In spite of my love of Halloween, I have to say that my first preschool Halloween party knocked me to my knees this morning.
This morning at O:Dark-Thirty (when is the TIME CHANGING??) I got Thomas dressed in his pirate costume, put a cute Halloween t-shirt on Emmie so she wouldn't feel left out, and dragged both kids to Thomas's school for his "Fall Festival". I had planned to stay to help out but really had no idea what to expect.
What I got - 50-plus kids cracked out on candy and cookies, one befuddled Thomas and one totally over-stimulated Emmie.
We arrived to find two classes of three-year-olds crammed into a single classroom. The noise was deafening. Shrieks, giggles, sobs and shouts were bouncing off the walls and ceiling and into each other and multiplying and dividing until the decibels were at an illegal level. Emmie immediately clutched the legs of any adult wearing jeans thinking they were me and Thomas put his head on my shoulder to hide his face. Thank GOD the speech therapist asked if she could work wtih Thomas for a bit because I could not have stayed in that room for longer than 5 minutes without wanting to stick a knitting needle into my eye to lobotomize myself.
After speech therapy we went to the playground for candy and games. Gah. The school has both special needs and typically developing kids, and the typical kids definitely had the advantage today. They ran around frantically picking up the candy they found on the ground while I carried Thomas and tried to pry Emmie off my legs. I finally convinced Em to pick up two Reese's cups for me and then we sat down on the sidewalk to watch the other kids spin circles and exhaust their sugar highs.
After carrying my 27 lb son for 30 minutes and watching Emmie get knocked down for the third time I told myself it was time to go. My kids had obviously had all the fun they could possibly stand for the morning and so I put Thomas in his stroller, turned to my terrified, crying daughter to encourage her to walk with me to get our stuff so we could go to the car, and then watched, amazed, as she had a total meltdown at the idea of leaving all the...fun.
Showing posts with label Just tryin' to get through another day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Just tryin' to get through another day. Show all posts
Friday, October 31, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
Friday Friday Friday
Last night was one of Those Nights and thus today has been one of Those Days. We all slept in after having a sleepless night and I wandered around the house in my pajamas until 10:00 am. I finally decided it was time to get it together so I washed my face, brushed my teeth and changed from my pajama bottoms and a t-shirt into...sweat pants and a t-shirt. The transformation was less than miraculous.
Is this what it has come to? Elastic waistbands and men's t-shirts? An existence where jeans and a jacket is dressing up? I did put on mascara to go to the grocery this afternoon though, so there is hope.
In other fashion news, Emmie has been rocking this look for a week now.
The hat MUST be on her head and the brim MUST be turned backwards.
Is this what it has come to? Elastic waistbands and men's t-shirts? An existence where jeans and a jacket is dressing up? I did put on mascara to go to the grocery this afternoon though, so there is hope.
In other fashion news, Emmie has been rocking this look for a week now.
The hat MUST be on her head and the brim MUST be turned backwards.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Jake the WonderDog
The bulldog, Jake, is an incomparable creature. He is loving, friendly, sweet, TOTALLY thinks he's a lapdog and is fiercely loyal...to my husband. I, on the other hand, can't do a thing with him.
One thing we've learned over the years about Jake - that there dog either has the highest pain threshold EVER, or he just doesn't feel pain at all. And it seems recently that he has been happily walking around with a fist-sized tumor in his mouth that we didn't discover until it became infected. Running to the door to go for walks? Check. Eating his dinner in 24 seconds flat? Check. Sleeping well? Begging for treats? Harassing the little dog next door every chance he gets? Check, check and BIG OL' CHECK.
This morning Emmie and I had to take him to the vet to have the tumor removed while Hubs took Thomas to school. I buckled Em into her carseat then went to get Jake. Regardless of the fact that 90% of his car rides are to the vet he luuuuuurrves going for a ride and ran hell-for-leather to the back of the car, attempted to jump in by himself then glanced back at me with this look that was all "lady? I'm nine years old here, can I get a boost?" I hefted him in, tied his leash to a bracket in the way-back of my CR-V since his first act in the car is ALWAYS to jump into the backseat, and since that spot was already occupied by mah fragile baybee, I wanted to make sure he'd stay put.
At the vet I opened the door to the way-back, grabbed Jake by his collar to keep him from jumping out while still tied up and thus hanging himself, then frantically started untying the leash because the silly dog had JUMPED OUT ANYWAY and was standing on his rear feet making a gaaah, gaaaah, gaaah sound. Fabulous. The vet can repair his esophagus right before they intubate him for surgery.
(Don't worry, no animals were harmed in the making of this story.)
I grabbed the stroller and buckled Emmie in, and Jake pulled us both into the vet's office. Have you EVER known a dog who fought to get INTO the vet?
The surgeon took a look at the tumor and said it is probably oral melanoma which does not bode well for our bulldog.
I hated leaving him there. It isn't until we got to the scales for a weigh-in that Jake remembered that he doesn't like the vet. He started to fight and pull away and gave me that pleading look that says "please please take me home, I'll be good! I promise!" I hugged and kissed him and Emmie and I ran out before I could cry.
Jake probably won't live much longer and I realize that both kids are really too young to have developed memories of him. They will never know what a fantastic dog he is and, even though I bitch and moan about him on a daily basis - his breath, his drooling, his stubborness - how much we love him. I'm glad I'll always have this photo:
One thing we've learned over the years about Jake - that there dog either has the highest pain threshold EVER, or he just doesn't feel pain at all. And it seems recently that he has been happily walking around with a fist-sized tumor in his mouth that we didn't discover until it became infected. Running to the door to go for walks? Check. Eating his dinner in 24 seconds flat? Check. Sleeping well? Begging for treats? Harassing the little dog next door every chance he gets? Check, check and BIG OL' CHECK.
