First things first...Did you see the Grey's Anatomy finale? To quote all of my teenage students: "OMG!!!" I was completely on the edge of my seat (or, more accurately, the edge of my pillow in my nice, soft, cozy bed) the entire time. I was gripping my wine glass so hard, I thought it might crack. Disaster! I'm not sure I've ever seen such an exciting, suspensful, unexpected season finale in all my life. It was really good. And, since I consider trash TV like Grey's Anatomy and Desperate Housewives to be one of the keys to my sanity, I am proud to announce to the world how much I loved the finale. Seriously. Great television!
Completely unrelated to the above paragraph....I am now only 2 1/2 days away from surgery, and the clock is ticking...I spent the morning cooking meals to put in the freezer, because I remember from last time how damn hard it is to cook when you're on crutches. Then, three of my generous and lovely co-workers showed up with more meals for the freezer. Meals they had spent all morning preparing by hand. Good meals too. We're not talking tater tot casserole and macaroni and cheese here. We're talking sirloin, roast chicken, hawaiian meatballs, spare ribs...My family will be eating a lot better than they usually do.
It was incredibly sweet...and...it made this whole thing seem a lot more real. I really am about to have my ankle basically taken apart, pieces removed, new pieces put in, tendons and ligaments re-arranged, holes bored into bones...followed by months and months of rehabilitation. And, I'm kinda freaking out. Yes, I went through the first surgery just fine, and I'm sure I'll be OK this time around. Still...freaking.
The great thing is this...I can maintain my calm exterior with my family (with the exception of my meltdown the other day), and I can save my freak out to send out into cyberland to anyone who might be listening. That way, I appear to be handling this all with tremendous grace under pressure. NOT!
So, off I go...Wish me luck...Not sure when I'll be back, but I will be back!
Cheers!
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
The straw that broke this camel's back. Yes, I'm calling myself a camel. Whatever! I've been called worse.
I think, under the current circumstances, that I've been keeping things together pretty well. Did I have a minor meltdown upon learning that hubby dear is being laid off AGAIN? Yes, but it was mild, and I pulled it all together pretty quickly. Have I had my moments of despair about my upcoming surgery and being on crutches for who knows how many months afterwards while trying to take care of two little boys? Of course. But, if you don't count that one really scary dream I had about cadaver ligaments coming to life and bursting through my cast, as well as just a couple of minor little sobbing spells in the shower, I think I've handled that situation with a fair amount of stoicism and optimism as well.
But, there is only so much one woman can take.
And, Thursday's little adventure was the one that did me in...
It has to do with my darling old dog, Cosmo. I adopted him from the pound when he was just a little guy -- fat and fluffy and full of energy. Now, he's 12. He's just a little old man, who wants to take naps and fart and lick what's left of his boy parts. He's got weak hips, he can't see or hear very well, and he snores louder than my husband (which is a significant achievement, let me tell you). But, he's also pretty cheerful. Still wags his tail and engages with the family and looks forward to his meals...An optimist, just like me. Still, I know that the day is coming in the fairly near future, when it will be time to say goodbye. What I learned, yesterday, is that I am no way near being emotionally prepared for that to happen!
When I got home from work and picking up the kids and running errands (the usual craziness) around 4:30, I found my old dog, Cosmo, staggering around the room, falling over, his head tilted crazily to one side, and his eyes literally rolling around in his head. Did I handle this with any sort of grace under pressure? Hell no! I started bawling my eyes out. I called the vet, bawling, put Cosmo and the kids in the van, bawling (me, not the kids), sat in the waiting room, bawling, with Cos wrapped up in a blanket on my lap, his eyes still rolling crazily around in his head, his whole body shaking...it was horrible. The one bright spot was that my little boys were AWESOME! I told them I was crying because Cosmo is sick, and that I'm very worried about him. They took it in stride. They played with the toys in the vet's office, and they'd come over from time-to-time to pat Cos on the head or give me a hug. They were fantastic! Great little guys to have with you in a crisis, I guess.
Finally, we get called back into an examination room. In walks the doc., and he's the very same vet that saw Cosmo on the day I brought him in for his first puppy check-up. It was even the same exam room. This set me off into more bawling. And, you know how some women cry and still somehow manage to do it prettily? Their eyes turn into liquid pools, they get those big, fat tears that just roll perfectly down their faces, and they somehow just look fragile and kind've beautiful at the same time, like a lost puppy? Yeah. That's not me. This was full-on, ugly crying. There was heaving, there was snot, there was blotchiness...It was, in no way, pretty.
So, the doc. gets down on the floor with us and takes a look, as I sob and sniff. Then, he looks up at me and says, "This is actually quite common in dogs over 12 years old. It's called ideopathic vestibulitis." (Or something like that) To which I reply, "Does this mean (sob) that today (sniff, sob, snort) is his last day?" When he told me it wasn't going to be his last day, and that he would actually get over it in 10 days just by taking Benadryl twice a day, I cried even harder from the relief. The vet actually took my boys out of the room for a few minutes, got them each one of those big, fat, plastic medicine syringes,and then showed them how to turn them into water squirters. Need I say that this is a man who also has kids? He knew what needed to be done. Thank goodness for other parents, eh? Where would we be without them?
Anyway, in spite of the diagnosis, I was just completely undone by the experience. Truly. Un. Done. It was just too much. I pretty much cried off and on that entire night. I'm still exhausted from it, and that was 3 days ago. Clearly, I am not emotionally ready for the loss of my little old dog. And, clearly, my stress levels are a bit high right now.
So, listen up, Universe...Enough already!
I'm going to bed now...
Cheers!
But, there is only so much one woman can take.
And, Thursday's little adventure was the one that did me in...
It has to do with my darling old dog, Cosmo. I adopted him from the pound when he was just a little guy -- fat and fluffy and full of energy. Now, he's 12. He's just a little old man, who wants to take naps and fart and lick what's left of his boy parts. He's got weak hips, he can't see or hear very well, and he snores louder than my husband (which is a significant achievement, let me tell you). But, he's also pretty cheerful. Still wags his tail and engages with the family and looks forward to his meals...An optimist, just like me. Still, I know that the day is coming in the fairly near future, when it will be time to say goodbye. What I learned, yesterday, is that I am no way near being emotionally prepared for that to happen!
When I got home from work and picking up the kids and running errands (the usual craziness) around 4:30, I found my old dog, Cosmo, staggering around the room, falling over, his head tilted crazily to one side, and his eyes literally rolling around in his head. Did I handle this with any sort of grace under pressure? Hell no! I started bawling my eyes out. I called the vet, bawling, put Cosmo and the kids in the van, bawling (me, not the kids), sat in the waiting room, bawling, with Cos wrapped up in a blanket on my lap, his eyes still rolling crazily around in his head, his whole body shaking...it was horrible. The one bright spot was that my little boys were AWESOME! I told them I was crying because Cosmo is sick, and that I'm very worried about him. They took it in stride. They played with the toys in the vet's office, and they'd come over from time-to-time to pat Cos on the head or give me a hug. They were fantastic! Great little guys to have with you in a crisis, I guess.
Finally, we get called back into an examination room. In walks the doc., and he's the very same vet that saw Cosmo on the day I brought him in for his first puppy check-up. It was even the same exam room. This set me off into more bawling. And, you know how some women cry and still somehow manage to do it prettily? Their eyes turn into liquid pools, they get those big, fat tears that just roll perfectly down their faces, and they somehow just look fragile and kind've beautiful at the same time, like a lost puppy? Yeah. That's not me. This was full-on, ugly crying. There was heaving, there was snot, there was blotchiness...It was, in no way, pretty.
So, the doc. gets down on the floor with us and takes a look, as I sob and sniff. Then, he looks up at me and says, "This is actually quite common in dogs over 12 years old. It's called ideopathic vestibulitis." (Or something like that) To which I reply, "Does this mean (sob) that today (sniff, sob, snort) is his last day?" When he told me it wasn't going to be his last day, and that he would actually get over it in 10 days just by taking Benadryl twice a day, I cried even harder from the relief. The vet actually took my boys out of the room for a few minutes, got them each one of those big, fat, plastic medicine syringes,and then showed them how to turn them into water squirters. Need I say that this is a man who also has kids? He knew what needed to be done. Thank goodness for other parents, eh? Where would we be without them?
Anyway, in spite of the diagnosis, I was just completely undone by the experience. Truly. Un. Done. It was just too much. I pretty much cried off and on that entire night. I'm still exhausted from it, and that was 3 days ago. Clearly, I am not emotionally ready for the loss of my little old dog. And, clearly, my stress levels are a bit high right now.
So, listen up, Universe...Enough already!
I'm going to bed now...
Cheers!
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Zits? Are you kidding me?!!!
So, tomorrow is my (gulp) 42nd birthday. FORTY - FRIGGIN - TWO! I'm not one of those people who freaks out about birthdays, either. I feel really lucky to have survived this many years, mostly in one piece, and with a lot of (mostly) great memories and experiences. Still, entering the 40's, on the whole, has been a bit of a shock to my system...
For example, I never expected to be dealing with menopausal symptoms at such a relatively young age. Night sweats, insomnia, hormonal mood swings, decreased libido, the whole lot...(Thanks, Mom. My doctor tells me I have your genes to blame for such an early onset. Sigh...)
I also never expected that, along with these other lovely symptoms of aging, I would suddenly be experiencing outbreaks of acne to rival the outbreaks of the middle school kids with whom I work. Acne? At 42? Are you kidding me?!!! Is there no justice in the world?!!!
Oh, and throw in wrinkles there, too, will ya? I'm not just talking those crinkly crows' feet you get around your eyes from smiling, either. Oh no...Now I've got all those other "expression lines" as well. The deep forehead wrinkles, the lines around the mouth, etc., etc. Wrinkles AND acne at the same time? How is that fair?
Gravity. Gravity apparently decides to really kick in when you're in your 40's. All kinds of things start to head south....Makes you really start to work on positive thinking and loving yourself for "who you are" instead of "what you look like". Why? Because you have no choice, unless you're a fabulously wealthy movie star, who can afford to take frightening (and frighteningly expensive) steps to defy all that gravity.
Other shocks have occurred as well. Like many, many other people in our country, I never imagined that, with college educations and good jobs, between the ages of 40 and 42, my family would experience two layoffs and not be sure how we would make ends meet. I thought we'd be putting away a little money toward college funds for the boys, maybe saving for a trip to Disneyland...Not quite how things have turned out. (And, for that, George Dubya and company, I'd like to say "Thanks a lot!")
I also didn't imagine myself having major surgery not once, but, after two weeks from today, TWICE! I didn't think this body would be falling apart quite so soon...
On the other hand, my 40's have also brought me:
Countless hugs, kisses, tickle-fights, and surprises from my two little boys.
Shared challenges that have brought my husband and I closer than ever before.
Great moments at work that reinforce my belief that I was born to be a middle school counselor.
Precious time spent with my Mom and Dad.
A do-it-yourself kitchen remodel that I will never forget!
New, wonderful, strong, passionate, intelligent, hilarious female friends.
More laughter and chaos than I could ever imagine!
So, 42...bring. it. on.
Cheers!
For example, I never expected to be dealing with menopausal symptoms at such a relatively young age. Night sweats, insomnia, hormonal mood swings, decreased libido, the whole lot...(Thanks, Mom. My doctor tells me I have your genes to blame for such an early onset. Sigh...)
I also never expected that, along with these other lovely symptoms of aging, I would suddenly be experiencing outbreaks of acne to rival the outbreaks of the middle school kids with whom I work. Acne? At 42? Are you kidding me?!!! Is there no justice in the world?!!!
Oh, and throw in wrinkles there, too, will ya? I'm not just talking those crinkly crows' feet you get around your eyes from smiling, either. Oh no...Now I've got all those other "expression lines" as well. The deep forehead wrinkles, the lines around the mouth, etc., etc. Wrinkles AND acne at the same time? How is that fair?
