it pretty much stinks.
We were having a normal evening last Saturday. Both Craig and I were tired. He'd spent most of the day at a Cub Scout day camp with K Man and I spent several hours at the Bigs' school carnival with the girls (tiring in it's own right). Weariness leads to lazy suppers so I picked up chicken strips and fries for supper. The kids were pretty full of goodies from the carnival anyway (we brought some home for K) and Craig and I were just filling the void.
The phone rang at 6:13. I looked at the caller ID later. Funny, the 13. If there was a thirteen o'clock it would have rang then. I handed the phone over to my husband without answering it. It was his parents calling and I knew they'd want to talk to him anyway. Craig answered it and said "Dad... Dad..." over and over and I thought that his dad had butt-dialed us again like he did a couple of times last week.
Craig's brother died, alone, in his house, a few days before his son found him. It's awful in so many ways.
"They" call it an unattended death. I call it crappy.
My in-laws are devastated. The rest of us are shocked, numb, whatever it is we are I'm not sure.
Send us positive thoughts.
Showing posts with label bad stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bad stuff. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Death and Axes
Our neighbor had a tree cut down a couple of weeks ago. She's lived alone the last several years as her husband has Alzheimer's disease and she could not care for him in their home. She visits him every night at the nursing home where he lives. I've always thought her a hard woman, often expressionless or if an expression leaked out it would be a sour one. Her lack of humor was evident when, at our wedding reception, she spat out that she hoped we wouldn't be having any more parties. Craig and I never hosted a party before we got married, and since then we've hosted only kids' birthday parties. Except that one time we hosted my dad's 60th birthday party and let me tell you THAT was wild time. I still have no clue what she was talking about.
Anywho. She asked Craig if he wanted the wood from the tree. We don't have a fireplace, but Craig likes to have campfires with the Bigs in the summertime. He also likes to help friends out when they need wood. He finds splitting wood therapeutic I think. Something about the rhythm of swinging the axe, the satisfying thud of the axe striking wood; the gratifying crunch of the wood splintering into two.
When I was the assistant manager at a shoe store I always liked "running" shoes. We'd put all of one style together in size order and as things got sold and new stock came in you had to move the stock on the shelves in a certain pattern to get everything out on the sales floor and in order. It was sometimes a math equation to figure out how high boxes would need to be stacked to get all the new stock in. It wasn't the math or even the new shoes (though I did enjoy seeing all the new styles first!) that satisfied me so much. It was watching the somewhat haphazard shelves becoming neat again. I could SEE the result of my work. I expect this is the type of gratification that draws one to become a carpenter or a road worker. Tangible results.
The neighbor's tree was brought down at a "good" time. Craig's favorite aunt, who has been sick for several years now took an ultimate turn for the worse right around that time. I imagine splitting wood offers time for reflection. If I were strong enough, I could see myself throwing the axe into an offending log and working out anger toward life in its complete lack of courtesy.
For my kids, the death of this aunt is the first death of someone they knew (however briefly, however limited in contact...she was sick most of the time they've known her). My son took the news of her death surprisingly hard, though in retrospect I shouldn't have been surprised. He has a very sensitive soul. He wept, loudly and openly, that he didn't get to tell her goodbye. We'd thought it best that the kids didn't see her after their first visit to the hospital this last time. She held on for more than a week after the hospitalization before she passed. I know the Bigs thought this would be like all the other hospitalizations before. She was sick, but she'd get better.
M, as the oldest Big, has obviously known this aunt the longest. The first time she got sick and ended up in the hospital, M went with Craig to visit her and was unfazed every time by the tubes, sounds and smells of hospitals. I was so proud of how she acted then and now. She drew pictures and talked to Jean as if we were visiting her in her home. M seems to be taking the news of her death pretty well, but I'm guessing there will be fallout soon. The funeral/memorial service is on Saturday. We'll take the kids. The Bigs, Craig and I will probably cry. Some of us more than others because we're just big cry babies.
Death is a part of living. I know my kids will learn to know this fact. I also know that how their parents handle death and grieving will influence how they handle it. I'm hoping I can guide my kids through this first experience with grace.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Things Like Irene Make Me Sad
NYC, while a small part of my life, holds a dear part in my heart. My family moved to New York when I was about four. My dad was, by then, Coast Guard after spending 9 years in the US Navy. We moved to Governor's Island, NY, into building 855, apartment 4B. I even remember our phone number, or at least the last half: 1421. Thinking more, I think it was 825-1421. It's been forever since we lived on GI. Most of my family has been back to visit. My dad hasn't. I haven't.
We moved away from Governor's Island the summer before I entered third grade. Right around 1999, I accessed virtual tours of the island, which were completely awesome. Memories flooded back watching these. Soon after, Governor's Island became a national monument or something similar. Many of the buildings are inaccessible today. I rely on photos from others to spark my memories.
Governor's Island was my home for nearly 4 years. I can't imagine a more memorable childhood home. I remember my preschool teacher made me a preschool graduation dress from curtains. I remember taking tea for the first time with my friend Michelle Gaskins. I thought the tea was horrible, but the friend was great. I remember my first sleep over. Kirsten Marthaler picked me out of all the kids to spend the night. We had Strawberry Shortcake ice cream cake late at night. It was probably something like 9 p.m. but we felt we were up super late.
Governor's Island is close to sea level. With the rain of Irene, high tide and storm surge, it seems likely that my childhood home will be submerged. News stations don't cover this island. Most people have never heard of it.
I worry about GI. It is no longer a place that families live, but I hold my memories.
We moved away from Governor's Island the summer before I entered third grade. Right around 1999, I accessed virtual tours of the island, which were completely awesome. Memories flooded back watching these. Soon after, Governor's Island became a national monument or something similar. Many of the buildings are inaccessible today. I rely on photos from others to spark my memories.
Governor's Island was my home for nearly 4 years. I can't imagine a more memorable childhood home. I remember my preschool teacher made me a preschool graduation dress from curtains. I remember taking tea for the first time with my friend Michelle Gaskins. I thought the tea was horrible, but the friend was great. I remember my first sleep over. Kirsten Marthaler picked me out of all the kids to spend the night. We had Strawberry Shortcake ice cream cake late at night. It was probably something like 9 p.m. but we felt we were up super late.
Governor's Island is close to sea level. With the rain of Irene, high tide and storm surge, it seems likely that my childhood home will be submerged. News stations don't cover this island. Most people have never heard of it.
I worry about GI. It is no longer a place that families live, but I hold my memories.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Oh DEER!
Last weekend M and I were at just the start of our journey to run several errands. Literally, we had just turned on to the highway (which is located at the end of our street) and driven less than a quarter mile when a deer darted in front of our car. It was a young deer, probably a yearling, and it was just far enough in front of our car (and I had not had time to accelerate fully) that I could slam on the breaks and let it cross in front of us without harm.
Two days before, M and I had had a similar experience with a dog that was dragging its leash behind it. I can only assume it got away from its owner who was trying to take it for a walk on a (comparatively, up until then) warm Spring day. He was a medium-sized dog and seemed relatively unfazed by the traffic. I stopped and let him cross in front of us. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw he made it across the road safely.
