I don’t think you should call anyone.”

Me: “It’s no big deal. If he’s really your dog, the tag info will say so. It will only take a minute.”

I proceeded to call the vet hospital listed on the dog’s rabies tag. It was Sunday, so I got their answering system. There was no option to leave a message, but the boy didn’t know that, so I bluffed and left a message giving a description of the dog and the tag number.

Boy: “I want to talk to my mother.”

Me: “Okay, what’s her number?”

Boy: “Uh, her phone isn’t working.”

Me: “Oh, I see. Well, where do you live? I’ll walk home with you and we can ask your mom about the dog.”

The boy fidgeted and shrugged. “I live down there.” He sulked and waved noncommittally down the road.

I left the kids with Jesse, and Patrick came with us. I realized I was being that woman. That obnoxious, nosy woman that feels it is her duty to get involved in playground drama that doesn’t concern her. I justified my actions to myself in my knowledge that I would want someone to do the same for me, should my dog ever be lost.

As we ambled down the road I told the boy, Daion was his name, that the owners of the lost dog were offering a reward. I played to his emotional side and asked him how he would feel if his dog were missing and someone decided to keep it instead of giving it back. Each of my attempts to convince him to admit the dog wasn’t his were met with his steadfast denial that he had originally said he found the dog three days ago.

Half way down the second block I asked him his address. I didn’t want to waste all day walking down streets toward an imaginary house.

Daion: “Uh, I don’t really know my address.”

Me: “You’re like, twelve years old, and you don’t know your address?!”

I was getting really tired of being played by this time.

Daion: “Well, it’s not my address. It’s my mom’s friend’s house…”

Me: “I see. Well, then point to the house. Is it far?”

Daion: “No! It’s right down there! I swear!”

Me: “Okay Daion. But I’m going to be really frustrated if we get down there and it’s not the right house. You can understand my skeptiscism, considering your story has changed like, five times, right?”

When we reached the house in question Daion ran inside, leaving me holding Bucky’s leash on the porch. Patrick and I could hear his upset, muffled voice talking rapidly behind the door. Suddenly the door burst open and a disheveled  woman with frizzy grey hair jumped onto the porch.

Some people have a special air of crazy about them. It’s an undeniable vibe they give off. They may as well have a flashing neon sign above their heads blinking “BAT SHIT CRAZY”. This delightful woman was one such person. Patrick and I could feel the crazy emanating from this creature like stink from a skunk. She saw me holding Bucky’s leash and grabbed it away from me.

Woman: “What are you doing? This is my dog. What the hell is going on?”

Me: “Sorry to bother you. I overheard Daion say he found this dog, and it matches the description of a lost dog in my neighborhood.”

Woman: “Well I DID find him. FOUR YEARS AGO. He was running down the street and I saved him.”

Me: (deciding on one last bluff, because this woman was clearly just going with Daion’s story.) “I called in his tag number and he is listed as missing.”

Woman: “That’s because I listed him as missing FOUR YEARS AGO WHEN I FOUND HIM.”

Me: “Right. Well, I’m sorry about the mix up – it’s just Daion’s story kept changing, and I found him hard to believe…”

Woman: “That boy is staying with me while his grandparent’s are in the hospital!”

Me:    Blink.         Blink. Blink.  “Ok.”

Not ones to purposefully antagonize the local crazies, Patrick and I left. I took note of the woman’s address and had Patrick email it to me along with the number of the vet hospital I had called from the tag. (Wow – a blackberry actually being helpful instead of annoying!) I smacked myself for not having taken a picture of Bucky while I had the chance. I hoped I had remembered the tag number correctly. I fully intended to call the vet hospital back after the holiday weekend and verify ol’ crazy’s story.

Before going home I asked Pat to run me by the YMCA, where I thought I had seen one of the lost dog notices. There was no lost dog notice on the board.

Once home, I couldn’t leave it alone, so I hopped on my bike and rode down the trails, checking the public notice boards where I had seen lost dog signs before. Nothing. No lost dog notices on any of the boards.

Suddenly I’m Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind – convinced there is some kind of tragic dog kidnapping conspiracy afoot, and I am the only person who is on to the game.

I let it go for the rest of the weekend. Then, bright and early this morning I called the vet hospital.

I told the receptionist I had found a dog with tags from her hospital. She couldn’t find the tag number in her system – I must have remembered it wrong – so I asked her to run a check on an address. Her computers were down, so she would have to call me back.

I waited, confident that she would find Bucky’s – or should I say BOSCO’S – true owners. Or rather, that she would find no record for that address in her system.

The phone rang.

She had found the dog’s info, but both numbers listed were disconnected.

Me: “Oh, so the address is a match?”

Receptionist: “Yes, but they have only been here the one time. The numbers don’t work. I guess you’ll have to take him to the shelter and hope for the best.”

Me: “I’ll just Yahoo Map it.”

Receptionist: “Great idea!”

Me: (one last verification) “What is his name?”

Receptionist: “Bucky.”

Right.

The crazy bitch in this story? Is me.

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Brecken perfects the fine art of bipedal motion set to The Walk Of Life, by Dire Straights.

Brecken’s Walk of Life from Theprimamomma on Vimeo.

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