Gravity. Gravity apparently decides to really kick in when you're in your 40's. All kinds of things start to head south....Makes you really start to work on positive thinking and loving yourself for "who you are" instead of "what you look like". Why? Because you have no choice, unless you're a fabulously wealthy movie star, who can afford to take frightening (and frighteningly expensive) steps to defy all that gravity.
Other shocks have occurred as well. Like many, many other people in our country, I never imagined that, with college educations and good jobs, between the ages of 40 and 42, my family would experience two layoffs and not be sure how we would make ends meet. I thought we'd be putting away a little money toward college funds for the boys, maybe saving for a trip to Disneyland...Not quite how things have turned out. (And, for that, George Dubya and company, I'd like to say "Thanks a lot!")
I also didn't imagine myself having major surgery not once, but, after two weeks from today, TWICE! I didn't think this body would be falling apart quite so soon...
On the other hand, my 40's have also brought me:
Countless hugs, kisses, tickle-fights, and surprises from my two little boys.
Shared challenges that have brought my husband and I closer than ever before.
Great moments at work that reinforce my belief that I was born to be a middle school counselor.
Precious time spent with my Mom and Dad.
A do-it-yourself kitchen remodel that I will never forget!
New, wonderful, strong, passionate, intelligent, hilarious female friends.
More laughter and chaos than I could ever imagine!
So, 42...bring. it. on.
Cheers!
Thursday, May 6, 2010
A visit to the lovely state of...denial!
I'm a counselor, so I know that denial can be a bad thing. You have to get past denial to really deal with your issues, right? Well, I also firmly believe that it can sometimes be therapeutic to live in denial for a bit. So, that's where hubby and I have been living for the last couple of days...the state of denial.
Denial of what?
Denial that John is going to be laid off for the second time in three years, because short-sighted people in our community didn't want to approve an incremental tax increase that would save our public transit system. This, I could go on and on and on about, but that's a subject for another time (or for a drunken rant with sympathetic friends)...
Denial that, because of his upcoming layoff, I have to have my (second) ankle surgery a month sooner than originally scheduled, to make sure everything is covered by our health insurance before we lose it to his layoff or to a miraculously-occurring new job that could materialize out of nowhere but might not provide full coverage for the surgery...
Denial that, moving the surgery a month earlier means that I will miss the last 3 weeks of the school year, losing crucial time with students I care deeply about and with friends and co-workers who are moving on to different buildings next year...
Denial that I now have to cram two months' end-of-the-year work into my remaining 3 weeks before surgery, meaning that I have to spend countless hours working my ass off outside of the work day to get it done. Precious hours I should be spending having active fun with my boys before I'm back on crutches and in excrutiating pain...again. (Did I mention this is Round Two of the ankle surgery merry-go-round???)
Denial that we've only just started to rebuild our finances from the first layoff, and now we're going backwards once again...
Now, here's the thing about denial...It can be hard to fully embrace denial, when you're surrounded by all of the regular, everyday pieces of your deteriorating life, right?
So, we left town.
Took care of some pre-surgery stuff, first, and then headed down south to blow money we no longer have on two wonderful days spent in Nirvana (more commonly known as Great Wolf Lodge -- the world's coolest indoor water park). We played and played and played some more in our climate-controlled oasis, while the weather raged outside and the rest of the world went on with their everyday lives. We drank wine, stayed up too late, ate Fruit Loops with the kids, laughed our heads off, and enjoyed every second of it. (OK, there was the one time on the family raft ride, where the raft got turned around so I was facing backwards. Never a good thing, when you're prone to motion sickness. It took me 20 minutes of peaceful floating in the wave pool before my stomach stopped churning...I know, I know. Poor little me, right? Forced to endure peaceful floating. Life is rough.)
Anyway, our visit to Denial Land had to end. And, boy, did it end with a bang. First, there was the 11-car pile-up on the way home. Thankfully, we weren't caught in the accident, just the aftermath. Still, it added 2 hours to the trip home. (We knew it couldn't be good when 5 tow trucks drove by on the side of the highway. Luckily, no one was killed or even seriously injured, according to the news that night.)
Then, there was the first day back at work after being gone. Brutal. I could work 24 hours a day until surgery day, and I still wouldn't get it all done. This was followed by the usual mad dash to pick up both little boys, followed by about 4 more hours of work at home, as the boys said things like "MOMMY! Why are you doing so much work? Play with us!" "Yeah, Mommy. How come you're not playing with us?"
Then, there was my ultrasound yesterday. Trying to figure out some "girlie issues" that are going on, including cysts on one of my ovaries. Anyway...too much information. But, picture this, if you can. I'm wearing only my sweatshirt and socks, a hospital gown wrapped around my waist. My (thankfully female) ultrasound technician has finished the exterior portion of the ultrasound and moved on to the interior portion of the exam (if you know what I mean). I'm cringing and bearing it, because, what choice do I have, right? Then the fire alarm goes off. I'm not kidding. Fire - friggin' - alarm. I looked at her and said, "I don't care what you say, I'm not going out there without my pants on."
As if that wasn't enough of a re-entry to reality... This morning, I was dropping little Foster off in his pre-school class, chatting with the teacher about his latest behavioral issues, when one of the front desk ladies came in with a worried look on her face and said, "Beth, there's something I have to tell you. The landscaper who was mowing the lawn by the parking lot just accidentally broke one of the windows on your van."
Oh, yes. 10 minutes before I'm supposed to be at work across town...Front passenger side window --totally shattered!
As for any leftover "zen" feelings from our trip to the state of denial? Also totally shattered. Sigh.
Cheers!
Denial of what?
Denial that John is going to be laid off for the second time in three years, because short-sighted people in our community didn't want to approve an incremental tax increase that would save our public transit system. This, I could go on and on and on about, but that's a subject for another time (or for a drunken rant with sympathetic friends)...
Denial that, because of his upcoming layoff, I have to have my (second) ankle surgery a month sooner than originally scheduled, to make sure everything is covered by our health insurance before we lose it to his layoff or to a miraculously-occurring new job that could materialize out of nowhere but might not provide full coverage for the surgery...
Denial that, moving the surgery a month earlier means that I will miss the last 3 weeks of the school year, losing crucial time with students I care deeply about and with friends and co-workers who are moving on to different buildings next year...
Denial that I now have to cram two months' end-of-the-year work into my remaining 3 weeks before surgery, meaning that I have to spend countless hours working my ass off outside of the work day to get it done. Precious hours I should be spending having active fun with my boys before I'm back on crutches and in excrutiating pain...again. (Did I mention this is Round Two of the ankle surgery merry-go-round???)
Denial that we've only just started to rebuild our finances from the first layoff, and now we're going backwards once again...
Now, here's the thing about denial...It can be hard to fully embrace denial, when you're surrounded by all of the regular, everyday pieces of your deteriorating life, right?
So, we left town.
Took care of some pre-surgery stuff, first, and then headed down south to blow money we no longer have on two wonderful days spent in Nirvana (more commonly known as Great Wolf Lodge -- the world's coolest indoor water park). We played and played and played some more in our climate-controlled oasis, while the weather raged outside and the rest of the world went on with their everyday lives. We drank wine, stayed up too late, ate Fruit Loops with the kids, laughed our heads off, and enjoyed every second of it. (OK, there was the one time on the family raft ride, where the raft got turned around so I was facing backwards. Never a good thing, when you're prone to motion sickness. It took me 20 minutes of peaceful floating in the wave pool before my stomach stopped churning...I know, I know. Poor little me, right? Forced to endure peaceful floating. Life is rough.)
Anyway, our visit to Denial Land had to end. And, boy, did it end with a bang. First, there was the 11-car pile-up on the way home. Thankfully, we weren't caught in the accident, just the aftermath. Still, it added 2 hours to the trip home. (We knew it couldn't be good when 5 tow trucks drove by on the side of the highway. Luckily, no one was killed or even seriously injured, according to the news that night.)
Then, there was the first day back at work after being gone. Brutal. I could work 24 hours a day until surgery day, and I still wouldn't get it all done. This was followed by the usual mad dash to pick up both little boys, followed by about 4 more hours of work at home, as the boys said things like "MOMMY! Why are you doing so much work? Play with us!" "Yeah, Mommy. How come you're not playing with us?"
Then, there was my ultrasound yesterday. Trying to figure out some "girlie issues" that are going on, including cysts on one of my ovaries. Anyway...too much information. But, picture this, if you can. I'm wearing only my sweatshirt and socks, a hospital gown wrapped around my waist. My (thankfully female) ultrasound technician has finished the exterior portion of the ultrasound and moved on to the interior portion of the exam (if you know what I mean). I'm cringing and bearing it, because, what choice do I have, right? Then the fire alarm goes off. I'm not kidding. Fire - friggin' - alarm. I looked at her and said, "I don't care what you say, I'm not going out there without my pants on."
As if that wasn't enough of a re-entry to reality... This morning, I was dropping little Foster off in his pre-school class, chatting with the teacher about his latest behavioral issues, when one of the front desk ladies came in with a worried look on her face and said, "Beth, there's something I have to tell you. The landscaper who was mowing the lawn by the parking lot just accidentally broke one of the windows on your van."
Oh, yes. 10 minutes before I'm supposed to be at work across town...Front passenger side window --totally shattered!
As for any leftover "zen" feelings from our trip to the state of denial? Also totally shattered. Sigh.
Cheers!
Friday, April 30, 2010
There's no place like...bed!
This entire blog is an homage to my bed. My big, fat, fluffy, warm, cozy, wonderful bed. I LOVE MY BED!
Here's a brief history: About 6 years ago, my in-laws were downsizing to a smaller place, so they wanted to give us the king size bed frame they had in storage. My response to this offer? "Sweetie, we don't NEED a king size bed. It's too much bed for us. It'll be expensive to buy a mattress set, and a king size bed is HUGE! We really, really don't need it. Tell your parents we don't want the bed frame. Seriously, John. Tell them. I don't want a king size bed." Flash forward a few weeks, and I am at the mattress store with hubby, picking out a king size mattress set (Ka-ching!) and grumbling about it the entire time. "Grumble, grumble, don't need a bed this big, whine, whine, complain, can't afford it, grumble, grumble, stupid giant bed, mumble, mumble..."
Flash forward to the present. My king size bed is now my absolute favorite place in my house. Why? I'll tell you why...
It's huge! Huge enough for me, hubby, and both of my boys to climb in all together for a family tickle fight or a marathon of weekend morning cartoons, or family story time. And, nobody is hanging off the sides complaining 'cuz his leg is sticking out of the bed or he's about to fall off. We all fit. All four of us. Beautifully, and with room to spare.
I can sleep spread out like a starfish, if I want to. And, I want to. Oh, yes. I want to. Aaaaaahhhh...
Now, I was worried that hubby and I wouldn't snuggle anymore, with such a huge bed. Not a problem. It's just that I can have the snuggly part first and move to sleeping spread out like a starfish later. It's perfect!
If you're fighting with your bed partner, a gigantic bed comes in handy too. You know the old saying, "Never go to bed mad."? Well, now that I have a king size bed, I'm pretty sure that saying was made up by somebody who had a much smaller bed. Somebody who knew she was going to have to come into physical contact with her partner, even if she didn't want to. So, along comes that old saying. What it really means, I'm now convinced, is this: "Never go to bed mad, because you know at some point your foot is going to touch your partner's foot, and you don't want to end up kicking the crap out of him for being the idiot that he has been today." And, the second part of it should be: "Unless you have a king size bed. If you have a king size bed, feel free to go to bed furious with your partner, because you have enough room in your bed that you won't have to come into contact at all. And, frankly, sometimes it feels really good to go to bed mad, doesn' it? So, go for it, all you king size bed owners!"