This day, with this deer, I look in the rear-view mirror just in time to see the deer launch into the air after being hit by a VW Bug. M cries out: Oh! They hit him! She immediately starts to cry and tremor. She's visibly shaken, even from what I can see in my rear-view mirror. I can admit it wasn't a pretty sight and nothing I've witnessed before. My tender-hearted daughter wept for the deer that we nearly hit.
I'm going to turn around and make sure the people are okay, I tell her. She mumbles her agreement between sobs. They were southbound on the divided highway we were northbound on our way to accomplish our errands.
It's not that far to the nearest place to turn around but it seems an eternity. M is sobbing in the back seat. I put my right hand on her knee and rub it as I drive. It's awkward but necessary.
We pull up just as a man is pulling the deer out of the traffic lane. Before I can reach the vehicle involved in the accident the other 2 vehicles that have stopped have gone on their ways.
I reach the passenger first. She's an older woman and she's trying to get the glass out of her shoe. Dammit! That poor deer! I thought today would be such a good day! She's upset, understandably.
The windshield is buckled to the edge of the dashboard almost all the way across the car. M joins us at the side of the road. We converse with the victims of the crash. Her husband didn't see the deer. She saw it, just moments too late. It happens quickly. The woman is more upset about the deer than the damage to the car. The car can be fixed. That poor deer.
They don't live far from us. They were also just on the start of their journey. Our days were altered in unique ways. Miss M continued to ask questions and process what she'd seen.
She's still processing.
But we were lucky.
Two days before, M and I had had a similar experience with a dog that was dragging its leash behind it. I can only assume it got away from its owner who was trying to take it for a walk on a (comparatively, up until then) warm Spring day. He was a medium-sized dog and seemed relatively unfazed by the traffic. I stopped and let him cross in front of us. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw he made it across the road safely.
This day, with this deer, I look in the rear-view mirror just in time to see the deer launch into the air after being hit by a VW Bug. M cries out: Oh! They hit him! She immediately starts to cry and tremor. She's visibly shaken, even from what I can see in my rear-view mirror. I can admit it wasn't a pretty sight and nothing I've witnessed before. My tender-hearted daughter wept for the deer that we nearly hit.
I'm going to turn around and make sure the people are okay, I tell her. She mumbles her agreement between sobs. They were southbound on the divided highway we were northbound on our way to accomplish our errands.
It's not that far to the nearest place to turn around but it seems an eternity. M is sobbing in the back seat. I put my right hand on her knee and rub it as I drive. It's awkward but necessary.
We pull up just as a man is pulling the deer out of the traffic lane. Before I can reach the vehicle involved in the accident the other 2 vehicles that have stopped have gone on their ways.
I reach the passenger first. She's an older woman and she's trying to get the glass out of her shoe. Dammit! That poor deer! I thought today would be such a good day! She's upset, understandably.
The windshield is buckled to the edge of the dashboard almost all the way across the car. M joins us at the side of the road. We converse with the victims of the crash. Her husband didn't see the deer. She saw it, just moments too late. It happens quickly. The woman is more upset about the deer than the damage to the car. The car can be fixed. That poor deer.
They don't live far from us. They were also just on the start of their journey. Our days were altered in unique ways. Miss M continued to ask questions and process what she'd seen.
She's still processing.
But we were lucky.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Freaking Barf Sucks
You know how you try to do everything possible to make the days with your kids happy and fun and create memories and bonding and try to make the best decisions possible? Yeah, you probably do. If that's the case then you probably also know how sucky it is when you make promises to go someplace (let's just say Chuck E . Cheese's for S's and G's) and then your toddler wakes up at 5:30 a.m. after crawling into bed with you just after her Daddy gets up to get ready for work and barfs all over herself, you and the sheets. That was the start of my day yesterday, and while there are worse things to go through in life it still is hard to see my son's face crumple in disappointment when he hears we will not be going to visit the big freaking mouse and playing games at lunch time. I call Miss M and K Man my "Bigs" and because they are several years older than their little sister it is easy for me to expect them to behave more maturely. It is easy for me to forget they are still young. But six and eight sound so young when I really listen to myself say their ages. There is a lot of growing up to do still. Disappointment is a part of life but it doesn't make the tears any easier to bear. With any luck, we'll visit the giant mouse today, eat lunch and play games. The disappointment of yesterday will fade away into nothing. D will feel better, we will have fun and move on...another day in our lives.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
What if Armageddon is Real?
I've had writer's block for weeks. Then I see this show (which I have to confess I've watched before) about the Mayan calendar predicting Armageddon on December 21, 2012. The (mostly) sane part of me thinks that the likelihood that this is true is slim to none but there is another part of me that wonders...
And what if it IS true?
What if we all have just slightly more than one year left?
What will I do differently? What will you?
I'm going to think about this and live how I want to live in (perhaps) the last year.
And what if it IS true?
What if we all have just slightly more than one year left?
What will I do differently? What will you?
I'm going to think about this and live how I want to live in (perhaps) the last year.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
The Day That Could Have Been Much Worse and Why I'm Thankful
Yesterday was the kind of day that would have been defined in terms of complete suckage in the past and sent me completely over the edge of reason. However, I have made changes lately and the events of yesterday took on a different tone mostly because of how I have relearned to react to things (most of the time).
It was an ordinary enough morning but as I was in the shower I remembered that my son had brought home a homework assignment to do this weekend. It wasn't a big thing, just read a very short book and answer a couple of questions. But since I forgot about it until early Monday morning it was pretty much like pulling teeth from a boy who probably stayed up too late the previous night playing Legos surreptitiously in his room long after he was told to go to sleep.
But we got through it. In time to pile into the car...Ms. D with her new ball that her cousin sweetly decided she should have because she enjoyed it at his house so much (she has brought it with her ever since)...M and K with their backpacks and rowdy attitudes. I had little hope for civilized schooling. Small prayers sent to their teachers.
D and I went on to her "school" a parent and child activity mostly unique to Minnesota. (ECFE if you're interested.) The kids in her class had started tentatively separating from their parents and now, with almost 8 months of class and practice at separating from parents for about an hour or so, most of the kids are separating without fuss. D had some issues for the first half of the school year but since January she has been completely comfortable when I've left the room.
When I returned to the room today to pick her up one of the teachers rushed to us. It was unusual and for a split second I thought she was going to tell me about a potty training success or something similar. That was where my mind was I guess.
It was not the case.
No, instead I was told that my little bitty pretty baby girl almost hung herself from a toddler slide by way of some plastic Mardi-Gras style necklaces. There was a red mark on her neck remaining from the incident when I arrived in the room after parent time ended. I was calm. She was fine. Later, as I was thinking about what might have happened I grew angry. I wondered why I was not summoned to the room immediately following the incident. I worried about whether they had removed all of the necklaces from now on. I was assured that D was never really choking and that the incident happened and was over in a matter of seconds (resulting in the necklaces being cut from around her neck.)
I could be irate. I'm not. I'm happy my child is safe. I hope all necklaces are gone. I will check today. FYI--necklaces in a toddler room are not well-advised.
