In July of 1994 my husband and I rented a cabin in the woods for a week with our four children.

Sedona, Arizona, known for its unique red rock formations, lush green forest and stunning creek was our summer destination.

Instead of the intended relaxed family time, the red rocks provided a week of sheer intestinal torture.  

Tom Cruise may have had Renee Zellweger at "Hello,"  but Sedona had us reeling--hook, line and stinker.

Our children ranged in age; sons 12 and 9 and daughters age 6 and nine months. A week creek-side seemed like an ideal getaway and a place to recover from the exhausting first months a new baby brings to a family.

It also provided us time and space to hone and upgrade our methodologies for effective offspring containment now that we were responsible for four mini-us's.

Our first born was the recipient of a two-on-one strategy, which may explain why many first borns are wacko perfectionists. It's an overly dramatic technique, often referred to as "helicoptering."  

The birth of our second son three years later required a move to
one-on-one defense. Focus sharp, but a little diffused.

Our first daughter arrived four years later, and zone defense was deployed.

Lack of sleep between endless loads of laundry; preparing meals, homework hovering, while working full-time jobs and a two hour daily commute, we decided "What the Heaven" and added a second baby girl to our family in October 1993.  

All bets were off as zone defense intensified for Team Parental Unit when their worthy opponent, Team Mini Wee's acquired their fourth round draft pick straight from the University of Utero.

Zone defense also coincided with a marked reduction in the number of invitations we received to social events.

Something about managing a herd makes people a little jumpy. I get it. People have a lot of breakable stuff. Especially childless people.

That summer, rather than our usual beachside romp for summer vacation, we opted for a more serene, 'two hours from home/pediatrician' jaunt in the event we'd be too overwhelmed with all that ocean water and child containment.

Pine needles vs. sand crabs. Fish hook vs. nostril.

It seemed a win-win.   We looked forward to the absence of sand wars as a bonus.

A family of six requires nothing short of a mothership for transporting the tribe, car seats and booster seats notwithstanding.

We drove a Ford conversion van with four captain's chairs and a bench seat inclusive of a small b&w TV. The boys thought it was cool beans, but hated that it was pink. To be specific, desert rose. It may have been pre-owned by a Mary Kay flunky. It came with a price tag we couldn't walk away from.

Star Wars was the rage in our household, and when the boys weren't beating each other with lightsabers, they were fending off their five year old tomboy sister who reveled in rumbling with the best of them.

On day one of vacation, the van's interior boasted red clay on pink carpeting. It came close to boasting colorful body fluids after my son and I came down with acute food poisoning following dinner with my parents at a Sedona eatery.

As we departed the front door of an Italian restaurant, "Ernie's," following dinner (name changed to avoid me being sued), Michael didn't make it to the parking lot before losing his lasagna chunks in the potted weeping fig plant just outside the entrance as new diners strolled by.

I tried to deflect their stares, reassuring them the food was delicious, having no idea I was about to be victim #2 in 3.2.1.

As our pink Econoline was about to exit the parking lot, I felt the first pang and jumped ship for the ladies 'lounge' after climbing over a car seat, rolling over a captain's chair, and bolting for the building that had inflicted the intestinal challenge being played out in real time.

With two sets of cheeks in lockdown while walk-running faster than Jim Fixx in a fix, I was thankful to clear the restaurant lobby for the third time that evening, 'intact', as I prayed for an open stall behind the "Bella Donna" calligraphy sign.

I wasn't sure which saint interceded with organ explosion containment, so I delivered an 'et al' SOS. When E.F. Lasagna talked, someone listened and an open stall awaited my internal market share.

I remained cloistered inside while being soothed by Italian arias reverberating through speakers that were camouflaged by painted ivy leaves and wine casks.

Under the influence of heavy perspiration and intestinal purging, I prayed to the saint of instant sedation. It was a good half-hour ride up the mountain to our rented cottage with virtually no facilities for "ooops, I don't think I can hold it" outbursts, so it was an all or nothing standoff. It was also bear season. I know better than to think bears are cute and use toilet paper like a certain toilet paper commercial suggests. So I sat, stood, flushed, sat, flushed, stood, puked, washed, sat, stood, puked, washed, oh shat, just sat.

Forty-five minutes later I emerged, sweating and barely upright as I made my way to the parked cupcake, a screaming baby, and her brother still experiencing dry heaving.

My dad remarked the mothership could have used a poopy potty rather than a television set, while my mom insisted I needed a doctor, a Jewish one if at all possible. I assured her I didn't need a doc as I quietly considered a mortician might be in order if the cramping didn't soon subside.

Our pink mothership hit every grocery store, fast food bathroom, gas station, some twice as we departed town and headed for the mountains; windows resting at half-mast position. Everyone aboard the Hop-a-long cupcake was experiencing a wild ride, erk...erk...erk...erk...erk...erk...erk.

As we drove toward the luxury of our private rental bathroom, I remarked I had delivered my second ten and a half pound baby within a nine month period, minus forceps and an attending obstetrician.

Everyone laughed but me. I was still keeping both sets of cheeks in lock-mode and unnecessary laughing could create a splatter effect on pink upholstery.

The Imodium D eventually kicked in and a few days later we were ready to take our herd on a hiking adventure. That's when our zone defense took a hit. With our baby in a backpack and her siblings exploring the deep woods, bugs and bubbling creek alongside the lush trees, we drank in nature.