This morning Emmie and I had to take him to the vet to have the tumor removed while Hubs took Thomas to school. I buckled Em into her carseat then went to get Jake. Regardless of the fact that 90% of his car rides are to the vet he luuuuuurrves going for a ride and ran hell-for-leather to the back of the car, attempted to jump in by himself then glanced back at me with this look that was all "lady? I'm nine years old here, can I get a boost?" I hefted him in, tied his leash to a bracket in the way-back of my CR-V since his first act in the car is ALWAYS to jump into the backseat, and since that spot was already occupied by mah fragile baybee, I wanted to make sure he'd stay put.
At the vet I opened the door to the way-back, grabbed Jake by his collar to keep him from jumping out while still tied up and thus hanging himself, then frantically started untying the leash because the silly dog had JUMPED OUT ANYWAY and was standing on his rear feet making a gaaah, gaaaah, gaaah sound. Fabulous. The vet can repair his esophagus right before they intubate him for surgery.
(Don't worry, no animals were harmed in the making of this story.)
I grabbed the stroller and buckled Emmie in, and Jake pulled us both into the vet's office. Have you EVER known a dog who fought to get INTO the vet?
The surgeon took a look at the tumor and said it is probably oral melanoma which does not bode well for our bulldog.
I hated leaving him there. It isn't until we got to the scales for a weigh-in that Jake remembered that he doesn't like the vet. He started to fight and pull away and gave me that pleading look that says "please please take me home, I'll be good! I promise!" I hugged and kissed him and Emmie and I ran out before I could cry.
Jake probably won't live much longer and I realize that both kids are really too young to have developed memories of him. They will never know what a fantastic dog he is and, even though I bitch and moan about him on a daily basis - his breath, his drooling, his stubborness - how much we love him. I'm glad I'll always have this photo:
Thursday, September 11, 2008
And then I got arrested
When Hubs discovered he had no clean underwear this morning (well, no clean DRY underwear - there was plenty in the washer!) I mentioned that it might be prudent, it's just a suggestion really, but doesn't he think it's time to buy some new underwear so he has more than FIVE DAMN PAIRS because how often does he REALLY expect me to do laundry??
That's how I found myself in Target this morning trying to pick out men's underwear for my husband. I never buy clothes for him unless he is there with me. I've tried in the past and, except for some really beautiful ties that I've chosen, he's returned EVERYTHING I've ever bought him. Or kept it in his closet until I forgot about it then donated it to Goodwill. *sigh* Underwear is, obviously, a very personal decision. Hubs had given me explicit instructions on what to purchase and I strode confidently into the store certain I would be in and out in 5 minutes.
I made my way back to the men's department and stood staring at row after row of briefs, boxers, brief boxers, bikinis (shudder) and some weird bicycle shorts/underwear hybrid that looked not only uncomfortable but also just a little bit nasty. I was flummoxed. There were regular boxers, jersey knit boxers with a tiny little button over the fly, briefs with two openings - one on *ahem* either side, I guess so a guy could mix it up during the day and keep things interesting in the men's room. The most disturbing - briefs with no fly at all.
I had no idea what to buy. My instructions, it seems, were worthless against the vast selection available. I had no choice. I pulled out my phone and started taking pictures of the packages and emailing them to Hubs for his advice. God, when you are writing about underwear every single phrase suddenly becomes a double entendre. I texted a few descriptive phrases for each one and waited for his reply while I cruised up and down, hoping against hope that the right kind would present itself.
My phone beeped indicating I had a message. It was from Hubs. "Are you really standing in the men's underwear section of Target taking pictures?? Don't you think someone might find that a little creepy?"
Oh. Shit. I hadn't even thought of that. I grabbed the first package I saw (see what I mean? That totally sounds dirty!) and ran for the checkout, hiding my face from the security cameras. If you see this on YouTube it isn't me. It's some other weirdo chick taking pictures of men's briefs.
That's how I found myself in Target this morning trying to pick out men's underwear for my husband. I never buy clothes for him unless he is there with me. I've tried in the past and, except for some really beautiful ties that I've chosen, he's returned EVERYTHING I've ever bought him. Or kept it in his closet until I forgot about it then donated it to Goodwill. *sigh* Underwear is, obviously, a very personal decision. Hubs had given me explicit instructions on what to purchase and I strode confidently into the store certain I would be in and out in 5 minutes.
I made my way back to the men's department and stood staring at row after row of briefs, boxers, brief boxers, bikinis (shudder) and some weird bicycle shorts/underwear hybrid that looked not only uncomfortable but also just a little bit nasty. I was flummoxed. There were regular boxers, jersey knit boxers with a tiny little button over the fly, briefs with two openings - one on *ahem* either side, I guess so a guy could mix it up during the day and keep things interesting in the men's room. The most disturbing - briefs with no fly at all.
I had no idea what to buy. My instructions, it seems, were worthless against the vast selection available. I had no choice. I pulled out my phone and started taking pictures of the packages and emailing them to Hubs for his advice. God, when you are writing about underwear every single phrase suddenly becomes a double entendre. I texted a few descriptive phrases for each one and waited for his reply while I cruised up and down, hoping against hope that the right kind would present itself.
My phone beeped indicating I had a message. It was from Hubs. "Are you really standing in the men's underwear section of Target taking pictures?? Don't you think someone might find that a little creepy?"
Oh. Shit. I hadn't even thought of that. I grabbed the first package I saw (see what I mean? That totally sounds dirty!) and ran for the checkout, hiding my face from the security cameras. If you see this on YouTube it isn't me. It's some other weirdo chick taking pictures of men's briefs.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
I can haz doggie noze?