Later in the day D slept for almost 2 hours. She didn't really nap the previous day so she was extra tired anyway and I suspect that nearly hanging oneself may be a little tiring. (Thank the Lord she is fine I would be even more nuts than I already am if she were not fine.) I joke but it is not funny. Had I lost my littlest one (any of my kids) I would fear for my own sanity.
I nudged D awake slightly before we needed to go pick up her siblings. She was groggy, sweaty, bright-eyed and independent. Typical child of mine.
We went to pick up her siblings. We've gotten into the habit as the weather has gotten so atypically beautiful so quickly that we've walked outside of the BIGS' school while they've finished their lessons. D pulls and resists my handhold, but we manage to reach a compromise.
We pick up her siblings and drive home. It is uneventful. Normal. I think my unusual day has past the unusual bit but it hasn't.
The kids put their stuff away. K goes out to play, M does her homework then goes out to play. I check her work and discover it's lacking so I call her indoors again.
She reworks the problems and returns outdoors.
Minutes later I hear wailing, crying, "don't tell mom!" "I'm telling mom!"
Miss M enters, crying hysterically. It takes a few moments for me to realize her face and neck are covered in paint. Not good. The Boy is sent to his room. He's clearly remorseful yet not that sure he's done something wrong. How do you know that you've done something wrong??? Especially when you're five?
I call their dad to ask how to remove spray paint from faces. He suggests olive oil and it works. My son is cowering in his room. My oldest is laughing because I've come up with ways to make her see the humor. The toddler nearly died this morning.
The day was emotional. A set of near misses. M may have lost sight because she had spray paint all over her face (thankfully missing eyes) and neck.
This day could have been much worse. I spent the day being calm. Every incident, I was calm, understanding, loving. I'm not sure that is good.
It was an ordinary enough morning but as I was in the shower I remembered that my son had brought home a homework assignment to do this weekend. It wasn't a big thing, just read a very short book and answer a couple of questions. But since I forgot about it until early Monday morning it was pretty much like pulling teeth from a boy who probably stayed up too late the previous night playing Legos surreptitiously in his room long after he was told to go to sleep.
But we got through it. In time to pile into the car...Ms. D with her new ball that her cousin sweetly decided she should have because she enjoyed it at his house so much (she has brought it with her ever since)...M and K with their backpacks and rowdy attitudes. I had little hope for civilized schooling. Small prayers sent to their teachers.
D and I went on to her "school" a parent and child activity mostly unique to Minnesota. (ECFE if you're interested.) The kids in her class had started tentatively separating from their parents and now, with almost 8 months of class and practice at separating from parents for about an hour or so, most of the kids are separating without fuss. D had some issues for the first half of the school year but since January she has been completely comfortable when I've left the room.
When I returned to the room today to pick her up one of the teachers rushed to us. It was unusual and for a split second I thought she was going to tell me about a potty training success or something similar. That was where my mind was I guess.
It was not the case.
No, instead I was told that my little bitty pretty baby girl almost hung herself from a toddler slide by way of some plastic Mardi-Gras style necklaces. There was a red mark on her neck remaining from the incident when I arrived in the room after parent time ended. I was calm. She was fine. Later, as I was thinking about what might have happened I grew angry. I wondered why I was not summoned to the room immediately following the incident. I worried about whether they had removed all of the necklaces from now on. I was assured that D was never really choking and that the incident happened and was over in a matter of seconds (resulting in the necklaces being cut from around her neck.)
I could be irate. I'm not. I'm happy my child is safe. I hope all necklaces are gone. I will check today. FYI--necklaces in a toddler room are not well-advised.
Later in the day D slept for almost 2 hours. She didn't really nap the previous day so she was extra tired anyway and I suspect that nearly hanging oneself may be a little tiring. (Thank the Lord she is fine I would be even more nuts than I already am if she were not fine.) I joke but it is not funny. Had I lost my littlest one (any of my kids) I would fear for my own sanity.
I nudged D awake slightly before we needed to go pick up her siblings. She was groggy, sweaty, bright-eyed and independent. Typical child of mine.
We went to pick up her siblings. We've gotten into the habit as the weather has gotten so atypically beautiful so quickly that we've walked outside of the BIGS' school while they've finished their lessons. D pulls and resists my handhold, but we manage to reach a compromise.
We pick up her siblings and drive home. It is uneventful. Normal. I think my unusual day has past the unusual bit but it hasn't.
The kids put their stuff away. K goes out to play, M does her homework then goes out to play. I check her work and discover it's lacking so I call her indoors again.
She reworks the problems and returns outdoors.
Minutes later I hear wailing, crying, "don't tell mom!" "I'm telling mom!"
Miss M enters, crying hysterically. It takes a few moments for me to realize her face and neck are covered in paint. Not good. The Boy is sent to his room. He's clearly remorseful yet not that sure he's done something wrong. How do you know that you've done something wrong??? Especially when you're five?
I call their dad to ask how to remove spray paint from faces. He suggests olive oil and it works. My son is cowering in his room. My oldest is laughing because I've come up with ways to make her see the humor. The toddler nearly died this morning.
The day was emotional. A set of near misses. M may have lost sight because she had spray paint all over her face (thankfully missing eyes) and neck.
This day could have been much worse. I spent the day being calm. Every incident, I was calm, understanding, loving. I'm not sure that is good.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Blogging on Blogging
This space came about as a whim, a lark. I was cavalier about it. I would write about my life, things that were on my mind, the funny things my kids said, the things about parenting that make my blood boil. I wanted to tell my story. My story includes my children. They are an inextricable part of my life, especially since I am a stay-at-home-mom. Some would say that I don't have the right to tell my children's stories. Their stories are their own and not mine to tell. And those people may be right.
The line is blurred between my story and theirs.
When it comes to my husband the line is more clearly marked. Even our story together is often off limits for me to write about here. Our story is not mine alone. So I do not write Craig's story here. It is only his to tell.
This blog is my story. It's a story that sometimes features cameo appearances from my parents or my brother or my brother's kids. But their appearances are superficial. You will never know them because of what I've written here. They have their own stories. I know only a small part of their stories anyway.
I realized in the last few years that writing about my in-laws is also generally not helpful and is probably hurtful to my husband so I have limited my writing about them as well. As far as I know, they do not know about this blog but I cannot be sure. I do not want to hurt my husband's family for the sake of comedy or whatever I thought my goal was there. I try. I do not always succeed in curbing my urges. This too is a part of my story.
Even as this blog is my story and I write fairly openly about things in my life and my experiences make no mistake. I do not share it all. There is much more to my life than will ever be shared here.
I chose to share my blog address with some of my family members. For the most part this has been a good thing. My family enjoys reading about my kids and laughs about the misadventures of Heather and Amma. My parents like to see the photos I take of my kids.
Sometimes though, having family read this blog is not a good thing. Feelings get hurt unintentionally. Some may wonder why they are not a part of this story. So I question the wisdom of writing so publicly. It suggests to others that they know me better than perhaps they really do.
This is only a small part of me. And I wonder if even that small part is too much to share.
The line is blurred between my story and theirs.
When it comes to my husband the line is more clearly marked. Even our story together is often off limits for me to write about here. Our story is not mine alone. So I do not write Craig's story here. It is only his to tell.