The size of this masterpiece also means that when a little boy crawls into bed at 3am after having a nightmare, I have plenty of room to maneuver, so that I can snuggle him without the risk of getting kicked in the shins or knocked in the solar plexus as he wiggles around in his sleep. No more middle-of-the-night elbows to the chin for me. Woo hoo!
Ah, my bed.
Cheers!
Here's a brief history: About 6 years ago, my in-laws were downsizing to a smaller place, so they wanted to give us the king size bed frame they had in storage. My response to this offer? "Sweetie, we don't NEED a king size bed. It's too much bed for us. It'll be expensive to buy a mattress set, and a king size bed is HUGE! We really, really don't need it. Tell your parents we don't want the bed frame. Seriously, John. Tell them. I don't want a king size bed." Flash forward a few weeks, and I am at the mattress store with hubby, picking out a king size mattress set (Ka-ching!) and grumbling about it the entire time. "Grumble, grumble, don't need a bed this big, whine, whine, complain, can't afford it, grumble, grumble, stupid giant bed, mumble, mumble..."
Flash forward to the present. My king size bed is now my absolute favorite place in my house. Why? I'll tell you why...
It's huge! Huge enough for me, hubby, and both of my boys to climb in all together for a family tickle fight or a marathon of weekend morning cartoons, or family story time. And, nobody is hanging off the sides complaining 'cuz his leg is sticking out of the bed or he's about to fall off. We all fit. All four of us. Beautifully, and with room to spare.
I can sleep spread out like a starfish, if I want to. And, I want to. Oh, yes. I want to. Aaaaaahhhh...
Now, I was worried that hubby and I wouldn't snuggle anymore, with such a huge bed. Not a problem. It's just that I can have the snuggly part first and move to sleeping spread out like a starfish later. It's perfect!
If you're fighting with your bed partner, a gigantic bed comes in handy too. You know the old saying, "Never go to bed mad."? Well, now that I have a king size bed, I'm pretty sure that saying was made up by somebody who had a much smaller bed. Somebody who knew she was going to have to come into physical contact with her partner, even if she didn't want to. So, along comes that old saying. What it really means, I'm now convinced, is this: "Never go to bed mad, because you know at some point your foot is going to touch your partner's foot, and you don't want to end up kicking the crap out of him for being the idiot that he has been today." And, the second part of it should be: "Unless you have a king size bed. If you have a king size bed, feel free to go to bed furious with your partner, because you have enough room in your bed that you won't have to come into contact at all. And, frankly, sometimes it feels really good to go to bed mad, doesn' it? So, go for it, all you king size bed owners!"
The size of this masterpiece also means that when a little boy crawls into bed at 3am after having a nightmare, I have plenty of room to maneuver, so that I can snuggle him without the risk of getting kicked in the shins or knocked in the solar plexus as he wiggles around in his sleep. No more middle-of-the-night elbows to the chin for me. Woo hoo!
Ah, my bed.
Cheers!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Still pooping? Still? Really? STILL pooping?
I am the Mom you see lurking outside her child's potty stall in the public bathrooms, pacing back and forth and, every minute or so, asking, "Foster? Honey, aren't you done yet? Do you need some help or something?" And, why, you may ask, do I do this? Because my 4 1/2 year old son takes longer to poop than anyone I've ever met!!! (Even longer than my husband, and, let me tell you, hubby dearest can disappear into the bathroom with a book and not be seen again for what seems like hours...)
I don't know what it is with this little kiddo of mine, but he insists that he has to go "RIGHT NOW, MOMMY! I have to poop RIGHT NOW! I CAN'T HOLD IT!!!!" This prompts a mad dash to the nearest restroom. Then, what happens once he's perched up there on the seat? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. For a very long time. All the while, my little guy is insisting that he is, in fact, pooping. He seems to be happy as a clam, just sitting up there, singing a little song or whistling a little tune, waiting (endlessly) for the poop to arrive. Meanwhile, I'm apologizing to all the ladies who are waiting to use the stall... "Sorry, my little guy is in there." "Yeah, he takes a long time." "I'm so sorry. You can't rush these things, you know." "He's only four."
Today, after SEVENTEEN MINUTES in the stall at the playground, Foster finally came out. I was totally flustered by that time, because several Moms had already come and gone with their little ones, and I was starting to imagine glares directed at the back of my head, as more and more people were forced to rotate through the one remaining free stall..."Fos," I asked. "Why does it take you so long to poop?"
His answer:
"Because you keep interrupting me to ask me if I'm done yet."
Sigh.
Cheers!
I don't know what it is with this little kiddo of mine, but he insists that he has to go "RIGHT NOW, MOMMY! I have to poop RIGHT NOW! I CAN'T HOLD IT!!!!" This prompts a mad dash to the nearest restroom. Then, what happens once he's perched up there on the seat? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. For a very long time. All the while, my little guy is insisting that he is, in fact, pooping. He seems to be happy as a clam, just sitting up there, singing a little song or whistling a little tune, waiting (endlessly) for the poop to arrive. Meanwhile, I'm apologizing to all the ladies who are waiting to use the stall... "Sorry, my little guy is in there." "Yeah, he takes a long time." "I'm so sorry. You can't rush these things, you know." "He's only four."
Today, after SEVENTEEN MINUTES in the stall at the playground, Foster finally came out. I was totally flustered by that time, because several Moms had already come and gone with their little ones, and I was starting to imagine glares directed at the back of my head, as more and more people were forced to rotate through the one remaining free stall..."Fos," I asked. "Why does it take you so long to poop?"
His answer:
"Because you keep interrupting me to ask me if I'm done yet."
Sigh.
Cheers!
Sunday, April 25, 2010
I want to be like George!
Do you ever actually sit down and watch Curious George with your kids? I do. Almost every single time it's on. I can't resist. Seriously. Usually, if the 'toons are going on, it's because I have to make dinner or do seventeen loads of laundry or, I'll admit it, just lie down on my bed for a brief sanity break, without my boys attempting to dismember one another. That's when I use "T.V. Nanny" to occupy their time and ensure a respite from the usual chaos. (By the way, now that I actually have two little rugrats of my own, I think the people that write those books saying, sanctimoniously, "Never use the television as a babysitter!" have either never had children, or have live-in human nannies to watch over their children while they go about the business of keeping a household running.) Anyway, when Curious George comes on, I'm literally helpless to resist. I hear that catchy tune, and I'm right there on the couch with my boys, eagerly awaiting George's next adventure. I'm pretty sure I like it even more than the boys do...
Why am I so mesmerized by Curious George? I'll tell you why in two words: Optimism and enthusiasm. Not mine. His. Have you ever seen another T.V. character who has more optimism and enthusiasm than George? Betcha haven't. This little guy approaches every single thing in his life with the attitude that it's all going to be OK. Not just OK, actually, but also a lot of fun. And, if it turns out not to be much fun, afterall, he somehow finds a way to be happy about it, anyway. And, George is enthusiastic about absolutely everything. The tiniest little discovery or the smallest reward sends him into a frenzy of hand-clapping and "ooh-ooh, aah-aah's" and jumping up and down. He's awesome. Yes, I know he's only a cartoon, but he's still awesome.
I want to be like George.
Cheers!
Why am I so mesmerized by Curious George? I'll tell you why in two words: Optimism and enthusiasm. Not mine. His. Have you ever seen another T.V. character who has more optimism and enthusiasm than George? Betcha haven't. This little guy approaches every single thing in his life with the attitude that it's all going to be OK. Not just OK, actually, but also a lot of fun. And, if it turns out not to be much fun, afterall, he somehow finds a way to be happy about it, anyway. And, George is enthusiastic about absolutely everything. The tiniest little discovery or the smallest reward sends him into a frenzy of hand-clapping and "ooh-ooh, aah-aah's" and jumping up and down. He's awesome. Yes, I know he's only a cartoon, but he's still awesome.
I want to be like George.
Cheers!
Sunday, April 4, 2010
It might seem silly, but it's STILL a milestone for us.
I am writing this on Easter. Not being religious folks, Easter, for our little family, is all about coloring eggs, the bunny, the egg hunt, and yet another excuse to eat as much sugar as we want. All. Day. Long. And, since John currently has Sundays off from work, we actually got to spend the holiday together as a family. Woo hoo!
Our Easter began at 5:45am., when the giggling, loud whispering, and pitter-patter footsteps of excited little boys began. Followed immediately by parental groaning, whining, and exclamations along the lines of: "Pleeaaaasseeeee....Make them go back to sleep!" "It's too early to start Easter!" "It's your turn to make the coffee." "No, it's not." "Yes, it is. I made it last time." "But, I let the dogs out." "It's still your turn." "Ugh!"
So, it began...We ate our first jellybeans and malted milk balls around 6:30am. (They go surprisingly well with coffee, as a matter of fact.) It's now 7:30pm, and it's been pretty much constant candy consumption all day. Well, breakfast was officially pancakes, smothered in syrup. Healthy! Oh, and there was McDonalds for lunch. And, milkshakes at Sonic Burger. And, we stopped off for Mexican food on the way home. I can, literally, feel my arteries hardening right now. And, we probably stunted our children's growth or something, too...I promise, this is not the way we usually eat. But, it's Easter!
I digress, as usual. (This time, I'll blame it on the enormous quantities of high-fructose corn syrup I ingested today.) The whole point of this is that, today, we did something with our boys that we have never, ever, ever done before, and it was, in the immortal words of Dash, from 'The Incredibles'...Totally wicked!!!" We took the boys to their very first movie in an actual movie theater. Yep. A real movie theater. This was a very big deal for us. And, not only was it their first time in a movie theater, it was a 3-D movie! Could it be any more exciting??? We took them to see, "How to Train Your Dragon", and it was, seriously, one of the best times I've ever had at a movie in my life. I was so excited for them, I could hardly stand it. I was definitely more excited than they were, but, then again, I have always loved going to the movies, especially back when hubby and I actually went on dates. Six years ago. Right before Spencer was born. Followed almost exactly one year later by Foster. Sigh.
Anyway, John and I sat together in the middle, with one little boy on each end, perched on a booster seat, oversized 3-D glasses balanced on their little noses. (So cute!) Of course, we had coached them at home, and in the car, and while waiting in line for tickets, about not talking, going pee right before the movie starts, not kicking the seat in front of you, etc., etc...Still, you're never really sure how things are going to go, until you're in the moment, right? I was worried the movie would be way too loud, or they'd freak out at the size of the screen, or somebody would have to take one of their momentously-long poops right in the middle or something...But, it was perfect. Absolutely perfect. They were riveted! And, the 3-D thing was really cool. (Man, the effects have come a long, long way since the last time I saw a 3-D movie. Amazing! And, that tells you how long it's been since we saw a movie in the theater...Avatar? Nope, haven't seen it. Heard it's really good. Sob.) Anyhoo, things got going, and Foster immediately took his glasses off, looked at the screen, then put the glasses back on and exclaimed, "Hey! There's things coming right out of the movie into the air!" Spencer's mouth just opened wide, his hands sort of floated up into the air, and he whispered, "Awesome!"
The whole experience was so much fun. Holding my sweetie's hand, snuggling Spencer on my lap (the booster seat didn't last long for him), and experiencing a really positive, joyful, exciting family movie, with all of my boys together, for the very first time. To quote my son...."Awesome!"
Of course, after sitting still and silent for that long, we had to spend the next 2 hours running around at a park burning off some of that stored-up little-boy energy. And, of course we needed some more sugar. And Mexican food. Seriously. Who wants to go home and cook after such a momentous day, right?
A great day. A great "first". I will remember it always.
Cheers!