When Hubs and I moved in together, we created a blended family. I had two cats, Alex and Stella, and he had two dogs. Two BIG dogs. The cats had never been around dogs, and vice versa. We knew it was gonna be interesting.
We tried a test run before I actually moved in. I took Stella, the younger and friendlier kitteh, over to Hubs' house to see how everyone would react. I carried her in the house, she got one whiff of DOG and ran straight under the bed. That's where she stayed for the next 24 hours. Every time I went by the bedroom I would see the dogs huddled with their heads under the bedskirt, tails wagging furiously, and I would hear Stella making that weird rraawwrrrrr cat growl that means she is REALLY, REALLY pissed.
Finally I took pity, extricated the oh-so-miserable Stella from the dust bunnies under the bed and took her back to my condo.
Undeterred, I moved in a few weeks later. Now BOTH cats were living under the bed making that rraawwrrrrr noise while the dogs sniffed happily around the edges. I did a little research and found that a good way of acclimating animals to one another was to let them interact through a closed door. Therefore I created a cat home in the office - they had their litter box, their food and water, their scratching post and toys. The carpet at the door just outside the office quickly became discolored and dirty from the dogs parking themselves there.
A few days into this, I decided it was time for the dogs and cats to REALLY get to know each other and start getting along together. *snort* This is hilarious. You see, the cats RAN whenever they saw the dogs, and the dogs, being dogs, CHASED. It's instinct. The dogs would chase the cats into the office. The cats would jump onto the sofa. The dogs would bark frantically. The cats, in pure self-defense mode, would start swatting. One or both dogs would end up bleeding.
I can't tell you how many times I heard horrendous battle sounds from the back of the house and then saw one of the dogs casually stroll into the living room, bleeding from scratches on its nose, and look at me like "What?? I wasn't doing anything!"
One day the dogs ran the cats into the office and the horrific sounds of carnage ensued. The hissing, the barking, the yelping...
Moments later, Jake, our English Bulldog, came sauntering back into the living room and I took a quick look to make sure his nose was still attached to his face. Thankfully, it was. I did note that he seemed to have a bit of fuzz on his face. Eh, just doggy mess.
A few minutes later Jake plopped himself at my feet and I saw the bit of fuzz again. "What IS that, Jake?"
I grabbed his face and plucked at the fuzz. It was a cat claw. Embedded in his nose.
We tried a test run before I actually moved in. I took Stella, the younger and friendlier kitteh, over to Hubs' house to see how everyone would react. I carried her in the house, she got one whiff of DOG and ran straight under the bed. That's where she stayed for the next 24 hours. Every time I went by the bedroom I would see the dogs huddled with their heads under the bedskirt, tails wagging furiously, and I would hear Stella making that weird rraawwrrrrr cat growl that means she is REALLY, REALLY pissed.
Finally I took pity, extricated the oh-so-miserable Stella from the dust bunnies under the bed and took her back to my condo.
Undeterred, I moved in a few weeks later. Now BOTH cats were living under the bed making that rraawwrrrrr noise while the dogs sniffed happily around the edges. I did a little research and found that a good way of acclimating animals to one another was to let them interact through a closed door. Therefore I created a cat home in the office - they had their litter box, their food and water, their scratching post and toys. The carpet at the door just outside the office quickly became discolored and dirty from the dogs parking themselves there.
A few days into this, I decided it was time for the dogs and cats to REALLY get to know each other and start getting along together. *snort* This is hilarious. You see, the cats RAN whenever they saw the dogs, and the dogs, being dogs, CHASED. It's instinct. The dogs would chase the cats into the office. The cats would jump onto the sofa. The dogs would bark frantically. The cats, in pure self-defense mode, would start swatting. One or both dogs would end up bleeding.
I can't tell you how many times I heard horrendous battle sounds from the back of the house and then saw one of the dogs casually stroll into the living room, bleeding from scratches on its nose, and look at me like "What?? I wasn't doing anything!"
One day the dogs ran the cats into the office and the horrific sounds of carnage ensued. The hissing, the barking, the yelping...
Moments later, Jake, our English Bulldog, came sauntering back into the living room and I took a quick look to make sure his nose was still attached to his face. Thankfully, it was. I did note that he seemed to have a bit of fuzz on his face. Eh, just doggy mess.
A few minutes later Jake plopped himself at my feet and I saw the bit of fuzz again. "What IS that, Jake?"
I grabbed his face and plucked at the fuzz. It was a cat claw. Embedded in his nose.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Vacuum very much!
My kids are both mortally terrified of the vacuum cleaner. They go into screaming, shaking fits when I turn it on, and then it takes a lifetime to calm them back down.
This morning in the kitchen Emmie grabbed the handle of the little Swiffer vacuum, pulled it over and accidently turned it on. Oh the shrieking! The wailing! The gnashing of teeth! Emmie screamed, scuttled sideways like a crab trying to run from the tide and grabbed my ankles to escape it. Because CLEARLY it was going to turn on her with huge, pointy teeth and eat her alive.
Thomas did his patented open mouth, purple face, I'm screaming so hard nothing is coming out but just you WAIT until I catch my breath act. Because that tiny little 5 pound vacuum is dangerous and noisy and it might just suck him into the 4 ounce canister like Augustus Gloop in the Chocolate River.
I lunged for the damn thing and managed to hit the button to turn it off, but the damage was done.
People, I'm in a quandary here. With two large dogs and two small children, vacuuming is a necessity. But when do I do it? I can't vacuum when the kids are awake. Obviously. I can't vacuum when they are asleep because that would meaninterrupting my nap possibly waking them up and, well, that just is not acceptable.