This blog is my story. It's a story that sometimes features cameo appearances from my parents or my brother or my brother's kids. But their appearances are superficial. You will never know them because of what I've written here. They have their own stories. I know only a small part of their stories anyway.
I realized in the last few years that writing about my in-laws is also generally not helpful and is probably hurtful to my husband so I have limited my writing about them as well. As far as I know, they do not know about this blog but I cannot be sure. I do not want to hurt my husband's family for the sake of comedy or whatever I thought my goal was there. I try. I do not always succeed in curbing my urges. This too is a part of my story.
Even as this blog is my story and I write fairly openly about things in my life and my experiences make no mistake. I do not share it all. There is much more to my life than will ever be shared here.
I chose to share my blog address with some of my family members. For the most part this has been a good thing. My family enjoys reading about my kids and laughs about the misadventures of Heather and Amma. My parents like to see the photos I take of my kids.
Sometimes though, having family read this blog is not a good thing. Feelings get hurt unintentionally. Some may wonder why they are not a part of this story. So I question the wisdom of writing so publicly. It suggests to others that they know me better than perhaps they really do.
This is only a small part of me. And I wonder if even that small part is too much to share.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Lessons in Church
We went to church yesterday. Miss M was supposed to sing during the service for the first time as a member of the Calvin choir. They wear red robes in the Calvin choir. K sings with the Cherub choir for another year, then he'll be in the Calvin choir and M and K will sing together again.
I was excited to see M in the bigger kids' choir, but first there was the Sunday School hour. Craig took D to the nursery and I walked M and K to the sanctuary where the big kids gather together for music before splitting into grade levels for school. The early service was running a little long, so my big kids and I gathered at the door along with K's teacher. Before long the service ended and the kids went into the sanctuary. Moments later a woman that I've gotten to know a little bit at the church (we'll call her Y) appeared with another woman (we'll call her B). They stopped K's teacher and told her that they wanted B's daughter to move from the preschool class to the Kindergarten and first grade classroom because she is bored in the preschool class. The teacher was obviously not thrilled with the idea because there is quite a difference between almost 5 and first-graders. But Y and B pressed the teacher insisting that the girl is very bright and polite and would do better with the older kids. The teacher eventually gave in, saying she'd give the girl a shot. After the teacher went into the sanctuary to be with her class, the other two women began to chat about how rude they thought the teacher was for saying something like "well, I am a Kindergarten teacher and there is a big difference between 4 and being in Kindergarten." I didn't find this statement the least bit rude as there is a big difference. I agree.
However I said nothing that indicated I agreed and just listened, smiling B went on and on about how bright, how mature, how wonderful her daughter (who will be 5 in a couple of weeks she mentioned 4729 times) is and how she belonged with the older kids.
Then she turned to me and said She is certainly more mature than K. Oh yes she did.
I told her she was rude and walked away. I have never been so insulted or angry or upset that someone would essentially cut down my child wholly unprovoked. My son was never brought up at any point until she callously stated that her 4-year-old was more mature than my almost 5 1/2-year-old Kindergartner.
Who does something like that to another parent? Who judges another person's child's maturity level, especially only having minimal experience with that child? Why do people have to cut others down to make themselves feel superior?
I allowed this woman's words to cut me. They cut Y too. I cried and as I was crying Y was in another area of the church crying also for me. She's the mother of 4. She felt the insult too.
Later B tried to come to the nursery and apologize, but I told her I didn't want to talk to her. Even her attempt at apology felt contrived and false. She was smiling. I will never be able to smile at this woman again.
This whole incident makes me so sad. Why can't parents support one another instead of making things into a competition?
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I'm also considering making this blog private. If I decide to go this route please send me an email at cool_zebras at hotmail dot com if you would like to be a reader. It looks like I would only be able to allow 100 readers if the blog was private.
I was excited to see M in the bigger kids' choir, but first there was the Sunday School hour. Craig took D to the nursery and I walked M and K to the sanctuary where the big kids gather together for music before splitting into grade levels for school. The early service was running a little long, so my big kids and I gathered at the door along with K's teacher. Before long the service ended and the kids went into the sanctuary. Moments later a woman that I've gotten to know a little bit at the church (we'll call her Y) appeared with another woman (we'll call her B). They stopped K's teacher and told her that they wanted B's daughter to move from the preschool class to the Kindergarten and first grade classroom because she is bored in the preschool class. The teacher was obviously not thrilled with the idea because there is quite a difference between almost 5 and first-graders. But Y and B pressed the teacher insisting that the girl is very bright and polite and would do better with the older kids. The teacher eventually gave in, saying she'd give the girl a shot. After the teacher went into the sanctuary to be with her class, the other two women began to chat about how rude they thought the teacher was for saying something like "well, I am a Kindergarten teacher and there is a big difference between 4 and being in Kindergarten." I didn't find this statement the least bit rude as there is a big difference. I agree.
However I said nothing that indicated I agreed and just listened, smiling B went on and on about how bright, how mature, how wonderful her daughter (who will be 5 in a couple of weeks she mentioned 4729 times) is and how she belonged with the older kids.
Then she turned to me and said She is certainly more mature than K. Oh yes she did.
I told her she was rude and walked away. I have never been so insulted or angry or upset that someone would essentially cut down my child wholly unprovoked. My son was never brought up at any point until she callously stated that her 4-year-old was more mature than my almost 5 1/2-year-old Kindergartner.
Who does something like that to another parent? Who judges another person's child's maturity level, especially only having minimal experience with that child? Why do people have to cut others down to make themselves feel superior?
I allowed this woman's words to cut me. They cut Y too. I cried and as I was crying Y was in another area of the church crying also for me. She's the mother of 4. She felt the insult too.
Later B tried to come to the nursery and apologize, but I told her I didn't want to talk to her. Even her attempt at apology felt contrived and false. She was smiling. I will never be able to smile at this woman again.
This whole incident makes me so sad. Why can't parents support one another instead of making things into a competition?
*********
I'm also considering making this blog private. If I decide to go this route please send me an email at cool_zebras at hotmail dot com if you would like to be a reader. It looks like I would only be able to allow 100 readers if the blog was private.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Ugh
So I went to a doctor yesterday instead of just the nurse that I went to on Sunday. He took one look in my throat and said "Wow, that looks painful" and prescribed penicillin based on the fact that my symptoms came on suddenly and the looks of my throat. Three doses in and my throat is feeling about 80 percent better, which is good, except last evening it felt better than it does this morning.
My dad is coming to watch the kids again for a bit this morning so I can rest some more. He is such a great Boppa. I'm grateful I have him to help.
My guess is that I will be much better by this afternoon. I hope. I feel badly that my kids are missing out on the "fun" I promised them during their school break. It seems that at least one of us is sick at every break though. With any luck we'll be building a cookie house or painting bird houses this afternoon.
I'm sick of being sick. How are you?
My dad is coming to watch the kids again for a bit this morning so I can rest some more. He is such a great Boppa. I'm grateful I have him to help.
My guess is that I will be much better by this afternoon. I hope. I feel badly that my kids are missing out on the "fun" I promised them during their school break. It seems that at least one of us is sick at every break though. With any luck we'll be building a cookie house or painting bird houses this afternoon.