Our Easter began at 5:45am., when the giggling, loud whispering, and pitter-patter footsteps of excited little boys began. Followed immediately by parental groaning, whining, and exclamations along the lines of: "Pleeaaaasseeeee....Make them go back to sleep!" "It's too early to start Easter!" "It's your turn to make the coffee." "No, it's not." "Yes, it is. I made it last time." "But, I let the dogs out." "It's still your turn." "Ugh!"
So, it began...We ate our first jellybeans and malted milk balls around 6:30am. (They go surprisingly well with coffee, as a matter of fact.) It's now 7:30pm, and it's been pretty much constant candy consumption all day. Well, breakfast was officially pancakes, smothered in syrup. Healthy! Oh, and there was McDonalds for lunch. And, milkshakes at Sonic Burger. And, we stopped off for Mexican food on the way home. I can, literally, feel my arteries hardening right now. And, we probably stunted our children's growth or something, too...I promise, this is not the way we usually eat. But, it's Easter!
I digress, as usual. (This time, I'll blame it on the enormous quantities of high-fructose corn syrup I ingested today.) The whole point of this is that, today, we did something with our boys that we have never, ever, ever done before, and it was, in the immortal words of Dash, from 'The Incredibles'...Totally wicked!!!" We took the boys to their very first movie in an actual movie theater. Yep. A real movie theater. This was a very big deal for us. And, not only was it their first time in a movie theater, it was a 3-D movie! Could it be any more exciting??? We took them to see, "How to Train Your Dragon", and it was, seriously, one of the best times I've ever had at a movie in my life. I was so excited for them, I could hardly stand it. I was definitely more excited than they were, but, then again, I have always loved going to the movies, especially back when hubby and I actually went on dates. Six years ago. Right before Spencer was born. Followed almost exactly one year later by Foster. Sigh.
Anyway, John and I sat together in the middle, with one little boy on each end, perched on a booster seat, oversized 3-D glasses balanced on their little noses. (So cute!) Of course, we had coached them at home, and in the car, and while waiting in line for tickets, about not talking, going pee right before the movie starts, not kicking the seat in front of you, etc., etc...Still, you're never really sure how things are going to go, until you're in the moment, right? I was worried the movie would be way too loud, or they'd freak out at the size of the screen, or somebody would have to take one of their momentously-long poops right in the middle or something...But, it was perfect. Absolutely perfect. They were riveted! And, the 3-D thing was really cool. (Man, the effects have come a long, long way since the last time I saw a 3-D movie. Amazing! And, that tells you how long it's been since we saw a movie in the theater...Avatar? Nope, haven't seen it. Heard it's really good. Sob.) Anyhoo, things got going, and Foster immediately took his glasses off, looked at the screen, then put the glasses back on and exclaimed, "Hey! There's things coming right out of the movie into the air!" Spencer's mouth just opened wide, his hands sort of floated up into the air, and he whispered, "Awesome!"
The whole experience was so much fun. Holding my sweetie's hand, snuggling Spencer on my lap (the booster seat didn't last long for him), and experiencing a really positive, joyful, exciting family movie, with all of my boys together, for the very first time. To quote my son...."Awesome!"
Of course, after sitting still and silent for that long, we had to spend the next 2 hours running around at a park burning off some of that stored-up little-boy energy. And, of course we needed some more sugar. And Mexican food. Seriously. Who wants to go home and cook after such a momentous day, right?
A great day. A great "first". I will remember it always.
Cheers!
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Important questions about little boys (and some other stuff)...
So, the deal around here is that hubby never knows what his work shift is going to be until 6:30 the night before. AND, once he's been given a shift, it can change at a moment's notice. Fun, fun, fun!!! What this means for this Mommy is that I can't plan anything other than playdates, since I never know if hubby is going to be available to be the Parent-In-Charge. No plans. Ever. (And, as a control-freak planner, this has been seriously life-altering for me!)
"Hey, Beth. Wanna come out for girls' night next Saturday?" "I'll let you know at 6:30 the night before."
"Hey, Beth. We're going to try to get tickets for a concert next month. Do you want in on it?" "Um....I won't know if I can go until 6:30 the night before."
"We're all going to see a chickflick Friday night. Can you come?" "I'll let you know at 6:30 Thursday night."
You get the picture...Actually, most people who know me just don't even bother to ask anymore, which is a mixed bag. I don't have to say, "I"ll let you know at 6:30 the night before." for the millionth time, but it's also kind of isolating. On the flip side, my boys are seriously bonded with me, because we have so much time together. So, so, so much time...sigh.
But, even with such a psycho schedule, there are ways around it. Like, inviting girlfriends to come over to my place for wine after the kids go to bed. Hubby might show up, he might not. But, as long as it's at my house, I can have some semblance of a social life. (In the summertime, when my porch swing is up, I call this little event, "Swinging Saturdays", because we sit around on the porch swing sipping, laughing, noshing, and basically having a lovely time, while the boys snooze away inside.)
That was a long, long introduction that really has nothing much to do with the topic of this blog. But, I'm sleep-deprived, a teeny bit hungover, and feeling kinda rambly... So, deal with it. Here's the situation. Last night, one of my girlfriends came over for the aforementioned "wine night". (Not only that, she brought the wine and snacks with her. How great is that? Thanks, girl!) Anyway, this particular friend is a stay-at-home mother of two boys, so, as usual, after we talked about husbands, neighbors, my work stuff, politics, the state of the world, blah, blah, blah, the subject turned to our little rays of sunshine. In particular, the fact that my little angels have been arguing nonstop about everything under the sun for the last three days, driving me slowly but surely toward a nervous breakdown, and I'm about ready to give them up for adoption!
"I know, I know," said my friend. And then, she asked the question that prompted this blog:
"What is it with little boys? How come they can't wash their hands in the sink together without fighting, but they will happily pee into the same toilet at the same time?" Bwaaa haaa haaaa... SO TRUE!
This question got me thinking. So, to fill up last night's particular bout of insomnia, I found myself asking a lot of important questions about my boys. I thought I'd jot a few of them down, so I can laugh about them later, when my little darlings are past this stage (they are going to get past this stage, right?).
How come my little boys can wake up at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning and start out their day playing with Legos or their stuffed animals or something, giggling and getting along famously, but the very second I rally myself to get up and truly start the day (Translation: make a huge pot of incredibly strong coffee), they start throwing blocks, fighting over their toys, and saying things like, "MOOOOOMMMMYYYYY...Spence took my toy, and I wasn't done with it!" or "MOOOMMMMMMYYYYYYY....Fos pulled the arm off my robot!!!" or "MOOOMMMMMYYYYYY...Foster said there are no such things as aliens. He's lying!" "No, I'm not!" "Yes, you are!" "No, I'm not!" "Yes, you are!" "NO, I'M NOT!" "MOOOOMMMMYYYYYYYY!!!!" ?
"Oh, we just love having Spencer over to our house. He's SO good about sharing toys!"
"Ummmm, are you sure you're talking about the right kid?" (The one who just threw a major temper tantrum in our living room, because he didn't want to share the monster blocks with his brother?"
"Foster is so sweet and helpful. He is just a joy to have around."
"MY Foster?" (The one who just yelled "NO!" at me, when I asked him to put away his markers?)
BUT...
The minute I call out, "Dinner's ready. Go wash your hands!", they're nowhere to be found. Then, after all the whining, complaining, begging, etc., I have to holler out "Dinner's ready!" seventeen more times before they come to the table? (By the way, this appears to be something that afflicts adult males as well. But, questions about why adult men do the things they do, is a topic for a whole different blog. Or, maybe an entire book...)
At least until we start another day...
Cheers!
"Hey, Beth. Wanna come out for girls' night next Saturday?" "I'll let you know at 6:30 the night before."
"Hey, Beth. We're going to try to get tickets for a concert next month. Do you want in on it?" "Um....I won't know if I can go until 6:30 the night before."
"We're all going to see a chickflick Friday night. Can you come?" "I'll let you know at 6:30 Thursday night."
You get the picture...Actually, most people who know me just don't even bother to ask anymore, which is a mixed bag. I don't have to say, "I"ll let you know at 6:30 the night before." for the millionth time, but it's also kind of isolating. On the flip side, my boys are seriously bonded with me, because we have so much time together. So, so, so much time...sigh.
But, even with such a psycho schedule, there are ways around it. Like, inviting girlfriends to come over to my place for wine after the kids go to bed. Hubby might show up, he might not. But, as long as it's at my house, I can have some semblance of a social life. (In the summertime, when my porch swing is up, I call this little event, "Swinging Saturdays", because we sit around on the porch swing sipping, laughing, noshing, and basically having a lovely time, while the boys snooze away inside.)
That was a long, long introduction that really has nothing much to do with the topic of this blog. But, I'm sleep-deprived, a teeny bit hungover, and feeling kinda rambly... So, deal with it. Here's the situation. Last night, one of my girlfriends came over for the aforementioned "wine night". (Not only that, she brought the wine and snacks with her. How great is that? Thanks, girl!) Anyway, this particular friend is a stay-at-home mother of two boys, so, as usual, after we talked about husbands, neighbors, my work stuff, politics, the state of the world, blah, blah, blah, the subject turned to our little rays of sunshine. In particular, the fact that my little angels have been arguing nonstop about everything under the sun for the last three days, driving me slowly but surely toward a nervous breakdown, and I'm about ready to give them up for adoption!
"I know, I know," said my friend. And then, she asked the question that prompted this blog:
"What is it with little boys? How come they can't wash their hands in the sink together without fighting, but they will happily pee into the same toilet at the same time?" Bwaaa haaa haaaa... SO TRUE!
This question got me thinking. So, to fill up last night's particular bout of insomnia, I found myself asking a lot of important questions about my boys. I thought I'd jot a few of them down, so I can laugh about them later, when my little darlings are past this stage (they are going to get past this stage, right?).
How come my little boys can wake up at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning and start out their day playing with Legos or their stuffed animals or something, giggling and getting along famously, but the very second I rally myself to get up and truly start the day (Translation: make a huge pot of incredibly strong coffee), they start throwing blocks, fighting over their toys, and saying things like, "MOOOOOMMMMYYYYY...Spence took my toy, and I wasn't done with it!" or "MOOOMMMMMMYYYYYYY....Fos pulled the arm off my robot!!!" or "MOOOMMMMMYYYYYY...Foster said there are no such things as aliens. He's lying!" "No, I'm not!" "Yes, you are!" "No, I'm not!" "Yes, you are!" "NO, I'M NOT!" "MOOOOMMMMYYYYYYYY!!!!" ?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Why is it that it takes half-an-hour of scrubbing in the tub to get two wiggly little boys clean, but it takes less than 2 minutes for them to completely cover themselves with: a) dirt, b) ink/paint/glue, c) food, d) anything remotely sticky? (And, since we colored Easter eggs last night, I can add a new category: e) egg dye.) --------------------------------------------------------------------------
How is it possible that both of my boys can't seem to hear me when I stand in front of them and ask them to pick up their toys, or put their dirty clothes in the hamper, or let out the dogs, but they always, always, always hear me when I mutter a bad word under my breath in the next room? ------------------------------------------------------------------------
Why can the boys spend 3 hours at our favorite playground, playing pirates and aliens and Star Wars like the best buddies in the entire world, sharing their snacks, laughing as they run away from all the little girls, and having a fantastic time together, but as soon as we get in the car to drive home, they start poking eachother, making faces at eachother, calling each other names, and tattling to me about it the entire time?----------------------------------------------------------------------------
How come my boys can spend the day breaking every rule in the house, picking at eachother, talking back to me, and generally driving me up the wall, and then be perfectly behaved little angels when they go to a playdate at someone else's house?... "Oh, we just love having Spencer over to our house. He's SO good about sharing toys!"
"Ummmm, are you sure you're talking about the right kid?" (The one who just threw a major temper tantrum in our living room, because he didn't want to share the monster blocks with his brother?"