I guess I should mention here that I'm sort of a vacuum addict. I've had as many as four at one time. At one time I even had a Roomba. I named it George and I used to sit on the sofa and watch it run little circles around my living room. I loved it, partly because it was cute as a bug's ear, mostly because it was doing housework. Without complaining or assuming I would *ahem* return the favor later. And it was a hit at parties. It died a few years ago - I think it choked on dog hair.
Anyhoo, I'm down to only three vacuums right now, and I CAN'T USE ANY OF THEM. So instead I sweep. Do you know what sweeping does to dog hair? It floats up and sparkles in the sunlight coming through the windows, then drifts back down to the floor behind the broom. Seriously. You CANNOT sweep up dog hair.
*sigh* It's probably just as well the Roomba died. Can you imagine what would happen if a vacuum actually CHASED one of the kids around the room? The therapy bills would put us into foreclosure.
This morning in the kitchen Emmie grabbed the handle of the little Swiffer vacuum, pulled it over and accidently turned it on. Oh the shrieking! The wailing! The gnashing of teeth! Emmie screamed, scuttled sideways like a crab trying to run from the tide and grabbed my ankles to escape it. Because CLEARLY it was going to turn on her with huge, pointy teeth and eat her alive.
Thomas did his patented open mouth, purple face, I'm screaming so hard nothing is coming out but just you WAIT until I catch my breath act. Because that tiny little 5 pound vacuum is dangerous and noisy and it might just suck him into the 4 ounce canister like Augustus Gloop in the Chocolate River.
I lunged for the damn thing and managed to hit the button to turn it off, but the damage was done.
People, I'm in a quandary here. With two large dogs and two small children, vacuuming is a necessity. But when do I do it? I can't vacuum when the kids are awake. Obviously. I can't vacuum when they are asleep because that would mean
I guess I should mention here that I'm sort of a vacuum addict. I've had as many as four at one time. At one time I even had a Roomba. I named it George and I used to sit on the sofa and watch it run little circles around my living room. I loved it, partly because it was cute as a bug's ear, mostly because it was doing housework. Without complaining or assuming I would *ahem* return the favor later. And it was a hit at parties. It died a few years ago - I think it choked on dog hair.
Anyhoo, I'm down to only three vacuums right now, and I CAN'T USE ANY OF THEM. So instead I sweep. Do you know what sweeping does to dog hair? It floats up and sparkles in the sunlight coming through the windows, then drifts back down to the floor behind the broom. Seriously. You CANNOT sweep up dog hair.
*sigh* It's probably just as well the Roomba died. Can you imagine what would happen if a vacuum actually CHASED one of the kids around the room? The therapy bills would put us into foreclosure.
Friday, July 25, 2008
It's always something
Thomas currently has a persistent, low-grade fever. This fever has been especially fond of him and has stuck around for 3 solid weeks. 2 weeks ago, a mere 7 days after the fever started, I took him to our pediatrician. Let me first remind you just how much Thomas hates going to the doctor. The poor kid has seen WAY too many of them in his short lifetime and it takes only the sight of a stethoscope to set him off like a car alarm.
-- AAAAH!!! AAAAHH!!! AAAAHHHHH!! AAAAAHHHH!!!!!!--
That's actually what he sounds like - and he is almost as difficult to silence.
Our pediatrician pronounced him fit, except for a virus that's been going around causing a fever and no other symptoms. Motrin and Tylenol, the Wondertwins, would take care of it. Bring him back in 10 days if he isn't better.
10 days later he isn't better and we are at my parents house. Naturally.
Off to the clinic at the hospital. This is where it gets, eh, interesting. The doctor here walks in the exam room where we are waiting. Thomas starts screaming like I'm amputating his arm without anesthesia. The doc and I proceed to have a conversation over the shrieking.
"So, any symptoms other than the fever?"
-- AAAAH!!! AAAAHH!!! AAAAHHHHH!! AAAAAHHHH!!!!!!--
"No, he seems to be fine other than that. But it's been 12 days now and-"
--AAAHHHHH!!! AAAAAAHHHH!!! AAAAAHHHHH!!! AAAHHHHH!!!--
"-he is still feverish. No coughing, nothing else-
--AAAAHHHHH!!! AAAAAHHHHH!!! AAAAAHHH!!! AAHHHH!!--
The doc checks his ears, listens to his heart and his chest - and how he could possibly have heard anything I'll never know - and orders a chest x-ray. Heh. This is really taking longer than I thought.
We step into the radiology lab and I lay Thomas on the table and they--
--AAAHHHH!! AAAAHHH!!! AAHHHHH!!!! AAHHHH!!!--
-get two pictures of his chest. We go back to the exam room.
45 minutes later Thomas is calm and happy because we've been left alone by all medical personnel since the x-ray. I'm pretty seriously irritated at this point. I spy the roll-y stool that all exam rooms have, sit down on it and put Thomas on my lap and we head out into the hallway to count things. Thomas loves counting things. We spend a couple of minutes rolling up and down the hallway counting the light fixtures when Hey! Whaddaya know! Our nurse goes to find our doctor!
5 minutes later our doctor announces his chest is clear and here are some antibiotics. Come back if he's not better in a couple of days. Ha. That rolling down the hallway counting things is good for getting the attention of people not otherwise paying attention.
Unfortunately, the antibiotics didn't work. Back to the Clinic.