I'm sick of being sick. How are you?
Friday, September 11, 2009
Rain
It's supposed to rain today and I find odd comfort in that.
The rain won't come until late in the day which will sort of negate my wish for the overcast. I long for a morning that doesn't look like morning, a morning that encourages oversleeping. Not all mornings, but THIS morning most of all.
The years when September 11 dawns bright and crisp with azure skies are a shock to the system that is so easily transported to other times. The rain mutes the day, takes the slightest bit of sting off the wounds of remembering.
And yet the whole idea of writing about remembering that day seems hollow. I was not there. I knew no one there. But New York was my city, a claim I stake having lived on Governor's Island with the Statue of Liberty and the Twin Towers rising in my watery backyard. New York made a big impression on a little girl.
Even weeks ago, as I watched my oldest daughter get her ears pierced, New York invaded my senses. I was again 6-years-old, sitting in a high stool in a jewelry store that happened to be located in the underbelly of one of the Towers. The excitement of getting my ears pierced was punctuated by the exciting locale. No matter where we were in the city, I felt a part of something thrilling.
Battery Park, Statue of Liberty, riding the subway. Fountains begging for coins to be tossed. Italian ices from street vendors. Paper fans and baby doll shoes from China Town. Fear. The dank scent of wet metal. Craning my neck to see the top of a building. Feeling astounded at the sight of tiny, tiny cars below.
I imagine New York retains that energy today, though the events of a day that started out just as any other day have changed it, and all of us.
The rain won't come until late in the day which will sort of negate my wish for the overcast. I long for a morning that doesn't look like morning, a morning that encourages oversleeping. Not all mornings, but THIS morning most of all.
The years when September 11 dawns bright and crisp with azure skies are a shock to the system that is so easily transported to other times. The rain mutes the day, takes the slightest bit of sting off the wounds of remembering.
And yet the whole idea of writing about remembering that day seems hollow. I was not there. I knew no one there. But New York was my city, a claim I stake having lived on Governor's Island with the Statue of Liberty and the Twin Towers rising in my watery backyard. New York made a big impression on a little girl.
Even weeks ago, as I watched my oldest daughter get her ears pierced, New York invaded my senses. I was again 6-years-old, sitting in a high stool in a jewelry store that happened to be located in the underbelly of one of the Towers. The excitement of getting my ears pierced was punctuated by the exciting locale. No matter where we were in the city, I felt a part of something thrilling.
Battery Park, Statue of Liberty, riding the subway. Fountains begging for coins to be tossed. Italian ices from street vendors. Paper fans and baby doll shoes from China Town. Fear. The dank scent of wet metal. Craning my neck to see the top of a building. Feeling astounded at the sight of tiny, tiny cars below.
I imagine New York retains that energy today, though the events of a day that started out just as any other day have changed it, and all of us.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Short of Breath
She was fine when she fell asleep, early, though she was snoring loudly. The snoring wasn't completely unusual though. When she's particularly tired after a long day, she snores. The snores that night may have been a little louder than usual, but I assumed she was just extra exhausted.
I think it was the commotion upstairs that woke her. K has been doing great at school, but when he gets home he's wiped out from following directions all day. I remember M being extremely tired the first few weeks of Kindergarten too. The tiredness manifests in whining and crying and insistence that he is not tired. He doesn't even know what he's saying half the time I don't think. So when he woke D up he was lobbying for a book even though he'd already stayed up later than he should have. He had his heart set on the book and his heart was breaking. The only thing to do at that point is usually give him what he wants in wish form. ("You wish you could read a book! I know! That would be great wouldn't it? But it's bedtime now!") D was up and crying. While I tried to comfort K Man I noticed her breathing. Craig noticed it too.
She was wheezing (but really it was stridor, not wheezing). Her cries sounded hoarse. Her voice reminded me of when I was hospitalized with mono as a teen. The doctor had called my speech "hot potato speech" because my glands were so swollen in my neck that it sounded like I had a hot potato in my mouth. We got K calmed and in bed and took D back downstairs.
Craig and I listened to D with increasing alarm. She cried and seemed to be struggling to get air. The noise came on the inhale though. We tried to look in her throat to see if her tonsils were swollen, but that was a lost cause. I saw her chest heaving. Craig said he didn't like how she sounded. I told him I was taking her to the ER.
I drove with the radio turned down so I could hear her. I didn't know if she would continue to struggle for breath or even stop breathing. She seemed slightly better as we approached the hospital. The surface parking lot for the ER was full so I had to park in the underground ramp. It took several minutes longer for me to reach the ER. D was bright-eyed and still breathing noisily, but seemed happy nonetheless.
We only sat in the waiting room for a minute before we were called to take D's temp, weight, etc., then we were placed in a room.
We saw a total of 3 doctors. It's a teaching hospital, so first up we had the student doctor. He looked about 12 and had a nervous stutter. He was respectful and listened. He was a little clueless.
Then his supervisor, a resident, came in to make his assessment. He was also pleasant (and taken with Ms. D's cuteness) but sort of made me feel that I was an overprotective nervous mother who brought her child in for a common cold. But before he discharged D, he needed the staff doctor to sign off.
Both men had used a stethoscope to listen to D's lungs. She tolerated this for only a few breaths then would grab the end of the stethoscope and try to fling it back at the doctor. I laughed every time. I think I have another girl who knows her own mind and is not going to take anything laying down.
The staff doctor entered and sort of cooed at D. Then he looked at me and remembered himself "Did I introduce myself?" I couldn't remember. "I think I forgot to introduce myself. I got distracted by this cute little one." (I think he was referring to the baby.) By this time we'd been at the ER for 2 hours. D's breathing had steadily improved as we waited for each new doctor. "She sounds great right now," the staff doctor said. So I figured I was going to get another lecture, the gist of which would be that I was overreacting.
But that wasn't the case. He asked me to describe what had happened at home again. He asked when the noise occurred (inhale or exhale or both). He asked if she sounded hoarse. He asked if she'd been coughing (no) if she'd had a cold (no) and if she'd been sick at all recently (no). Even with my "no" responses to these questions the doctor determined she had croup. (Which never occurred to me since she was not coughing.) He said given the fact that she seemed to get better in the car on the way to the ER, and still improved in the cool environment of the ER, and given the fact that the noise occurred on the inhales rather than the exhales (which would indicate asthma) that it was croup. We decided to give her an oral steroid to decrease the swelling in her throat (hence the hoarseness). He said the steroid wouldn't help that night but would help the next night. (and it did)
So. Croup. Without a barking cough. And thank goodness it wasn't something more serious. I can tell you it is a very scary thing when you see your 14-month-old struggling for air. I can also tell you it is a relief to know that she is okay.
I think it was the commotion upstairs that woke her. K has been doing great at school, but when he gets home he's wiped out from following directions all day. I remember M being extremely tired the first few weeks of Kindergarten too. The tiredness manifests in whining and crying and insistence that he is not tired. He doesn't even know what he's saying half the time I don't think. So when he woke D up he was lobbying for a book even though he'd already stayed up later than he should have. He had his heart set on the book and his heart was breaking. The only thing to do at that point is usually give him what he wants in wish form. ("You wish you could read a book! I know! That would be great wouldn't it? But it's bedtime now!") D was up and crying. While I tried to comfort K Man I noticed her breathing. Craig noticed it too.