"Foster is so sweet and helpful. He is just a joy to have around."
"MY Foster?" (The one who just yelled "NO!" at me, when I asked him to put away his markers?)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Why is it my boys can start whining for food an hour before dinner time, then hang around my legs saying things like, "Mommy, pleeeeaase make some food. I'm sooooo hungry!" "Mommy, you're starving me!" Or, my particular favorite from the other day, "Mommy, I'm famished. That means I'm really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really hungry!" "When's dinner?" "Is it dinner time yet?" "Is dinner ready? BUT...
The minute I call out, "Dinner's ready. Go wash your hands!", they're nowhere to be found. Then, after all the whining, complaining, begging, etc., I have to holler out "Dinner's ready!" seventeen more times before they come to the table? (By the way, this appears to be something that afflicts adult males as well. But, questions about why adult men do the things they do, is a topic for a whole different blog. Or, maybe an entire book...)
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Finally, why is it, at the end of a long, hard, day -- no matter how irritated, angry, frustrated, exhausted, or fed-up I am feeling, my boys can snuggle up to me as I tuck them in, throw their little arms around my neck, kiss me sloppily, and say, "Mommy, I love you more than you love me!" or (in Spencer's case) "I love you just as much as you love me, Mommy!", and all is forgiven?
At least until we start another day...
Cheers!
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Hakuna Mutata!
I was in a crappy mood this morning. Just in a funk...feeling sorry for myself and the world...y'know what I mean? Negativity is not my natural state, but I've got some friends going through some hard times, we've still got John's looming potential layoff, and I haven't slept well in a few nights. So, I was just doing some mental wallowing...Then, as I rushed across town in the daily mad dash to get Foster to preschool, I heard his little voice: "Hey, Mommy. Can you put in the Disney CD? I want to hear that Lion King song! Pleeeeaaaassseeeeee...." Well, since anything would be an improvement over hearing the theme song from Speed Racer for the thousandth time, I was happy to oblige my little guy.
It was then I discovered, that no matter how rotten your mood, it's impossible to think negative thoughts while listening to "Hakuna Mutata". Seriously. Especially when you've got an enthusiastic 4-year old singing along at the absolute top of his lungs. It was great! And, it didn't hurt that a few minutes later, I found myself whistling away to "Bare Necessities" from Jungle Book. Talk about a mental reset. Who knew that a couple of well-written Disney songs could turn your day around, eh? Thank you, Disney. And, thank you, my little Foster. Somehow, you knew exactly what I needed this morning. And, it worked like a charm.
I love you!
Cheers!
It was then I discovered, that no matter how rotten your mood, it's impossible to think negative thoughts while listening to "Hakuna Mutata". Seriously. Especially when you've got an enthusiastic 4-year old singing along at the absolute top of his lungs. It was great! And, it didn't hurt that a few minutes later, I found myself whistling away to "Bare Necessities" from Jungle Book. Talk about a mental reset. Who knew that a couple of well-written Disney songs could turn your day around, eh? Thank you, Disney. And, thank you, my little Foster. Somehow, you knew exactly what I needed this morning. And, it worked like a charm.
I love you!
Cheers!
Monday, March 22, 2010
Our kids will read about this in their history books!
Nah, this one's not about parenting. It's about politics...
Knowing my kids will read this one day, I must say something about the historic healthcare legislation that just passed. I was glued to the T.V. last night, watching as Democrats and Republicans contradicted one another, called one another liars, spouted opposing "facts", insisted they were each representing "the American people", and generally acted like rude, petulant toddlers, angry because they didn't want to share the sandbox. I was, by turns, disgusted, excited, depressed, bored, flabbergasted, and, ultimately, relieved and elated that the legislation passed. Because, while I find the behavior of many members of our U.S. Congress to be immature, self-serving, and reprehensible, I still want everyone in our country to have quality healthcare, and I think it's ridiculous to stay with the status quo and cross our fingers that everything will somehow work out all by itself. And, so, in spite of my loathing of this contentious, ugly, abhorrent, political process, I am celebrating and savoring this as the awesome, history-making moment it is.
I want my boys to know what a momentous thing just occurred, and I want them to know that they have parents who supported it from the start. Parents who took the time to educate themselves about the healthcare legislation, rather than to just blindly believe the rancorous commercials that bombarded us every time we turned on the T.V. Parents who are willing to pay a little more in taxes or premiums, if it will mean that 95% of the people in our country will get healthcare. Parents who think it only makes sense to require people to carry health insurance, just like we require them to carry car insurance, so that the rest of us aren't paying for people to use the emergency room when they should be using a regular doctor. Parents who whole-heartedly believe in a system that stresses preventive care, personal responsibility, and patients over profits. Parents who believe that every individual, regardless of culture, race, gender, sexual orientation, religious belief, or socioeconomic status, deserves to be treated with dignity and respect, and to be afforded the same rights as the rest of us, including quality health care when they need it. Parents who believe we should stop thinking only of ourselves and our own little demographic group, and should work together, as a community of Americans, to make sure "equality" actually means something in this country. Finally, parents who proudly support our intelligent, thoughtful, courageous President Obama, who clearly feels the same way, and who is willing to fight for all of us, even if it puts him in political peril.
History was made today. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't painless. It wasn't perfect. But, it was made. And, I'm very glad I was able to witness it.
Cheers!
Knowing my kids will read this one day, I must say something about the historic healthcare legislation that just passed. I was glued to the T.V. last night, watching as Democrats and Republicans contradicted one another, called one another liars, spouted opposing "facts", insisted they were each representing "the American people", and generally acted like rude, petulant toddlers, angry because they didn't want to share the sandbox. I was, by turns, disgusted, excited, depressed, bored, flabbergasted, and, ultimately, relieved and elated that the legislation passed. Because, while I find the behavior of many members of our U.S. Congress to be immature, self-serving, and reprehensible, I still want everyone in our country to have quality healthcare, and I think it's ridiculous to stay with the status quo and cross our fingers that everything will somehow work out all by itself. And, so, in spite of my loathing of this contentious, ugly, abhorrent, political process, I am celebrating and savoring this as the awesome, history-making moment it is.
I want my boys to know what a momentous thing just occurred, and I want them to know that they have parents who supported it from the start. Parents who took the time to educate themselves about the healthcare legislation, rather than to just blindly believe the rancorous commercials that bombarded us every time we turned on the T.V. Parents who are willing to pay a little more in taxes or premiums, if it will mean that 95% of the people in our country will get healthcare. Parents who think it only makes sense to require people to carry health insurance, just like we require them to carry car insurance, so that the rest of us aren't paying for people to use the emergency room when they should be using a regular doctor. Parents who whole-heartedly believe in a system that stresses preventive care, personal responsibility, and patients over profits. Parents who believe that every individual, regardless of culture, race, gender, sexual orientation, religious belief, or socioeconomic status, deserves to be treated with dignity and respect, and to be afforded the same rights as the rest of us, including quality health care when they need it. Parents who believe we should stop thinking only of ourselves and our own little demographic group, and should work together, as a community of Americans, to make sure "equality" actually means something in this country. Finally, parents who proudly support our intelligent, thoughtful, courageous President Obama, who clearly feels the same way, and who is willing to fight for all of us, even if it puts him in political peril.
History was made today. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't painless. It wasn't perfect. But, it was made. And, I'm very glad I was able to witness it.
Cheers!
Friday, March 19, 2010
Not my most shining moment as a Mom...
This has not exactly been my best day as a mother. Not by a long shot...
This morning, hubby was actually available to take my little guy, Foster, to pre-school. So, I was giving him hugs and kisses in the back seat of Daddy's truck. It came time to close the door, so I said, "Fos, get your hands inside." (You can see where this is going, right?) He pulled in his hands, so I slammed shut the door. Unfortunately, my cutie pie had chosen that exact moment to blow me a kiss, so his fingers got smushed when the door slammed shut. Worse yet, I didn't even know. I just kept on walking back up to the porch, happy as a clam. Suddenly, hubby jumps out of the truck and runs around to Foster's side, flings open the door, and that's when I finally hear the screams of pain. Oh, the guilt. Oh, the shame. My poor little guy looks up at me with his big, blue eyes, tears coursing down his cheeks, and says, "Why did you slam my fingers in the door, Mommy? Why did you do that?" Gulp.
That was just the first Mommy mistake of the day...
This afternoon, my big guy, Spencer, was invited to a playdate at a buddy's house. "Bring his bike!" says the other mom. So, I dutifully brought the bike around to the back of the van to load it up. But, the van was locked. (I have a feeling you know where this is going too, eh?) I ran back inside to get the keys, loaded Spence, his bike helmet, his groovy biking gloves, and his 3 favorite stuffed animals into the car. Then, I proceeded to back out of the driveway right over the top of the bike. Oh, yeah. Smashed to hell. I didn't even know a bike wheel could look like that. Sigh. So, Spence looks up at me with his big, hazel eyes, trying hard not to cry, and says, "Mommy! Why did you run over my bike?" Gulp again.
Mother-of-the-Year, that's me. Not! Luckily, these boys have yet to figure out how much they could milk my "Mommy Guilt" today. I'd be putty in their grubby little hands...
Cheers!
This morning, hubby was actually available to take my little guy, Foster, to pre-school. So, I was giving him hugs and kisses in the back seat of Daddy's truck. It came time to close the door, so I said, "Fos, get your hands inside." (You can see where this is going, right?) He pulled in his hands, so I slammed shut the door. Unfortunately, my cutie pie had chosen that exact moment to blow me a kiss, so his fingers got smushed when the door slammed shut. Worse yet, I didn't even know. I just kept on walking back up to the porch, happy as a clam. Suddenly, hubby jumps out of the truck and runs around to Foster's side, flings open the door, and that's when I finally hear the screams of pain. Oh, the guilt. Oh, the shame. My poor little guy looks up at me with his big, blue eyes, tears coursing down his cheeks, and says, "Why did you slam my fingers in the door, Mommy? Why did you do that?" Gulp.
That was just the first Mommy mistake of the day...
This afternoon, my big guy, Spencer, was invited to a playdate at a buddy's house. "Bring his bike!" says the other mom. So, I dutifully brought the bike around to the back of the van to load it up. But, the van was locked. (I have a feeling you know where this is going too, eh?) I ran back inside to get the keys, loaded Spence, his bike helmet, his groovy biking gloves, and his 3 favorite stuffed animals into the car. Then, I proceeded to back out of the driveway right over the top of the bike. Oh, yeah. Smashed to hell. I didn't even know a bike wheel could look like that. Sigh. So, Spence looks up at me with his big, hazel eyes, trying hard not to cry, and says, "Mommy! Why did you run over my bike?" Gulp again.
Mother-of-the-Year, that's me. Not! Luckily, these boys have yet to figure out how much they could milk my "Mommy Guilt" today. I'd be putty in their grubby little hands...
Cheers!
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
It's St. Patrick's Day?
I used to get all excited about St. Patrick's Day. I used to pick out a green shirt and dig out my shamrock earrings. I used to wait in line at Kel's forever, just so I could go inside with my buddies, drink huge quantities of beer, and act out the "The Unicorn Song" with all the other drunken merry-makers. I used to kiss strange men who were wearing buttons that said, "Kiss me, I'm Irish" while my girlfriends cheered me on. Ahhhhh....those were the days.
This morning, hubby had to remind me it was St. Patrick's Day, so I'd wear something green to work.
Sigh.
Times sure have changed.
Happy St. Patty's Day to you all. Cheers!
This morning, hubby had to remind me it was St. Patrick's Day, so I'd wear something green to work.
Sigh.
Times sure have changed.
Happy St. Patty's Day to you all. Cheers!
Friday, March 12, 2010
Wow, what a gig!
