Hallelujah, Holy S#$@!

3:00 AM Christmas morning I jerked awake in bed. Something was wrong. Gracie was whining. Gracie is not a whiner- a screamer, yes, but not a whiner. So, when I heard her whimpering next to me in bed I know something was wrong. I reached over and touched her forehead. She was sweating.

Quickly I jumped out of bed and hustled to my parent's nursery with Gracie. I rushed in and turned on the lights . . . nothing. The power was out because of the snow storm. I ran back in my room and grabbed my cell phone to illuminate the changing table. I stripped off Gracie's clothes and felt her legs. They were burning up. Using the cell phone to navigate around the room I searched for a thermometer, but I soon realized it would take me until next Christmas to find it if I continued with the process of treasure hunting in a room full of toys by cell-light.

I snatched Gracie again and ran up to my parents' room. "Mom," I beckoned in a yell-whisper that woke both my parents. "Thermometer?!" Mom sprung out of bed like a true veteran and rushed downstairs instantly, understanding the urgency of the situation.

I ran to the living room with Gracie, stripped her naked, and put a wet towel around her hot body. Mom was soon by my side, and by lantern-light we had the thermometer up her butt practically before we could lay her down. 103.

I looked at my mom with panic in my eyes. As a first time mom, I feel as if I am standing on the top of a teeter totter with neurosis at one end and negligence on the other, never quite able to keep my balance. "Should we call the doctor?"

"You're the mom," my mom replied, knowing I was insecure about my teeter tottering ability and would quickly snap if someone even suggested that I maybe could do things a little differently with Gracie. "Will you do it?" I asked, confirming the fact that I still need my mommy.

As my mom phoned the urgent care clinic, I ran downstairs to wake up Greg. "Greg! Gracie has a temperature of 103!" I shouted, irritated already that I felt so helpless. "No she doesn't," he answered, still asleep. "Greg!" I shouted again. He jumped out of bed, apparently having processed the situation.

We lunged upstairs to find my dad working on turning on the generator so that we would have power. My mom informed me that the doctor said to give her some Tylenol and bring her in. Soon, my dad, Greg, and I were in the car zooming up the driveway . . . and sliding back down.

You have got to be kidding me! I thought. Instantly, I pictured every awful scenario a first time mother pictures in her head when she has a sick baby, all of them ending in horrible Lifetime-movie, drama-style endings. I could tell that my dad, always quick to cuss out a crappy situation with drama of his own, was trying to hold it together for my sake.

By the time we gave it a few more runs at it and were clearly stuck in the snow, Greg had hopped out of the car and was trying to help by shoveling the snow behind the tires and giving my dad the "this-much-more-room signal" (My dad's boat trailer was in front of us) before we would have an even bigger problem. And sure enough on the next try we slid right into that "even bigger problem."

And here is when I paused my morbid thoughts long enough to have a different thought: My dad is truly a saint. You see, there is a stream of cuss words that has been passed down from generation to generation among the men on the Anderson side that is saved for the really, really crappy situations. And, I'm pretty sure this would qualify as one of those times. Yet my dad gritted his teeth and merely grunted "God Damn it" under his breath. Wow. What a guy. Both my dad and Greg were doing their best to make it seem like everything was fine.

However, the anger my dad must have felt was channeled into superior driving ability, and with one last push on the gas pedal, we were up the driveway with Greg running after us- shovel in hand.

By the time we were in the urgent care clinic, I was physically and emotionally fatigued and after accidentally telling the nurse that Gracie was a four and a half year old (which she could clearly tell she wasn't) the doctor was ready to see us. As soon as the doctor came in Gracie looked up and smiled. "Coo," she sang sweetly. The doctor took her temperature. 98.6. Really? You've got to be kidding me. The Tylenol had apparently kicked in and was doing its job, but with the rest of the family wide awake and traumatized we were ready for some drugs of our own.

Gracie's first Christmas . . . As they say on National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation: "Hallelujah, Holy S*%&! Where's the Tylenol?"

WEST SIDE! (Sorry, I just had to throw that in there. Our five month old is throwin' up signs.)