She was wheezing (but really it was stridor, not wheezing). Her cries sounded hoarse. Her voice reminded me of when I was hospitalized with mono as a teen. The doctor had called my speech "hot potato speech" because my glands were so swollen in my neck that it sounded like I had a hot potato in my mouth. We got K calmed and in bed and took D back downstairs.
Craig and I listened to D with increasing alarm. She cried and seemed to be struggling to get air. The noise came on the inhale though. We tried to look in her throat to see if her tonsils were swollen, but that was a lost cause. I saw her chest heaving. Craig said he didn't like how she sounded. I told him I was taking her to the ER.
I drove with the radio turned down so I could hear her. I didn't know if she would continue to struggle for breath or even stop breathing. She seemed slightly better as we approached the hospital. The surface parking lot for the ER was full so I had to park in the underground ramp. It took several minutes longer for me to reach the ER. D was bright-eyed and still breathing noisily, but seemed happy nonetheless.
We only sat in the waiting room for a minute before we were called to take D's temp, weight, etc., then we were placed in a room.
We saw a total of 3 doctors. It's a teaching hospital, so first up we had the student doctor. He looked about 12 and had a nervous stutter. He was respectful and listened. He was a little clueless.
Then his supervisor, a resident, came in to make his assessment. He was also pleasant (and taken with Ms. D's cuteness) but sort of made me feel that I was an overprotective nervous mother who brought her child in for a common cold. But before he discharged D, he needed the staff doctor to sign off.
Both men had used a stethoscope to listen to D's lungs. She tolerated this for only a few breaths then would grab the end of the stethoscope and try to fling it back at the doctor. I laughed every time. I think I have another girl who knows her own mind and is not going to take anything laying down.
The staff doctor entered and sort of cooed at D. Then he looked at me and remembered himself "Did I introduce myself?" I couldn't remember. "I think I forgot to introduce myself. I got distracted by this cute little one." (I think he was referring to the baby.) By this time we'd been at the ER for 2 hours. D's breathing had steadily improved as we waited for each new doctor. "She sounds great right now," the staff doctor said. So I figured I was going to get another lecture, the gist of which would be that I was overreacting.
But that wasn't the case. He asked me to describe what had happened at home again. He asked when the noise occurred (inhale or exhale or both). He asked if she sounded hoarse. He asked if she'd been coughing (no) if she'd had a cold (no) and if she'd been sick at all recently (no). Even with my "no" responses to these questions the doctor determined she had croup. (Which never occurred to me since she was not coughing.) He said given the fact that she seemed to get better in the car on the way to the ER, and still improved in the cool environment of the ER, and given the fact that the noise occurred on the inhales rather than the exhales (which would indicate asthma) that it was croup. We decided to give her an oral steroid to decrease the swelling in her throat (hence the hoarseness). He said the steroid wouldn't help that night but would help the next night. (and it did)
So. Croup. Without a barking cough. And thank goodness it wasn't something more serious. I can tell you it is a very scary thing when you see your 14-month-old struggling for air. I can also tell you it is a relief to know that she is okay.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Aching
Miss M has been having stomach aches. They started just before we scheduled her tonsillectomy, and I blamed them on the ibuprofen they told us to give her to try to reduce the size of her tonsils. I stopped giving her the ibuprofen but the aches didn't resolve. We talked and it came out that she was being bothered by another girl at school. Her teacher handled the situation and the stomach aches vanished for a while.
They have returned a few more times, seemingly randomly, and have disappeared again.
Last week they started again. Every day.
These aren't just oh Mom I have a stomachache kind of aches. No, they are holding the stomach, moaning, screaming, crying kind of aches. She thinks she is going to throw up, but she doesn't. Sometimes she needs to go potty, but it doesn't seem to help the ache.
Last Friday I took her in to see the doctor to rule out any medical cause for this pain. I think it is largely psychosomatic, but I needed to be sure. We are keeping a diary of abdominal pain, times, duration, circumstances, etc. But so far it is the opinion of the doctor that it is anxiety related.
I am keeping the diary, but I am also starting to work with her to try to relieve these anxieties. I know 1st and 2nd grade seem to be highly stressful for kids for some reason or another and I want to start developing better coping techniques with her. Yesterday I gave her a notebook to journal in when she's upset or has something she'd like to talk about. She seems excited to try it.
We'll try to avoid even the joking things that could make her worry. We'll give her Tylenol when the aches hit. We'll encourage her to talk and to write.
We'll hope that this new growing pain goes away soon.
They have returned a few more times, seemingly randomly, and have disappeared again.
Last week they started again. Every day.
These aren't just oh Mom I have a stomachache kind of aches. No, they are holding the stomach, moaning, screaming, crying kind of aches. She thinks she is going to throw up, but she doesn't. Sometimes she needs to go potty, but it doesn't seem to help the ache.
Last Friday I took her in to see the doctor to rule out any medical cause for this pain. I think it is largely psychosomatic, but I needed to be sure. We are keeping a diary of abdominal pain, times, duration, circumstances, etc. But so far it is the opinion of the doctor that it is anxiety related.
I am keeping the diary, but I am also starting to work with her to try to relieve these anxieties. I know 1st and 2nd grade seem to be highly stressful for kids for some reason or another and I want to start developing better coping techniques with her. Yesterday I gave her a notebook to journal in when she's upset or has something she'd like to talk about. She seems excited to try it.
We'll try to avoid even the joking things that could make her worry. We'll give her Tylenol when the aches hit. We'll encourage her to talk and to write.
We'll hope that this new growing pain goes away soon.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
For Maddie
I first heard about Maddie Spohr when I read Shawn's (aka Backpacking Dad) post about being hit by a goat several months ago. The post made an impression on me then (and I'm too lazy to find it to link to it directly) and spurred me to donate to the March of Dimes in support of Maddie's team for the walk. Maddie had RSV then, and my own little Ms. D was sick with a cold. I couldn't imagine going through worse with someone so tiny and dear.
I would link to Maddie's mom, Heather's, blog but it is getting so much traffic that it is constantly down.
Maddie passed away on Tuesday. Her bright smile is gone.
Please consider donating too.
I would link to Maddie's mom, Heather's, blog but it is getting so much traffic that it is constantly down.
Maddie passed away on Tuesday. Her bright smile is gone.
Please consider donating too.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
So Then We Get to IKEA
We decide to eat lunch once we get to IKEA, seeing as it is already one o’clock and my children usually eat lunch closer to 11:30. Whoops!
My mom sits with the baby while I take the older two through the cafeteria line. This is almost always a circus act, because the people who are doing the serving always think I am done ordering after I have ordered two meals so I stand there for an extra 5 minutes waiting for them to acknowledge that YES, I AM STILL HERE. Besides that, the kids can never make up their minds, or M asks for 14 different things when I know she will only eat maybe one of those things. The trick is to figure out which thing she is going to eat today.