I woke up at 5:00am this morning, for no particular reason, so I turned on the TV and started channel surfing the news stations, trying to catch the two minutes of actual news they squeeze in between endless weather reports and traffic updates. (Side note: I don't really need the perky meteorologists to show me the doppler radar images of the fronts moving in, followed by the expensive computer graphics of falling rain, swirling wind, and "convergence zones". I just want to know what the weather's supposed to be like over the next few days. Just that. Just give me that 5-day forecast graphic that shows me what's going to happen. Then move on to the real news, OK?) Anyway, one of the top stories is that our state legislature couldn't manage to come up with a budget and tax proposal in their 60 allotted days before the session ended. So, at a cost of $18,000/day to the Washington state taxpayer, they are extending the session another 7 days.
This made me think about what an awesome gig legislators have. (I'm thinking all the way up to Congress here.) In what other profession would you be given a deadline to finish your project, but then paid, anyway, even if you didn't do your job? Really, if you think about it, what possible incentive do legislators have to get the job done in a timely manner? They're getting paid, regardless of whether or not they do their job. Think about how long Congress has been fighting each other, over everything from health care legislation to financial reform, clearly doing everything BUT working to help the people who voted them into office? We elected them to represent our needs and to make the lives of Americans better, right? Why should they do that? There is no real consequence for not getting the job done. They still collect their hefty paychecks and receive their great benefits. What a gig!
Where can I get a job like that?
Cheers!
This made me think about what an awesome gig legislators have. (I'm thinking all the way up to Congress here.) In what other profession would you be given a deadline to finish your project, but then paid, anyway, even if you didn't do your job? Really, if you think about it, what possible incentive do legislators have to get the job done in a timely manner? They're getting paid, regardless of whether or not they do their job. Think about how long Congress has been fighting each other, over everything from health care legislation to financial reform, clearly doing everything BUT working to help the people who voted them into office? We elected them to represent our needs and to make the lives of Americans better, right? Why should they do that? There is no real consequence for not getting the job done. They still collect their hefty paychecks and receive their great benefits. What a gig!
Where can I get a job like that?
Cheers!
Friday, March 5, 2010
I'm not wimpy, but there are only so many bugs a girl can handle!
I've always been a bit of a tomboy, pretty rough and tumble, always in motion, not afraid to get a little dirty, y'know? That's why, for the most part, being a mother of boys fits me like a glove. (I'd be lost if I had to do tea parties and braid hair and play with dolls, as so many little girls seem drawn to...I realize I'm stereotyping here, so I apologize. I know that little girls have diverse interests too. Believe me, I know. When I was younger, I used to stampede over my sister's Barbie Dolls with my Breyer horses or stage kidnappings by G.I. Joe. Barb, if you're reading this...Yeah, it was me. Sorry.) Anyway, I can put up with a lot of noise, dirt, action, and really gross things.
But, today was a bit much...
I was planting some bulbs in our front yard, while my 4-year old climbed in and around our neighbor's tree right across the street. (Thank goodness for neighbors who love little boys and recognize that a tree like that is just BEGGING to be played in. Teri and Leo, you rock!) Anyway, it was time to come inside, so I hollered for Foster to come on in.
"But, Mommy, I found some roly poly bugs. Come see. Quick! Come see. It's so cool."
So, I walked across the street to check out his latest find, as he danced around in excitement. As I got closer, I could see that his little fist was closed, but his skin seemed to be shifting and moving...I got closer, and that's when I realized that he had about 30 roly poly bugs in his hand, climbing out between his fingers, climbing up his wrist, and dropping to the ground. I've never seen so many roly poly bugs in one place, before, let alone crawling all over my child, as he stood there grinning from ear to ear.
I'm very proud to say that I remained completely calm, even though my own skin was crawling, my stomach was flip-flopping, and it took everything I had not to grab him by his feet, turn him upside down, and start shaking the bugs off.
"Hey, sweetie, before we go home, let's just make sure all the roly poly's are back on the ground, OK? We wouldn't want one to accidentally come into the house. They don't like to live in houses. Can you just shake your hand a little bit, so they can all go back to their tree? Yeah, just like that. Ooh, you missed a few. Maybe shake just a little bit harder. Like that. Get that one that's climbing up to your shoulder. Whoops, a few more, there. Good job. Just a few more. OK, great!" (Shudder!)
You have to admit, having kids certainly brings new experiences into your life, eh?
Cheers!
But, today was a bit much...
I was planting some bulbs in our front yard, while my 4-year old climbed in and around our neighbor's tree right across the street. (Thank goodness for neighbors who love little boys and recognize that a tree like that is just BEGGING to be played in. Teri and Leo, you rock!) Anyway, it was time to come inside, so I hollered for Foster to come on in.
"But, Mommy, I found some roly poly bugs. Come see. Quick! Come see. It's so cool."
So, I walked across the street to check out his latest find, as he danced around in excitement. As I got closer, I could see that his little fist was closed, but his skin seemed to be shifting and moving...I got closer, and that's when I realized that he had about 30 roly poly bugs in his hand, climbing out between his fingers, climbing up his wrist, and dropping to the ground. I've never seen so many roly poly bugs in one place, before, let alone crawling all over my child, as he stood there grinning from ear to ear.
I'm very proud to say that I remained completely calm, even though my own skin was crawling, my stomach was flip-flopping, and it took everything I had not to grab him by his feet, turn him upside down, and start shaking the bugs off.
"Hey, sweetie, before we go home, let's just make sure all the roly poly's are back on the ground, OK? We wouldn't want one to accidentally come into the house. They don't like to live in houses. Can you just shake your hand a little bit, so they can all go back to their tree? Yeah, just like that. Ooh, you missed a few. Maybe shake just a little bit harder. Like that. Get that one that's climbing up to your shoulder. Whoops, a few more, there. Good job. Just a few more. OK, great!" (Shudder!)
You have to admit, having kids certainly brings new experiences into your life, eh?
Cheers!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Branch vs. Eyeball? The branch won.
So, things got a little crazy this Sunday. I know what you're thinking, if you've visited my blog before...You're thinking, "Isn't life ALWAYS crazy in that household?" You have a point. However, this was even crazier than usual...There I was, working alongside hubby, adding extra boards to the fence between our yard and the yard of our insane neighbor with the horrible, aggressive dogs, in order to block any spaces that those horrible, aggressive dogs can see through. As I was working, I kept feeling these waves of vertigo and dizziness. But, since I was bending down to pound in nails and pick up boards and all that, I thought it was most likely just dizziness from standing up too fast. So, being me, I just kept right on working... Until, I got hit by a wave of dizziness so strong, that I staggered against the fence and took a tree branch to the eye. My neighbor's tree, by the way. Think I could sue??? Anyway -- Blinding pain!!! But, did I go inside to see what damage had been done? Of course not. That's what sane people do. Nope, I sat down on the steps until it didn't hurt quite so badly, then I went back to work on the fence...(Yes, the words "dumb ass" come to mind.) Anyway, the vertigo got worse, so I finally just lay down on the deck. Hubby suggested I go lie down in a bed, instead, so I headed that way. On the way, I took a look at my eye. Blood red, with a big, visible wound right next to the lens of my eye. Not pretty, plus, I was still feeling really dizzy. So, I decided it might be time to hit the walk-in clinic. The boys, who were all excited, because we had told them we'd go swimming, were NOT pleased to be visiting the clinic, instead. Although, my scary red eye freaked them out a bit, so they got the whole concept of Mommy needing to go see a doctor. AND, we promised them elevator rides, which, for my boys, are one of the best things ever.
We arrived at the clinic, and hubby took the boys for their elevator rides, while I got checked out. Doctor took a look at my eye with an extremely bright, intense-pain-inducing light, and told me I had a "Significant scratch and contusion to the cornea of my eye, which could likely result in infection and possible loss of vision." Lovely. Antibiotic eye drops every 4 hours for the next week... Now, here's where things get a little more interesting... This requires a brief look back in time to 2001. In 2001, shortly after getting married, I had a stroke. Just a little one, but terrifying, all the same. My only risk factor was being on birth control pills. Needless to say, I quit them, immediately, and haven't taken them since. I have no lingering effects, but I did talk in a mish-mash of words for a while ("word salad", they call it), which was pretty weird. Anyway, back to the present. The clinic doc. looked long and hard into my ear canals, then did some balance and brain stem tests with me, and declared that I needed to go to the E.R., immediately, because I might be having another stroke. Great!
Here's the silver lining: When a doctor calls ahead to the E.R., and tells them that you are coming in and may be having a stroke, there's no waiting. They had me back in a room so fast, I only had a chance to holler, "John, take the kids home and feed them. I'll call you, when we know more!", as they were rushing me through the doors. One I.V., three blood sticks, and an M.R.I., later... I was pronounced stroke-free. But, this was after 4 hours of lying alone in a room, scared and cold and frankly, freaking out, while the large redneck family on the other side of the curtain cussed and laughed and talked on their cell phones at top volume. Also, the nurses gave me a massive dose of Benadryl in my I.V., and it immediately made me start to slur my words. Since my stroke in 2001 also made me slur my words and spit out sentences that made sense in my brain, but came out of my mouth as gobbledy-gook, this little side effect was terrifying. I kept telling myself it was just the Benadryl, but I couldn't help thinking I was having stroke #2, and I hadn't even had a chance to hug and kiss my family...Not my greatest moments, let me tell ya. But, as it all turns out, I have an inner ear virus, which results in dizziness and vertigo, lasting up to a week. But, it will resolve itself without any treatment at all. So, 5 hours after heading to the walk-in clinic, I was home, dosed up with anti-dizziness medicine and nursing my scary red eye...
I know. I told you it was crazy.
Cheers!
We arrived at the clinic, and hubby took the boys for their elevator rides, while I got checked out. Doctor took a look at my eye with an extremely bright, intense-pain-inducing light, and told me I had a "Significant scratch and contusion to the cornea of my eye, which could likely result in infection and possible loss of vision." Lovely. Antibiotic eye drops every 4 hours for the next week... Now, here's where things get a little more interesting... This requires a brief look back in time to 2001. In 2001, shortly after getting married, I had a stroke. Just a little one, but terrifying, all the same. My only risk factor was being on birth control pills. Needless to say, I quit them, immediately, and haven't taken them since. I have no lingering effects, but I did talk in a mish-mash of words for a while ("word salad", they call it), which was pretty weird. Anyway, back to the present. The clinic doc. looked long and hard into my ear canals, then did some balance and brain stem tests with me, and declared that I needed to go to the E.R., immediately, because I might be having another stroke. Great!
Here's the silver lining: When a doctor calls ahead to the E.R., and tells them that you are coming in and may be having a stroke, there's no waiting. They had me back in a room so fast, I only had a chance to holler, "John, take the kids home and feed them. I'll call you, when we know more!", as they were rushing me through the doors. One I.V., three blood sticks, and an M.R.I., later... I was pronounced stroke-free. But, this was after 4 hours of lying alone in a room, scared and cold and frankly, freaking out, while the large redneck family on the other side of the curtain cussed and laughed and talked on their cell phones at top volume. Also, the nurses gave me a massive dose of Benadryl in my I.V., and it immediately made me start to slur my words. Since my stroke in 2001 also made me slur my words and spit out sentences that made sense in my brain, but came out of my mouth as gobbledy-gook, this little side effect was terrifying. I kept telling myself it was just the Benadryl, but I couldn't help thinking I was having stroke #2, and I hadn't even had a chance to hug and kiss my family...Not my greatest moments, let me tell ya. But, as it all turns out, I have an inner ear virus, which results in dizziness and vertigo, lasting up to a week. But, it will resolve itself without any treatment at all. So, 5 hours after heading to the walk-in clinic, I was home, dosed up with anti-dizziness medicine and nursing my scary red eye...