Today's doc orders a CBC and urinalysis. ARGH. An army of nurses comes in to draw blood and-
--AAAHHH!!! AAAAHHH!! AAAHHH!!! AAAHHHH!!!--
-after sticking both of Thomas's little arms they get a vial of blood to take to the lab. Another nurse comes in-
--AAAAHHH!! AAAAAHHHH!!! AAAHHHH!! AAAAAHHHHHH!!!--
-and tapes a little bag over his, erm, privates to collect some pee. Seriously.
45 minutes later yet ANOTHER nurse comes in to get MORE blood because the first batch clotted.
--AAAAHHH!! AAAAAHHHH!!! AAAHHHH!! AAAAAHHHHHH!!!--
She checks the baggie - the kid's on pee strike.
The doctor shows up and-
--AAAAHHH!! AAAAAHHHH!!! AAAHHHH!! AAAAAHHHHHH!!!--
-brings me a power bar and a Diet Coke. I love him.
30 minutes later and still no pee. I'm getting a little desperate at this point because I really just want to take. Thomas. home.
The CBC comes back and the doc comes in to tell me-
--AAAAHHH!! AAAAAHHHH!!! AAAHHHH!! AAAAAHHHHHH!!!--
-that Thomas has a virus. Motrin and Tylenol should help the fever, otherwise there's nothing they can do. He cancels the urinalysis, which is convenient since the kid STILL HASN'T PEED.
We are home now and Thomas will start psychotherapy tomorrow for the emotional damage inflicted by medical personnel this past week.
-- AAAAH!!! AAAAHH!!! AAAAHHHHH!! AAAAAHHHH!!!!!!--
That's actually what he sounds like - and he is almost as difficult to silence.
Our pediatrician pronounced him fit, except for a virus that's been going around causing a fever and no other symptoms. Motrin and Tylenol, the Wondertwins, would take care of it. Bring him back in 10 days if he isn't better.
10 days later he isn't better and we are at my parents house. Naturally.
Off to the clinic at the hospital. This is where it gets, eh, interesting. The doctor here walks in the exam room where we are waiting. Thomas starts screaming like I'm amputating his arm without anesthesia. The doc and I proceed to have a conversation over the shrieking.
"So, any symptoms other than the fever?"
-- AAAAH!!! AAAAHH!!! AAAAHHHHH!! AAAAAHHHH!!!!!!--
"No, he seems to be fine other than that. But it's been 12 days now and-"
--AAAHHHHH!!! AAAAAAHHHH!!! AAAAAHHHHH!!! AAAHHHHH!!!--
"-he is still feverish. No coughing, nothing else-
--AAAAHHHHH!!! AAAAAHHHHH!!! AAAAAHHH!!! AAHHHH!!--
The doc checks his ears, listens to his heart and his chest - and how he could possibly have heard anything I'll never know - and orders a chest x-ray. Heh. This is really taking longer than I thought.
We step into the radiology lab and I lay Thomas on the table and they--
--AAAHHHH!! AAAAHHH!!! AAHHHHH!!!! AAHHHH!!!--
-get two pictures of his chest. We go back to the exam room.
45 minutes later Thomas is calm and happy because we've been left alone by all medical personnel since the x-ray. I'm pretty seriously irritated at this point. I spy the roll-y stool that all exam rooms have, sit down on it and put Thomas on my lap and we head out into the hallway to count things. Thomas loves counting things. We spend a couple of minutes rolling up and down the hallway counting the light fixtures when Hey! Whaddaya know! Our nurse goes to find our doctor!
5 minutes later our doctor announces his chest is clear and here are some antibiotics. Come back if he's not better in a couple of days. Ha. That rolling down the hallway counting things is good for getting the attention of people not otherwise paying attention.
Unfortunately, the antibiotics didn't work. Back to the Clinic.
Today's doc orders a CBC and urinalysis. ARGH. An army of nurses comes in to draw blood and-
--AAAHHH!!! AAAAHHH!! AAAHHH!!! AAAHHHH!!!--
-after sticking both of Thomas's little arms they get a vial of blood to take to the lab. Another nurse comes in-
--AAAAHHH!! AAAAAHHHH!!! AAAHHHH!! AAAAAHHHHHH!!!--
-and tapes a little bag over his, erm, privates to collect some pee. Seriously.
45 minutes later yet ANOTHER nurse comes in to get MORE blood because the first batch clotted.
--AAAAHHH!! AAAAAHHHH!!! AAAHHHH!! AAAAAHHHHHH!!!--
She checks the baggie - the kid's on pee strike.
The doctor shows up and-
--AAAAHHH!! AAAAAHHHH!!! AAAHHHH!! AAAAAHHHHHH!!!--
-brings me a power bar and a Diet Coke. I love him.
30 minutes later and still no pee. I'm getting a little desperate at this point because I really just want to take. Thomas. home.
The CBC comes back and the doc comes in to tell me-
--AAAAHHH!! AAAAAHHHH!!! AAAHHHH!! AAAAAHHHHHH!!!--
-that Thomas has a virus. Motrin and Tylenol should help the fever, otherwise there's nothing they can do. He cancels the urinalysis, which is convenient since the kid STILL HASN'T PEED.
We are home now and Thomas will start psychotherapy tomorrow for the emotional damage inflicted by medical personnel this past week.
Monday, July 21, 2008
PPOTD
Yesterday my parents, the kids and I traveled to a family reunion that my mom's cousins hold each year. There were stories, wonderful food, small children running everywhere, more food... There were relatives from Texas that we didn't know, and weren't sure if we are actually related to, and the uncomfortable political discussions that arise when you have several generations in close quarters.
On the way home Emmie was TIRED OF BEING IN THE CAR and more than a little fractious. I started pulling stuff out of my mom's glovebox hoping to find something to entertain Em long enough to get us home. I found these:
She was totally thrilled and I think the old lady on the Hallmark cards has some competition now.