So K got chicken strips and fries, I got meatballs and mashed taters and M got mac and cheese and a side of mashed taters. D eats a bunch of my mashed potatoes. M eats her macaroni, a few bites of mashed potatoes and 2 of my meatballs. K eats one bite of his chicken and a few fries before he declares he is done and, shockingly, has to pee.
I take him to the bathroom, where we both use it, then wash our hands. We discover the “car wash” style hand dryers and agree they are quite awesome. I’m surprised K does not declare he has to pee again for the rest of the time there just so he can use the hand dryer again.
The kids want to play in the Smaland play area. I also want them to play in there. We stand and wait 20 minutes. Well, I stand. M more or less stands too. K pretty much jumps and climbs on every surface in the area and my blood pressure rises accordingly. Once they are finally admitted to the playroom my mom, Baby D and I run for it.
The hour the kids are there passes serenely. It is beautiful. I want to marry it.
Once out of theircage play land, they immediately start fighting over who gets to push the cart. My mom and I tell them they have to take turns and M goes first. K cannot leave her alone so this is clearly not the best solution. Once it is his turn to push he runs into two people and nearly runs into two displays. Of glass. So his turn is cut short. He protests loudly.
Grandma appeases him by offering to buy him a desk lamp. He is happy for a few minutes.
As we approach the checkout, K starts tossing the lamp in the air and catching it.
You’re going to break it Bud.
Toss. Crack. Broken.
No light for K. A major meltdown ensues. I need Jo Frost to stand there and tell people “it’s just a kid having a meltdown, carry on” like she does on SuperNanny and then roll her eyes back at those people.
I WANT MY LIGHT! I WANT MY LIGHT! I WANT MY LIGHT! I WANT MY LIGHT!
So, how are you today? thesmartass friendly cashier asks.
Oh just WONDERFUL, I reply.
I drag my son through the line to where my mom and M are waiting. I tell my mom of my fantasy of leaving him there.
She, instead, picks him up and carries him out of the store. He immediately stops screaming when she does this and I realize the boy is supremely tired. I start to realize that I am not feeling the greatest either.
I wonder why I ever attempt to do things like this.
My mom sits with the baby while I take the older two through the cafeteria line. This is almost always a circus act, because the people who are doing the serving always think I am done ordering after I have ordered two meals so I stand there for an extra 5 minutes waiting for them to acknowledge that YES, I AM STILL HERE. Besides that, the kids can never make up their minds, or M asks for 14 different things when I know she will only eat maybe one of those things. The trick is to figure out which thing she is going to eat today.
So K got chicken strips and fries, I got meatballs and mashed taters and M got mac and cheese and a side of mashed taters. D eats a bunch of my mashed potatoes. M eats her macaroni, a few bites of mashed potatoes and 2 of my meatballs. K eats one bite of his chicken and a few fries before he declares he is done and, shockingly, has to pee.
I take him to the bathroom, where we both use it, then wash our hands. We discover the “car wash” style hand dryers and agree they are quite awesome. I’m surprised K does not declare he has to pee again for the rest of the time there just so he can use the hand dryer again.
The kids want to play in the Smaland play area. I also want them to play in there. We stand and wait 20 minutes. Well, I stand. M more or less stands too. K pretty much jumps and climbs on every surface in the area and my blood pressure rises accordingly. Once they are finally admitted to the playroom my mom, Baby D and I run for it.
The hour the kids are there passes serenely. It is beautiful. I want to marry it.
Once out of their
Grandma appeases him by offering to buy him a desk lamp. He is happy for a few minutes.
As we approach the checkout, K starts tossing the lamp in the air and catching it.
You’re going to break it Bud.
Toss. Crack. Broken.
No light for K. A major meltdown ensues. I need Jo Frost to stand there and tell people “it’s just a kid having a meltdown, carry on” like she does on SuperNanny and then roll her eyes back at those people.
I WANT MY LIGHT! I WANT MY LIGHT! I WANT MY LIGHT! I WANT MY LIGHT!
So, how are you today? the
Oh just WONDERFUL, I reply.
I drag my son through the line to where my mom and M are waiting. I tell my mom of my fantasy of leaving him there.
She, instead, picks him up and carries him out of the store. He immediately stops screaming when she does this and I realize the boy is supremely tired. I start to realize that I am not feeling the greatest either.
I wonder why I ever attempt to do things like this.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Sometimes Ignorance is BLISS
::clears throat::
Pull up a chair. Let me tell you about my day yesterday. I thought it would be a normal, perhaps boringly normal, day. And it started out that way. It really did. And I am glad it wasn't any more unusual than it was. It could have been worse, apparently.
My oldest child, Miss M, entered my bedroom earlier than I'd have liked, but right on schedule for our new normal. In truth, this 7 a.m. wake-up call from my oldest is a major improvement in her sleep habits from pre-tonsillectomy. The tonsillectomy, even though M has had an ear infection since, has been a good thing...a draining thing, but a good thing. M is still hyper-dramatic about everything but that is probably a 6-year-old-going-on-13-year-old thing.
The night before this awakening Ms. D had awoken each time I attempted to lay her in her crib from midnight until she finally slept there at 2 a.m. K had been up once to pee, another time and I fooled myself into thinking he'd gone back to bed. Later I'd gone to the bathroom to turn the light off (that I assumed he'd forgotten to turn off) and discovered him asleep on the floor with his bare butt in the air. He was up again at around 3 or 4. (His dad got up with him that time so I didn't note the time that closely.)
So let me just say I was tired. I had attempted to go to bed "early" for me but my children said "uh-uh." Just Monday I was in bed sleeping at 6 pm and stayed there all night. My house seems to have the plague. The baby was barfing last weekend. PLAGUE.
The older kids played. They ate breakfast. They actually got dressed when they were told to (notably, K got dressed first...this is the boy who not only "rides on 2 wheels" but also dawdles.). They wanted to play their new Superheroes Operation game. They played. D napped.
I went about the actions of getting lunch ready. I vaguely recall that K had laid down. (Why do I not notice the signs EVER?) Once lunch was ready...minutes, literally...I went to get K up to eat and he told me he could not open his eyes. WTF?
So then I wondered about the validity of his distress and M ate lunch while K lay and remained pretty much silent and motionless which is, in itself, in indication of something radically wrong with the universe. (This is the child that people will tell me, within minutes of meeting him, "wow he's a hoot!" or "he's quite the character" and he is.)
I called the nurse line to see if I was a freak, overprotective mom (uh instincts have not been wrong more than 3-4 times in 6 1/2 years) because I hate to feel like I am overreacting. I answered 4382 questions with mostly comments like "I'm not sure how bad his pain is since I am not him" and also "well, his eyes are puffy but he has been crying too so I don't know if it's normal crying puffiness or abnormal weird-eye-stuff puffiness." Eventually she told me to bring him in for an appointment.
So I spent the time from then until we needed to leave for the appointment torn between letting my son nap (who had been up 3 times each of the previous nights) and keeping him up to keep an eye on him. In the end, he napped for an hour and I spent another 5-10 helping him open his eyes again through the gunk.