I know. I told you it was crazy.
Cheers!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Crazy bus stop Mom, please get your act together!
Every morning, Monday through Friday, I have to get myself ready for work, one little boy ready for preschool, and one ready for kindergarten. (I somehow manage to do this every day, with surprisingly few meltdowns, actually. But, it's a hassle. No doubt about it.) I have to get everyone fed, dressed, packed for school, out the door, into the car, and then it's a mad dash to the bus stop. As soon as Spencer's kindergarten bus arrives, he hops on, and his little brother and I wave like crazy and blow kisses and make the "I love you" sign until the bus drives away. Then, it's another mad dash to the car to race all the way across town, so I can drop Foster off at preschool. This is followed by a final mad dash all the way to the other end of town, which inevitably includes a breathless run up the stairs, into my office, just in time to start work. (Or, a few minutes late, depending on traffic.) By the way, this entire routine is then done in reverse just a few hours later. Sigh.
Anyway, you can see that this makes for a pretty tight schedule. Every minute counts. Every. Single. One. So, enter into the picture "Crazy Bus Stop Mom." Why do I call her this? Because, when the rest of the moms in the neighborhood are getting their kids ready and making sure that they're at the bus stop on time, I'm pretty sure this lady is either still sleeping or watching early morning T.V. or checking her Facebook page or something...In fact, I'm positive. She and her daughter are not actually at the bus stop regularly (thank goodness!). But, every two or three mornings, as the last kid is stepping onto the bus, or just after the doors have closed, here comes Crazy Mom, racing for the bus, waving her arms, yelling, "Wait, wait. I'm sorry. WAIT!" Sometimes, she's racing down the hill (in her pajamas), crazy hair flying, dragging her daughter behind her...Sometimes, she's careening up in her car (also in pajamas), whipping over to the curb and basically pushing her daughter out the door towards the bus. Poor kid. Once in a while, she comes sauntering down the hill with a cup of coffee in her hand (wearing sweatpants over her pajamas) and manages to arrive just as the bus is pulling in. On the few occasions we've talked, she actually seems like a really nice person. She's personable, she talks about being a stay-at-home-mom, she jokes about how she's always late. Her daughter seems to be well-adjusted and very sweet. But, please, lady, please! For the love of mothers everywhere -- Come on time or don't come at all!!! The rest of us have lives and schedules and places to be. We don't have the three extra minutes it takes for the bus driver to open the door, again, and wait for your daughter to run over to the bus, climb in, and find a seat, before the bus can resume the journey to school. Three extra minutes is a luxury we just don't have!
Please...please...please...be on time.
Cheers!
Anyway, you can see that this makes for a pretty tight schedule. Every minute counts. Every. Single. One. So, enter into the picture "Crazy Bus Stop Mom." Why do I call her this? Because, when the rest of the moms in the neighborhood are getting their kids ready and making sure that they're at the bus stop on time, I'm pretty sure this lady is either still sleeping or watching early morning T.V. or checking her Facebook page or something...In fact, I'm positive. She and her daughter are not actually at the bus stop regularly (thank goodness!). But, every two or three mornings, as the last kid is stepping onto the bus, or just after the doors have closed, here comes Crazy Mom, racing for the bus, waving her arms, yelling, "Wait, wait. I'm sorry. WAIT!" Sometimes, she's racing down the hill (in her pajamas), crazy hair flying, dragging her daughter behind her...Sometimes, she's careening up in her car (also in pajamas), whipping over to the curb and basically pushing her daughter out the door towards the bus. Poor kid. Once in a while, she comes sauntering down the hill with a cup of coffee in her hand (wearing sweatpants over her pajamas) and manages to arrive just as the bus is pulling in. On the few occasions we've talked, she actually seems like a really nice person. She's personable, she talks about being a stay-at-home-mom, she jokes about how she's always late. Her daughter seems to be well-adjusted and very sweet. But, please, lady, please! For the love of mothers everywhere -- Come on time or don't come at all!!! The rest of us have lives and schedules and places to be. We don't have the three extra minutes it takes for the bus driver to open the door, again, and wait for your daughter to run over to the bus, climb in, and find a seat, before the bus can resume the journey to school. Three extra minutes is a luxury we just don't have!
Please...please...please...be on time.
Cheers!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
I AM CAPABLE! I AM COMPETENT! I AM! I REALLY AM!
I don't think anything has ever made me feel less competent than trying to get my son to eat and drink over the last week. His doctor said, "The most important thing for you to do is to make sure he stays hydrated and is getting food and liquid into his system after his surgery. If you don't, he will have to come back in to the hospital for I.V. fluids." OK, doc. No pressure there. None at all. So, prior to Foster's adenoidectomy/tonsilectomy, I stocked the house with 3 different flavors of ice cream, pudding, yogurt, cottage cheese, applesauce, juice, and boxes of macaroni and cheese. I mean, I was really ready. I didn't care if he ate nothing but milkshakes. There was no friggin' way MY kid was going to end up back in the hospital. Not my son!
But, here's the thing....A kid in pain doesn't want to eat or drink anything. Not chocolate milkshakes. Not strawberry milkshakes. Not banana smoothies. Not his favorite flavor of pudding in the entire world. Yogurt? Nope. Applesauce? Uh-uh. I did everything but stand on my head to get this kid to eat and drink. And, to give myself credit, he did not have to go back to the hospital. My Herculean efforts paid off, and I managed to get just enough into his little body to avoid that particular trip. But, he lost 5 pounds, and he was only 40 pounds to begin with. And, I'm pretty sure I aged at least 5 years over the last 7 days. Yup. There are definitely some new stress lines. For sure.
Then, today, I went back to work. Ahhhhhh, my work. The one place where I feel like I know what the hell I'm doing. I love my kids. I adore my kids. I love being a Mommy more than anything. But, my work reminds me that I'm actually a capable, competent, trained professional, instead of someone just careening through life at a breakneck pace, crossing my fingers, and winging it from day-to-day... My first student today? CPS case. No problem. I knew exactly what to do to support her. Then, I spent 4 periods talking with 8th graders about sex and sexual harassment. No worries. I can field any crazy question an 8th grader throws my way. Nothing phases me. I've got it covered. Helping to plan a somewhat last-minute parent night with my boss? Done!
So, I will fall into bed tonite, completely exhausted, but feeling satisfied. Knowing I was able to start and finish things today. Feeling capable. Feeling competent. Feeling strong.
Until Foster wakes up crying in the middle of the night, and I just start winging it again. Sigh.
Cheers!
But, here's the thing....A kid in pain doesn't want to eat or drink anything. Not chocolate milkshakes. Not strawberry milkshakes. Not banana smoothies. Not his favorite flavor of pudding in the entire world. Yogurt? Nope. Applesauce? Uh-uh. I did everything but stand on my head to get this kid to eat and drink. And, to give myself credit, he did not have to go back to the hospital. My Herculean efforts paid off, and I managed to get just enough into his little body to avoid that particular trip. But, he lost 5 pounds, and he was only 40 pounds to begin with. And, I'm pretty sure I aged at least 5 years over the last 7 days. Yup. There are definitely some new stress lines. For sure.
Then, today, I went back to work. Ahhhhhh, my work. The one place where I feel like I know what the hell I'm doing. I love my kids. I adore my kids. I love being a Mommy more than anything. But, my work reminds me that I'm actually a capable, competent, trained professional, instead of someone just careening through life at a breakneck pace, crossing my fingers, and winging it from day-to-day... My first student today? CPS case. No problem. I knew exactly what to do to support her. Then, I spent 4 periods talking with 8th graders about sex and sexual harassment. No worries. I can field any crazy question an 8th grader throws my way. Nothing phases me. I've got it covered. Helping to plan a somewhat last-minute parent night with my boss? Done!
So, I will fall into bed tonite, completely exhausted, but feeling satisfied. Knowing I was able to start and finish things today. Feeling capable. Feeling competent. Feeling strong.
Until Foster wakes up crying in the middle of the night, and I just start winging it again. Sigh.
Cheers!
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Whose voice is that?
We are now 6 days post-adenoidectomy/tonsilectomy. It's been a week of total hell! And, after being trapped in the house with a thoroughly miserable 4-year old and his frustrated 5-year old brother for the past 6 days, without one full night's sleep, I am so fuzzy-brained and starved for adult companionship and intelligent conversation, that I think my head is literally in danger of sponteneously combusting. Seriously. Watch for it on the news...
But, why this title? Well, his whole life, Foster has been stuffed up. He was basically born with giant adenoids, so he's always been a loud, snarkly mouth breather. (That's the term hubby and I gave to his breathing when we brought him home from the hospital -- "snarkly" just sums it up perfectly.) And, ever since he started babbling away as a toddler, he's had this really cute, nasal little voice. But, over the last two days, the swelling from his surgery has gone down, and, without those enormous adenoids blocking his nasal passages, he now has a completely different voice. I'm not joking. Completely. Different. He sounds nothing like he used to. I would literally not recognize my own child's voice in a crowd of kids right now. It's disconcerting. I look at the little face I love so much and know so well, then he opens up his mouth and some strange little kid's voice comes out.
Who knew?
Parenthood is so weird...
Cheers!
But, why this title? Well, his whole life, Foster has been stuffed up. He was basically born with giant adenoids, so he's always been a loud, snarkly mouth breather. (That's the term hubby and I gave to his breathing when we brought him home from the hospital -- "snarkly" just sums it up perfectly.) And, ever since he started babbling away as a toddler, he's had this really cute, nasal little voice. But, over the last two days, the swelling from his surgery has gone down, and, without those enormous adenoids blocking his nasal passages, he now has a completely different voice. I'm not joking. Completely. Different. He sounds nothing like he used to. I would literally not recognize my own child's voice in a crowd of kids right now. It's disconcerting. I look at the little face I love so much and know so well, then he opens up his mouth and some strange little kid's voice comes out.
Who knew?
Parenthood is so weird...
Cheers!
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Nothing cuts through a Benadryl haze like the cry of a child in pain...
How do I know this? Because, two days ago, my baby, my sweet little 4-year old boy, had a tonsilectomy and adenoidectomy, which is commonly known as a "T & A" for short. (I'm not kidding. The nurse told me that's what they call it.) Anyway, last night, after being awake for most of the last 48 hours, I took a Benadryl with my usual nightly glass of cabernet. (An occasional sleep aid, recommended to me by a nurse friend of mine.) I figured, now that we knew Fos was doing OK, I could relax a little bit and try to get some rest, so I could try to approach something close to my normal level of functioning. Worked like a charm! I was completely knocked out by 9:00pm...until just after midnight, that is, when Foster's cry of pain cut straight through the Benadryl haze, and I flew from my bed to my little guy's side, adrenalin pumping through my body. The best alarm clock in the world couldn't have woken me up faster or more thoroughly than that cry...And, the accompanying adrenalin kept me awake the rest of the night. So, back to square one with the whole sleep issue.
As for the surgery...I remember getting my tonsils out as a kid, but it's just a blur of jello and ice cream to me. I don't actually remember the pain. As it turns out, there's a whole lot of it. When they told us that Fos would have to have his adenoids and tonsils out, I just didn't think it was going to be that big of a deal. I mean, I was terrified of my little guy going under anesthesia, and I didn't want him experiencing any level of pain, but I just didn't realize what a long and truly painful ordeal this is. Our ear-nose-throat doctor was great, and he explained it very thoroughly for us. When they cut out adenoids and tonsils, they have to leave the wound open. They can't suture it up, because the area moves around too much and won't hold stitches. So, there's just an exposed wound with raw nerves back there, until it closes up by itself about 6 days after surgery. That's why the pain is so bad, and why it doesn't go away until the wound is completely closed. My poor, poor little guy...