On the way home Emmie was TIRED OF BEING IN THE CAR and more than a little fractious. I started pulling stuff out of my mom's glovebox hoping to find something to entertain Em long enough to get us home. I found these:
She was totally thrilled and I think the old lady on the Hallmark cards has some competition now.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
School Daze
Well, it's happened again. I let my guard down and someone came in and stomped all over my ideas of What Will Be. Thomas is supposed to be going to preschool in the Fall, and I let someone else do the decision-making. I was not The Decider and things are not. going. well.
There are two special-needs preschools in town and I really wanted Thomas to go to the UCP Center. It started as primarily a school for kids with Cerebral Palsy but has expanded into a larger role, taking kids with all sorts of special needs. They are obviously very experienced with kids that have mobility issues, like Thomas, and they also have mainstream kids in each classroom and I really like that mixture. The typical kids learn compassion, the special needs kids aren't segregated from the community.
Unbeknownst to me, there is another preschool in town, one primarily for kids with behavioral problems and autism. One where all the kids are mobile. Guess which one Thomas was assigned to.
And what really gets me, what really makes me smack myself in the head and wonder just what the gray matter in my skull is comprised of (porridge perhaps? maybe mashed up bananas?) is that I really thought it was because they had Thomas's best interests in mind.
BUT - they didn't tell me Thomas would be the only non-mobile child. They didn't tell me that the other kids are there for issues completely unrelated to the issues Thomas has. When I communicated with the person at the school system, she had memories of me making statements that I not only wouldn't have made, but I wouldn't even have THOUGHT. Things like having Thomas schooled at home. Wha..? I definitely want Thomas in a school setting so he can interact with his peers. Peers meaning kids with mobility and cognitive problems. Is this so difficult?
AARGGH.
He's only three and I'm already fighting the school system. This bodes ill for the next 15 years. And by God I am NOT letting him go to a school where fully-mobile kids with behavioral issues have the chance to pick on my child. Maybe I'm overreacting, but so be it. I will make this a positive experience for Thomas no matter what.
I probably need talking down off the ledge at this point. Any takers?
There are two special-needs preschools in town and I really wanted Thomas to go to the UCP Center. It started as primarily a school for kids with Cerebral Palsy but has expanded into a larger role, taking kids with all sorts of special needs. They are obviously very experienced with kids that have mobility issues, like Thomas, and they also have mainstream kids in each classroom and I really like that mixture. The typical kids learn compassion, the special needs kids aren't segregated from the community.
Unbeknownst to me, there is another preschool in town, one primarily for kids with behavioral problems and autism. One where all the kids are mobile. Guess which one Thomas was assigned to.
And what really gets me, what really makes me smack myself in the head and wonder just what the gray matter in my skull is comprised of (porridge perhaps? maybe mashed up bananas?) is that I really thought it was because they had Thomas's best interests in mind.
BUT - they didn't tell me Thomas would be the only non-mobile child. They didn't tell me that the other kids are there for issues completely unrelated to the issues Thomas has. When I communicated with the person at the school system, she had memories of me making statements that I not only wouldn't have made, but I wouldn't even have THOUGHT. Things like having Thomas schooled at home. Wha..? I definitely want Thomas in a school setting so he can interact with his peers. Peers meaning kids with mobility and cognitive problems. Is this so difficult?
AARGGH.
He's only three and I'm already fighting the school system. This bodes ill for the next 15 years. And by God I am NOT letting him go to a school where fully-mobile kids with behavioral issues have the chance to pick on my child. Maybe I'm overreacting, but so be it. I will make this a positive experience for Thomas no matter what.
I probably need talking down off the ledge at this point. Any takers?
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
mommies and nannies and kids...oh my.
A good friend of mine invited us to join her and her kids today at the Country Club Pool (spoken with a bad English accent), so we met her over there this morning. This is one of the perks of being a stay-at-home mom. The experience, however, was an unexpected culture shock.
I remember going to the pool when I was young. We were skinny, crazy kids running around everywhere and our moms were there to make sure we didn't drown or turn blue and go into comas from hypothermia - moms who were harried but happy to have a place for their kids to swim off their excess energy during the day. There were the ubiquitous teenage girls there working on their tans and talking about boys and clothes and more boys. Remember the days when you tanned with baby oil? When sunscreen was only for your red-headed fair-skinned friend who burned after 5 minutes in the sun?
At The Club today there were, in fact, some skinny, crazy kids running around, but also a fair number of, ahem, chubby ones. I am astonished at how many 6 year old children have guts. I totally have this mental image of them all sitting around chugging Budweiser while they play their Nintendos like a bunch of fraternity boys.
Anyhoo...we arrived at the pool, found some tables and dropped off our stuff, then the kids and I headed to the baby pool. As they splashed around I did some people-watching. Hmmm, something seemed off...and then it hit me. Three-quarters of the children at The Club were with their nannies. But not Mary Poppins nannies, oh no. These nannies are twenty-something, hard-body college girls who look like they all took up starvation as a hobby. I mean come on, eat a COOKIE for pete's sake. All your little charges certainly do!
So, feeling totally insecure and having decided to put my t-shirt and shorts back on, my suburban housewife mind was then completely blown away by the ohmigod MOMS. I can't even begin to calculate the dollar amounts of the plastic surgery that must have happened for these women to look the way they do. Not a baby belly anywhere. Liposuction and tummy-tucks, anyone? And how on earth did they find time between their facials and appointments with personal trainers to tote their spawn to the pool?
Seriously, I'm not bitter. Or jealous. Hell, if I had a nanny and she looked like a Baywatch extra I guess I'd be bugging the Hubs for some plastic surgery too.