My husband, the ever-ready fisherman, brought along fishing poles, tackle box, and a special recipe of Kraft cheese pressed around soft bread for bait. We are all about catch and release.

Sedona is coveted for its beauty and an internationally recognized vortex for spirituality. As such, it has become a happening place for the release of uncle Fred and Mama Jo's ashes along the creek and beautiful red rock formations.

Floating rose petals preceding a flush of swirling white and grey particles are a dead giveaway that you should exit the water post haste, lest you be wading in a dead pool. It also suggests one more reason to Just Say No to creek food, such as rainbow trout.

An hour into our hike, we stopped to picnic at a sweet spot on the creek, and test the waters for hungry fish willing to bite a hook for a chunk of cheese fondue.

As we unloaded the baby in the bag, her older siblings played on a nearby rock formation to lots of giggling and pretend antics.

Since there were no swirls, rose petals or large animal footprints, I let my herd mentality management slide as I tended to the wee one.

Ten minutes later, my serenity was jarred when I heard our nine-year-old son quote a line from the movie Princess Bride, "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You keeeeeled my faderrrrr, preeeepare to dieeee" which was followed by little girl giggles as he lunged toward his sister with a stick.

A tenth of a millisecond too late, I caught a glimpse of the fake sword out of the corner of my eye and realized it wasn't a stick, but rather a fishing pole with an unbaited flying hook on the end of released filament line.

With that, Katie screamed and her oldest brother who at the time was enjoying the flora and the fauna while looking for lizards screamed louder as Michael hooked Katie right through the nose as he took on the posturing of a fully committed fly fisherman working the line back and forth, side to side, oblivious to the fact he had snagged our five year old "Kat-fish."

Inigo Montoya would have been proud of his form.

I screamed "FREEZE!" Everyone froze except the baby, who wailed louder. I fingered the Imodium D in my pocket as I experienced an intestinal cramp. Then I followed the clear filament line right into Katie's teeny-weeny cutie patootie sneezer.

An up close and personal inspection revealed a tri-barbed fish hook had made its way inside her nostril and then exited out the left side top with one of the angled barbs serving as anchor.

We were lousy shepards, my husband and I. Zone defense had slammed us to the ground and jumped on our heads at the fifty yard line.

I tried not to throw up while my husband silently searched his tackle box for a pair of pliers to clip the barbed hook, eventually coming up empty. Out of options, we cut the line, leaving a six inch lead out of Princess Buttercup's nose.

I tried to make light of the mood, offering we could walk her like a dog on a leash. She was not amused. The offending fisherman had by now resorted to tears thinking he would be arrested for illegal assault on a proboscis.

As three kids whimpered and one baby railed for a bottle, we began the hour hike back to our not so glorious cabin in the woods. The waves cresting the beach in San Diego mocked my thoughts as we wound our way back to our rented log cabin.

Believe me when I tell you cutting pliers are hard to find in an emergency. None of our forestry neighbors had a single pair and the stores were closed, leaving our only option but to drive to the nearest emergency room located in Flagstaff, ninety minutes away and accessible by a scenic drive otherwise known as the switchbacks.

Michael requested to stay at the cabin by himself for fear of being arrested in Flagstaff for fishing without a proper license to reel in a sister.

Jarrod was afraid Katie's nose would end up looking like something out of one of his Goosebumps books. The tribe was loaded into Mr. Pink as night fell. We fired up the engine and deployed the booster rockets for the hellacious drive. Plastic puke bags on every lap.

A minimum of guard rails and too many postings of free spirited jumping deer signage led us into the black oblivion. The only thing I was thankful for as we rounded each "S" curve was the absence of diarrhea in the Wakeford herd, and a good health insurance policy.

I also considered we were reaping the recipients of fish Karma excised by any fish ever taken on the creek as it gulped for air. I was thankful we had never eaten venison, and hoped Bambi would stay in the forest so our mothership wouldn't be further compromised.

Upon arrival at Flagstaff hospital an hour and a half later, nerves on edge, we became the talk of the ER. I was relieved CPS wasn't called in. Michael was relieved he wasn't arrested. Jarrod was relieved his sister wouldn't look like a monster. Emily was relieved having been fed and changed. My husband was relieved we didn't arrive with a hood ornament the size of a large bloody deer. The herd had been traumatized enough for the day.

Once we killed a few trees by signing the required hospital admission forms, we were led to an operating room. Katie, me and the hook surgeon were fitted with goggles and then the doctor removed what appeared to be a standard pair of fishing pliers straight from any Ace Hardware tool section--sterilized in a standard autoclave and wrapped in hermatically sealed baggie.

The doctor took his time explaining to our daughter what exactly he was going to do and that she needed to remain very still. She complied stoically. You could have heard a pin drop in the bright tiled room. Before long, we did as the tip of the fish hook ping'd off a tiled wall as it flew for freedom once the wire was cut. The larger section of hook was then easily pulled from Katie's left nostril.

With the procedure over, the doctor said, "All better now. You are good to go young lady." My daughter's six year old response..."THANK HEAVEN, I CAN FINALLY PICK MY NOSE AGAIN!"

Out of the mouth of babes....

Sedona was one of our most expensive fishing expeditions, even with a good insurance policy.