Surgery day:
1) No sleep the night before. Not Foster. Me. I snuggled into bed with him that night, and he said, "Mommy. When Dr. Knops tells me to open my mouth tomorrow, I'm gonna kick him in the head." Then he went off to sleep. I was up most of the night. Tossing, turning, imagining worst-case scenarios...Listening to my husband blissfully snoring. How do men do that?!!
2) When Fos did wake up, at his usual 6:00am, he wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything. We had to entertain him as best as we could until we left for the hospital at 7:30. He actually did a pretty good job, but he kept looking up with pitiful eyes and saying, "I'm thirsty, Mommy. I'm hungry, Mommy. Pleeeeease can I have something?" Gulp.
3) About 15 minutes after we arrived, they took us into a special little waiting area. It was a cheerily painted little cubicle with stories, games, and a little red wagon parked in the corner. Fos was doing great. He mentioned kicking Dr. Knops again, this time "in the butt", but he was generally pretty cheerful. He liked changing into his little hospital gown with tigers all over it and the cozy little hospital socks. He thought it was hilarious to have his naked butt cheeks poking out the back, so he did a little dance around the room to show them off. Hubby and I studiously avoided looking into each other's eyes, since we knew that would be a recipe for one, or both, of us to start crying, thinking about the surgery to come...
4) Then came "sleepy juice." That's what they call it. What is it? It's a yummy little sedative that makes kids relaxed and kind've loopy, so they aren't anxious when they go into surgery and aren't even really aware of what's happening. I immediately asked for my own dose, but they turned me down. Foster insisted that the juice wasn't going to make him sleepy, because "I'm never tired!"And, it did take a while. He was sitting on my lap, all wrapped up in a warm blanket, while John read us both a story. Then he started to get heavier and heavier. All of a sudden, one of his arms kind've floated up into the air, and his hand started making slow, grasping movements. We asked him what he was doing, and he said, "Plant. Plant." I realized that he was looking at the seaweed painted onto the wall across the little room, and he was trying to grab it in his drug-induced haze. It was pretty funny. Like something out of a movie about the drug-crazed 1960's or something...
5) The departure. Even writing this, two and a half days later, I'm getting teary eyed thinking about it. The nurse came in to get us. She had me put Foster into the little red wagon, tuck the little stuffed dog Grandma had sent him next to him, and we were allowed to walk with him down the hall a little ways, "just to the red line." We kissed him and said we'd see him soon, then they wheeled him away. We started walking back to the waiting room, and I told myself not to look back, but I couldn't help it. That was probably the worst part. I could see the nurse's back, as she wheeled my baby away in his his little red wagon, and it took everything I had to keep walking toward the waiting room. What I wanted to do was scream, "Don't cut my baby!" and grab him and run...Luckily, John was holding my hand, firmly, in his own. That kept me strong.
6) The wait. John ran across the street to get us some coffee. I forced myself to sit still and try to read an old Reader's Digest magazine until he got back. Then, we just held hands and drank our lattes and waited. And waited. And waited. After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually only about an hour, the surgeon came out to get us. He took us into a separate area and told us the surgery had gone really well. He told us how to avoid dehydration, to watch for hemoraghing, and all the after-care information. And, he educated us about all the things that would worry us, if we didn't know they were perfectly normal. Like what? Well, a full week of high fevers, nausea and vomiting, and extremely bad breath -- a result of the dying tissue. (He wasn't kidding about the breath, either. I snuggle my little guy, and his breath is so bad, it actually makes my eyes water. I think I'd prefer to have my ancient old dog, Cosmo, breathing his toxic breath in my face, than Foster breathing his dragon breath all over me. It's really bad. Like he has road kill in his mouth.)
7) The second wait. Once they told us Fos was out of surgery, we had to wait until he came out of the anesthesia before we could see him. There was a special area for this, and the doctor had told us it would only be about 10 minutes. Not too bad. We were close to the swinging doors that led to the surgery area, so we looked up eagerly every time a nurse came through, hoping she was coming for us. Nope. Over and over and over again, nurses came and went, each one glancing at our pleading puppy eyes before going on their merry way. Finally, after about 40 minutes, when I was about to climb the walls, and John was rubbing my shoulders and telling me to relax, a nurse came back and told us that Foster was sleeping peacefully but it was taking him a while to wake up. She said she couldn't stand to see us looking up anxiously every time she came through the doors, so she'd let us come back and wait with him while he slept.
8) The reunion. Finally, there he was. Sleeping with his butt poking up in the air, hooked up to monitors, with his own nurse keeping an eagle eye on his vital signs. He smelled like blood, and there was blood all over the sheet underneath him. A bit of a shocking sight for us, but he looked really peaceful as well. I was so happy just to be next to him. And, when he finally woke up and saw us...it was one of the most glorious moments of my life. Those big, blue eyes opening up and looking right into mine. It was almost like meeting him for the very first time...
So, now we do what we have to do to survive this week. When the pain medicine kicks in, he's almost normal. Pale and a little weak, with huge, dark circles under eyes, but also his usual goofy personality. Then, the medicine starts to wear off, and there's about an hour or so of agonized crying and shaking and clinging, while we try to ease his pain with popsicles and ice water until we can give him his next dose and wait for it to take effect. It's a roller coaster, that's for sure.
But, in the end, when the swelling goes down, my little guy will be able to really breathe through his nose for the very first time in his life. He'll be able to sleep through the night without his own snoring waking him up. He'll have more energy. He'll be a happier, healthier little guy. All the stress will be worth it.
And, his breath will improve. I can hardly wait for that part!
Cheers!
As for the surgery...I remember getting my tonsils out as a kid, but it's just a blur of jello and ice cream to me. I don't actually remember the pain. As it turns out, there's a whole lot of it. When they told us that Fos would have to have his adenoids and tonsils out, I just didn't think it was going to be that big of a deal. I mean, I was terrified of my little guy going under anesthesia, and I didn't want him experiencing any level of pain, but I just didn't realize what a long and truly painful ordeal this is. Our ear-nose-throat doctor was great, and he explained it very thoroughly for us. When they cut out adenoids and tonsils, they have to leave the wound open. They can't suture it up, because the area moves around too much and won't hold stitches. So, there's just an exposed wound with raw nerves back there, until it closes up by itself about 6 days after surgery. That's why the pain is so bad, and why it doesn't go away until the wound is completely closed. My poor, poor little guy...
Surgery day:
1) No sleep the night before. Not Foster. Me. I snuggled into bed with him that night, and he said, "Mommy. When Dr. Knops tells me to open my mouth tomorrow, I'm gonna kick him in the head." Then he went off to sleep. I was up most of the night. Tossing, turning, imagining worst-case scenarios...Listening to my husband blissfully snoring. How do men do that?!!
2) When Fos did wake up, at his usual 6:00am, he wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything. We had to entertain him as best as we could until we left for the hospital at 7:30. He actually did a pretty good job, but he kept looking up with pitiful eyes and saying, "I'm thirsty, Mommy. I'm hungry, Mommy. Pleeeeease can I have something?" Gulp.
3) About 15 minutes after we arrived, they took us into a special little waiting area. It was a cheerily painted little cubicle with stories, games, and a little red wagon parked in the corner. Fos was doing great. He mentioned kicking Dr. Knops again, this time "in the butt", but he was generally pretty cheerful. He liked changing into his little hospital gown with tigers all over it and the cozy little hospital socks. He thought it was hilarious to have his naked butt cheeks poking out the back, so he did a little dance around the room to show them off. Hubby and I studiously avoided looking into each other's eyes, since we knew that would be a recipe for one, or both, of us to start crying, thinking about the surgery to come...
4) Then came "sleepy juice." That's what they call it. What is it? It's a yummy little sedative that makes kids relaxed and kind've loopy, so they aren't anxious when they go into surgery and aren't even really aware of what's happening. I immediately asked for my own dose, but they turned me down. Foster insisted that the juice wasn't going to make him sleepy, because "I'm never tired!"And, it did take a while. He was sitting on my lap, all wrapped up in a warm blanket, while John read us both a story. Then he started to get heavier and heavier. All of a sudden, one of his arms kind've floated up into the air, and his hand started making slow, grasping movements. We asked him what he was doing, and he said, "Plant. Plant." I realized that he was looking at the seaweed painted onto the wall across the little room, and he was trying to grab it in his drug-induced haze. It was pretty funny. Like something out of a movie about the drug-crazed 1960's or something...
5) The departure. Even writing this, two and a half days later, I'm getting teary eyed thinking about it. The nurse came in to get us. She had me put Foster into the little red wagon, tuck the little stuffed dog Grandma had sent him next to him, and we were allowed to walk with him down the hall a little ways, "just to the red line." We kissed him and said we'd see him soon, then they wheeled him away. We started walking back to the waiting room, and I told myself not to look back, but I couldn't help it. That was probably the worst part. I could see the nurse's back, as she wheeled my baby away in his his little red wagon, and it took everything I had to keep walking toward the waiting room. What I wanted to do was scream, "Don't cut my baby!" and grab him and run...Luckily, John was holding my hand, firmly, in his own. That kept me strong.
6) The wait. John ran across the street to get us some coffee. I forced myself to sit still and try to read an old Reader's Digest magazine until he got back. Then, we just held hands and drank our lattes and waited. And waited. And waited. After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually only about an hour, the surgeon came out to get us. He took us into a separate area and told us the surgery had gone really well. He told us how to avoid dehydration, to watch for hemoraghing, and all the after-care information. And, he educated us about all the things that would worry us, if we didn't know they were perfectly normal. Like what? Well, a full week of high fevers, nausea and vomiting, and extremely bad breath -- a result of the dying tissue. (He wasn't kidding about the breath, either. I snuggle my little guy, and his breath is so bad, it actually makes my eyes water. I think I'd prefer to have my ancient old dog, Cosmo, breathing his toxic breath in my face, than Foster breathing his dragon breath all over me. It's really bad. Like he has road kill in his mouth.)
7) The second wait. Once they told us Fos was out of surgery, we had to wait until he came out of the anesthesia before we could see him. There was a special area for this, and the doctor had told us it would only be about 10 minutes. Not too bad. We were close to the swinging doors that led to the surgery area, so we looked up eagerly every time a nurse came through, hoping she was coming for us. Nope. Over and over and over again, nurses came and went, each one glancing at our pleading puppy eyes before going on their merry way. Finally, after about 40 minutes, when I was about to climb the walls, and John was rubbing my shoulders and telling me to relax, a nurse came back and told us that Foster was sleeping peacefully but it was taking him a while to wake up. She said she couldn't stand to see us looking up anxiously every time she came through the doors, so she'd let us come back and wait with him while he slept.
8) The reunion. Finally, there he was. Sleeping with his butt poking up in the air, hooked up to monitors, with his own nurse keeping an eagle eye on his vital signs. He smelled like blood, and there was blood all over the sheet underneath him. A bit of a shocking sight for us, but he looked really peaceful as well. I was so happy just to be next to him. And, when he finally woke up and saw us...it was one of the most glorious moments of my life. Those big, blue eyes opening up and looking right into mine. It was almost like meeting him for the very first time...
So, now we do what we have to do to survive this week. When the pain medicine kicks in, he's almost normal. Pale and a little weak, with huge, dark circles under eyes, but also his usual goofy personality. Then, the medicine starts to wear off, and there's about an hour or so of agonized crying and shaking and clinging, while we try to ease his pain with popsicles and ice water until we can give him his next dose and wait for it to take effect. It's a roller coaster, that's for sure.
But, in the end, when the swelling goes down, my little guy will be able to really breathe through his nose for the very first time in his life. He'll be able to sleep through the night without his own snoring waking him up. He'll have more energy. He'll be a happier, healthier little guy. All the stress will be worth it.
And, his breath will improve. I can hardly wait for that part!
Cheers!
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