Plus, my kids have SO MUCH FUN jiggling the cellulite on my thighs; who am I to deny them that?
I remember going to the pool when I was young. We were skinny, crazy kids running around everywhere and our moms were there to make sure we didn't drown or turn blue and go into comas from hypothermia - moms who were harried but happy to have a place for their kids to swim off their excess energy during the day. There were the ubiquitous teenage girls there working on their tans and talking about boys and clothes and more boys. Remember the days when you tanned with baby oil? When sunscreen was only for your red-headed fair-skinned friend who burned after 5 minutes in the sun?
At The Club today there were, in fact, some skinny, crazy kids running around, but also a fair number of, ahem, chubby ones. I am astonished at how many 6 year old children have guts. I totally have this mental image of them all sitting around chugging Budweiser while they play their Nintendos like a bunch of fraternity boys.
Anyhoo...we arrived at the pool, found some tables and dropped off our stuff, then the kids and I headed to the baby pool. As they splashed around I did some people-watching. Hmmm, something seemed off...and then it hit me. Three-quarters of the children at The Club were with their nannies. But not Mary Poppins nannies, oh no. These nannies are twenty-something, hard-body college girls who look like they all took up starvation as a hobby. I mean come on, eat a COOKIE for pete's sake. All your little charges certainly do!
So, feeling totally insecure and having decided to put my t-shirt and shorts back on, my suburban housewife mind was then completely blown away by the ohmigod MOMS. I can't even begin to calculate the dollar amounts of the plastic surgery that must have happened for these women to look the way they do. Not a baby belly anywhere. Liposuction and tummy-tucks, anyone? And how on earth did they find time between their facials and appointments with personal trainers to tote their spawn to the pool?
Seriously, I'm not bitter. Or jealous. Hell, if I had a nanny and she looked like a Baywatch extra I guess I'd be bugging the Hubs for some plastic surgery too.
Plus, my kids have SO MUCH FUN jiggling the cellulite on my thighs; who am I to deny them that?
Thursday, July 10, 2008
The Revolving Door
Thomas has 4 therapists visit him every week. Yup, four people coming in and out, and in and out, and in and out of my home to work with my child. I used to feel the need to straighten up, maybe sweep the floor, even change out of my pajamas before any of them showed up. It was the hostess in me. "Can I offer you some tea? Anything to eat? How's your Mom?"
No longer. Now they are lucky if I've brushed my teeth before they get here. The first therapist of the week actually comes at the godawful, still peeling my eyes open time of 8:00 am Monday mornings. When I made the first appointment she offered to come at 7:30 but I didn't think I wanted her to be the first person awake in our house on Mondays. Unless she'd also start the coffeemaker and let the dogs out to pee.
Now, we mustn't forget to add in the CNA that comes 4 mornings a week. I LOOOOOVE her, by the way. I've started the paperwork to adopt her. Don't tell her parents.
Plus there's the housekeeper that comes in two afternoons a week to make sure we don't die of dust inhalation or whatever awful disease it is that's spread by dog hair going unvacuumed for months.
It's a revolving door at my house and it drives me crazy. Completely, brains-falling-out-my-head nutso.
Until they all had the week off because Thomas was staying with my parents. Then I got lonely. Monday was ok - Emerson and I slept in. We headed out to Target to buy stuff we didn't need. We took a nap - YAY for naps! We lazed around on the deck and then made new playlists for Mommy's iPod. It was a sleepy, do-nothing kind of day.
By Thursday I was twitchy from lack of company. When Hubs got home I talked so much he wanted to pull his ears off and stick them in his pocket until he went back to work the next day. I went to the grocery store every day just to chat with the check-out lady. I was excited to see the housekeeper.
Jeez, I thought, I need to get some friends that aren't paid to be here. I mean, I have friends. REALLY! I do. I just don't see them as often as I do Kelly, Anne, Pam, Seth and Brenna.
No longer. Now they are lucky if I've brushed my teeth before they get here. The first therapist of the week actually comes at the godawful, still peeling my eyes open time of 8:00 am Monday mornings. When I made the first appointment she offered to come at 7:30 but I didn't think I wanted her to be the first person awake in our house on Mondays. Unless she'd also start the coffeemaker and let the dogs out to pee.
Now, we mustn't forget to add in the CNA that comes 4 mornings a week. I LOOOOOVE her, by the way. I've started the paperwork to adopt her. Don't tell her parents.
Plus there's the housekeeper that comes in two afternoons a week to make sure we don't die of dust inhalation or whatever awful disease it is that's spread by dog hair going unvacuumed for months.
It's a revolving door at my house and it drives me crazy. Completely, brains-falling-out-my-head nutso.
Until they all had the week off because Thomas was staying with my parents. Then I got lonely. Monday was ok - Emerson and I slept in. We headed out to Target to buy stuff we didn't need. We took a nap - YAY for naps! We lazed around on the deck and then made new playlists for Mommy's iPod. It was a sleepy, do-nothing kind of day.
By Thursday I was twitchy from lack of company. When Hubs got home I talked so much he wanted to pull his ears off and stick them in his pocket until he went back to work the next day. I went to the grocery store every day just to chat with the check-out lady. I was excited to see the housekeeper.
Jeez, I thought, I need to get some friends that aren't paid to be here. I mean, I have friends. REALLY! I do. I just don't see them as often as I do Kelly, Anne, Pam, Seth and Brenna.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Just Call Me Grace
I was all set to go to the gym one day last week, but I had misplaced my iPod armband. I was bummed - that armband makes me feel so cool. So workout-y. It sorta makes me look like I know what I'm doing, which I definitely don't. So I had to improvise.
