A Snowman in April

There was a time when we had arguably the best yard on the block and with the exception of the old retired guy one cul-de-sac over, possibly the entire neighborhood.  We weed wacked, edged, mulched, sprinkled and fertilized to our heart's content.  It was pristine.  An oasis of emerald green, it beckoned bare feet from as far away as six houses in either direction.  One step into that yard and your toes wiggled in orgasmic delight.  

Then we had kids. 

The weedwacker disappeared behind a team of strollers and the edger was overtaken by a gang of rogue Fisher Price toys.  Diamonds, criss crosses, wave and circle patterns were replaced by the same thoughtless horizontal back-and-forth-as-fast-as-you-can-before-naptime-is-over patterns that blanketed the rest of the neighborhood.  Our perfect oasis of green had become a desert peppered with crab grass and bald spots.  Not even the ChemLawn man could save us.  We had reached the point of no return.

This was and still is my reality as I stood before my withering lawn yesterday afternoon.  With spring in full bloom and a hint of summer in the air, I decided that a miracle would happen on this day.  In the span of an afternoon, I would nurse this baby back to her glory days and all order would be restored.  So as soon as Henry went down for his nap, I raced into the garage and wrestled the lawnmower free.

After a few passes, I settled into the task, confident in my ability to undo the damage of the past four years worth of neglect.  Charlie was busy across the street constructing a bike ramp worthy of at least one broken bone.  And Lola was...wait...where was Lola?  Normally her brother's shadow, she was nowhere to be seen.  I cut the mower off and headed into the garage.   Salvation for the yard would have to come another day.

"Lola?"

No answer.

"Lo-Laaaaaaah.  Where are youuuuu?"

Still no answer.  Had she wandered down the block in search of cooler toys?  Was she small enough to squeeze through the mouth of the sewer drain?  Christ, had she been kidnapped?!  My mother's panic button was seconds from going off.

 

"Do you wanna a popcicle?"

A faint rustle came from the back of the garage.  Checkmate.  I had the rabbit in my crosshairs.  Carefully, I maneuvered the obstacle course before me keeping close sight of that tuft of blond hair peeking from behind the parked stroller.  What was she doing back there?  Was she hiding?  Was she okay?  Had a paint can fallen and rendered her unconscious?  I couldn't get back there fast enough and in my haste, I tripped over 2 plastic grocery carts, a dumptruck and a half eaten tennis ball.  Note to self:  time to clean out the garage.  And then I was upon her. Oh shit!

Oh, shit.

Her big round eyes fixed straight ahead at the plastic blue police car, she wouldn't break the stare to look at me.  I knew that look.  I had seen it many times before, usually at the dinner table.  That was the look that gave her away.  And then.  Then the smell. 

"Lola Geist.  What.  Have.  You.  Done!?!"  As if I even needed to ask.

"Lola go caca."  One point for bilingualism.  Too bad it was all over my garage floor. 

  

But where most mothers would be pissed, annoyed, or dismayed, a CF mama is forever curious.  Was it going to be a CF poop; greasy, bulky and foul smelling? Was this to be the end of our journey down the road of pancreatic sufficiency?  How long would it take me to teach her how to swallow all those enzymes before every meal?  I crouched down to get a closer look.  Au contraire mon frere!  It donned the same shade of brown as my batch of chocolate brownies baked not too long ago and was sprinkled with...was it remnants of green peas from last night's dinner?  Not a trace of grease that I could discern and it was beautifully formed.  A smallish round head rested upon a portly shaped belly, it had the the shape of a snowman!  It was indeed The Perfect Poop.

All jubilation was interrupted when my husband's head popped through the door to the house to announce the end of naptime.  Never one to mince words he bellowed,  "Henry's up.  He wants a BOOB."  Aaah...yes, honey.  I'm coming.

The sad lawn would wait another week, her crab grass sprouting and her bald spots widening but alas, with the arrival of the snowman in April, a new sense of order had been restored.