I got on the treadmill, punched in a preset workout and stuck my earbuds in my ears. Then, not really knowing what else to do with it, I stuck my iPod in my jogbra. I know - SEXY, especially with the cord to the earbuds emerging from my cleavage.
The gym was busier than usual for a Wednesday afternoon and there were several women on the ellipticals behind me. Plus that little dude that always wears dark socks pulled all the way up his shins was on a bike in front of me. But he's a whole 'nother post.
This is where I admit that I am strangely self-conscious at the gym. I like to go at 1:00 or 2:00 in the afternoon because almost no one else is there and I don't feel like I'm being *looked at*. The way I look at little dark-socks dude. I mean, what is UP with that guy?
SO, I'm huffing along on the treadmill doing 4.5 mph and working up a good sweat. I've got G-Love rockin' on the iPod and I'm feeling pretty good about my workout. Then my iPod slipped.
It fell out of the bottom of my jogbra, snapped to the end of the earbud cord and unplugged, fell to the treadmill and skittered off behind me. Without thinking, I turned around to catch it. I put one foot on the siderail and left the other on the moving part, slipped sideways and stumbled off the back. I had to keep running a couple of steps to stop myself from falling and I ended up against an elliptical, grabbing the rails for balance. Niiice.
I look up to see who was watching. Oh hi, just EVERYBODY. One of the ladies on the ellipticals stifled a grin and said "At least you didn't fall!"
Yeah, there's that.
I got on the treadmill, punched in a preset workout and stuck my earbuds in my ears. Then, not really knowing what else to do with it, I stuck my iPod in my jogbra. I know - SEXY, especially with the cord to the earbuds emerging from my cleavage.
The gym was busier than usual for a Wednesday afternoon and there were several women on the ellipticals behind me. Plus that little dude that always wears dark socks pulled all the way up his shins was on a bike in front of me. But he's a whole 'nother post.
This is where I admit that I am strangely self-conscious at the gym. I like to go at 1:00 or 2:00 in the afternoon because almost no one else is there and I don't feel like I'm being *looked at*. The way I look at little dark-socks dude. I mean, what is UP with that guy?
SO, I'm huffing along on the treadmill doing 4.5 mph and working up a good sweat. I've got G-Love rockin' on the iPod and I'm feeling pretty good about my workout. Then my iPod slipped.
It fell out of the bottom of my jogbra, snapped to the end of the earbud cord and unplugged, fell to the treadmill and skittered off behind me. Without thinking, I turned around to catch it. I put one foot on the siderail and left the other on the moving part, slipped sideways and stumbled off the back. I had to keep running a couple of steps to stop myself from falling and I ended up against an elliptical, grabbing the rails for balance. Niiice.
I look up to see who was watching. Oh hi, just EVERYBODY. One of the ladies on the ellipticals stifled a grin and said "At least you didn't fall!"
Yeah, there's that.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Eye see you
Sigh. It finally happened. The thing I used to joke about when Thomas first got his prosthetic eye.
We were at Target. My Mecca. My Reason for Being. Thomas was in the cart and Emmie was in the seat up front. BECAUSE, if I put Emmie in the cart she starts climbing out and I am SO not a fan of head injuries. I figured that Emmie in the seat, with a seatbelt, was the choice that would keep Child Protective Services from visiting. However, I discovered that Thomas in the cart unsupervised is also not a good idea.
We wandered through the ladies' clothing section and OK! I was checking out the junior department because I refuse to admit I'm too old for those clothes and theyaresodarnCUTE! and had just moved out into the main aisle to head over to the baby gear. Yeah, I don't buy clothes for myself, but baby gear? Someone hang onto my credit card, I'm about to go crazy.
I hear a *click*. I look around the cart wondering what I had dropped.
And there it is. Thomas's fake eye looking up at me from the floor.
Can you imagine the scene if this had happened on the carpeted section? I wouldn't have heard it drop. We would have been halfway across the store before he turned to look at me at which point I would have totally lost my shit and started retracing my steps to find it. Fake eyes don't come cheap, people.
And then, the announcement over the intercom. "Target shoppers, please take a moment to look around you. A prosthetic eye has been lost. If you find a prosthetic eye please don't scream, just kindly pick it up and bring it to Customer Service."
No, I definitely do not ever want to be the reason behind THAT little drama.
We were at Target. My Mecca. My Reason for Being. Thomas was in the cart and Emmie was in the seat up front. BECAUSE, if I put Emmie in the cart she starts climbing out and I am SO not a fan of head injuries. I figured that Emmie in the seat, with a seatbelt, was the choice that would keep Child Protective Services from visiting. However, I discovered that Thomas in the cart unsupervised is also not a good idea.
We wandered through the ladies' clothing section and OK! I was checking out the junior department because I refuse to admit I'm too old for those clothes and theyaresodarnCUTE! and had just moved out into the main aisle to head over to the baby gear. Yeah, I don't buy clothes for myself, but baby gear? Someone hang onto my credit card, I'm about to go crazy.
I hear a *click*. I look around the cart wondering what I had dropped.
And there it is. Thomas's fake eye looking up at me from the floor.
Can you imagine the scene if this had happened on the carpeted section? I wouldn't have heard it drop. We would have been halfway across the store before he turned to look at me at which point I would have totally lost my shit and started retracing my steps to find it. Fake eyes don't come cheap, people.
And then, the announcement over the intercom. "Target shoppers, please take a moment to look around you. A prosthetic eye has been lost. If you find a prosthetic eye please don't scream, just kindly pick it up and bring it to Customer Service."
No, I definitely do not ever want to be the reason behind THAT little drama.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