****Is anyone still here? Honest to God I don't know why anyone reads this blog. ***Crickets***
Let me jump ahead to the actual diagnosis. K has bilateral (fancy medical talk for "BOTH") ocular (fancy medical talk for "EYES") cellulitis. Or so that's what this doctor thought. I'd link you to the medical page but really you don't care that much so I'll just tell you. It's a bacterial infection of the deep tissue. (K's eyelids and tissue underneath are infected.) It seems to be staph or some other crappy germ. It is potentially fatal if left untreated. He is being treated and I keep reminding myself of that.
It's really just that "potentially fatal" that stops a mother's heart. Also, "bring him in if he seems to get worse." Well Holy Hell, my judgment is a little off because you told me my son could potentially die when he was just fine this morning.
So we went to SuperTarget (because we love to spend money there and it is only 3 minutes from home on even a bad day) and filled his prescription. We also bought a couple more DVDs because really, what is the difference when you already own 14682 DVDs?
Once we got home I tried to put away the groceries, soothe the baby who is (thank the good Lord) almost always low maintenance and happy, plus get a snack ready for K since he needed food with his medicine. And of course Miss M was jealous of the attention even though she had it all not so long ago.
At this point I was able to dose my boy with antibiotics. He looked something like this, which was actually pretty healty-looking compared to to earlier (and, in retrospect, later) times.
I thought K was napping but turns out he just couldn't open his eyes again. Turned into about 3 hours of that. He didn't tell me. Sigh. NO REALLY. SIGH.
I was near to calling the ambulance for the little dude, but we did get his eyes open again. His eyes looked worse to me, but he'd also been laying down for 3 hours. We got him to open his eyes (with the help of wet cloths) then he ate a little food.
I woke him up late last night to dose him again with antibiotics. His eyes were again matted shut. I gave him a cool rag to put over his eyes. I don't know if it will help him at all, but it is a token of help I suppose.
I reach the end of this post and as usual I cannot wrap it up like the big time bloggers/writers/etc. seem to be able to do. I will take my son and myself to the doctor and hope we'll be better. We are both to be seen today to check on my (utterly ridiculous) finger and K's potentially serious eyes. I will update this as I can.
At this point though, I see my little boy with his eyes matted shut, who also has 2 infected ears, but complained of little.
***********
Aweigh post below.
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Updated: K's eyes are looking a lot better today. The doctor said that the antibiotics are working and he should be just fine. Thank goodness.
Pull up a chair. Let me tell you about my day yesterday. I thought it would be a normal, perhaps boringly normal, day. And it started out that way. It really did. And I am glad it wasn't any more unusual than it was. It could have been worse, apparently.
My oldest child, Miss M, entered my bedroom earlier than I'd have liked, but right on schedule for our new normal. In truth, this 7 a.m. wake-up call from my oldest is a major improvement in her sleep habits from pre-tonsillectomy. The tonsillectomy, even though M has had an ear infection since, has been a good thing...a draining thing, but a good thing. M is still hyper-dramatic about everything but that is probably a 6-year-old-going-on-13-year-old thing.
The night before this awakening Ms. D had awoken each time I attempted to lay her in her crib from midnight until she finally slept there at 2 a.m. K had been up once to pee, another time and I fooled myself into thinking he'd gone back to bed. Later I'd gone to the bathroom to turn the light off (that I assumed he'd forgotten to turn off) and discovered him asleep on the floor with his bare butt in the air. He was up again at around 3 or 4. (His dad got up with him that time so I didn't note the time that closely.)
So let me just say I was tired. I had attempted to go to bed "early" for me but my children said "uh-uh." Just Monday I was in bed sleeping at 6 pm and stayed there all night. My house seems to have the plague. The baby was barfing last weekend. PLAGUE.
The older kids played. They ate breakfast. They actually got dressed when they were told to (notably, K got dressed first...this is the boy who not only "rides on 2 wheels" but also dawdles.). They wanted to play their new Superheroes Operation game. They played. D napped.
I went about the actions of getting lunch ready. I vaguely recall that K had laid down. (Why do I not notice the signs EVER?) Once lunch was ready...minutes, literally...I went to get K up to eat and he told me he could not open his eyes. WTF?
So then I wondered about the validity of his distress and M ate lunch while K lay and remained pretty much silent and motionless which is, in itself, in indication of something radically wrong with the universe. (This is the child that people will tell me, within minutes of meeting him, "wow he's a hoot!" or "he's quite the character" and he is.)
I called the nurse line to see if I was a freak, overprotective mom (uh instincts have not been wrong more than 3-4 times in 6 1/2 years) because I hate to feel like I am overreacting. I answered 4382 questions with mostly comments like "I'm not sure how bad his pain is since I am not him" and also "well, his eyes are puffy but he has been crying too so I don't know if it's normal crying puffiness or abnormal weird-eye-stuff puffiness." Eventually she told me to bring him in for an appointment.
So I spent the time from then until we needed to leave for the appointment torn between letting my son nap (who had been up 3 times each of the previous nights) and keeping him up to keep an eye on him. In the end, he napped for an hour and I spent another 5-10 helping him open his eyes again through the gunk.
****Is anyone still here? Honest to God I don't know why anyone reads this blog. ***Crickets***
Let me jump ahead to the actual diagnosis. K has bilateral (fancy medical talk for "BOTH") ocular (fancy medical talk for "EYES") cellulitis. Or so that's what this doctor thought. I'd link you to the medical page but really you don't care that much so I'll just tell you. It's a bacterial infection of the deep tissue. (K's eyelids and tissue underneath are infected.) It seems to be staph or some other crappy germ. It is potentially fatal if left untreated. He is being treated and I keep reminding myself of that.
It's really just that "potentially fatal" that stops a mother's heart. Also, "bring him in if he seems to get worse." Well Holy Hell, my judgment is a little off because you told me my son could potentially die when he was just fine this morning.
So we went to SuperTarget (because we love to spend money there and it is only 3 minutes from home on even a bad day) and filled his prescription. We also bought a couple more DVDs because really, what is the difference when you already own 14682 DVDs?
Once we got home I tried to put away the groceries, soothe the baby who is (thank the good Lord) almost always low maintenance and happy, plus get a snack ready for K since he needed food with his medicine. And of course Miss M was jealous of the attention even though she had it all not so long ago.
At this point I was able to dose my boy with antibiotics. He looked something like this, which was actually pretty healty-looking compared to to earlier (and, in retrospect, later) times.
I thought K was napping but turns out he just couldn't open his eyes again. Turned into about 3 hours of that. He didn't tell me. Sigh. NO REALLY. SIGH.
I was near to calling the ambulance for the little dude, but we did get his eyes open again. His eyes looked worse to me, but he'd also been laying down for 3 hours. We got him to open his eyes (with the help of wet cloths) then he ate a little food.
I woke him up late last night to dose him again with antibiotics. His eyes were again matted shut. I gave him a cool rag to put over his eyes. I don't know if it will help him at all, but it is a token of help I suppose.
I reach the end of this post and as usual I cannot wrap it up like the big time bloggers/writers/etc. seem to be able to do. I will take my son and myself to the doctor and hope we'll be better. We are both to be seen today to check on my (utterly ridiculous) finger and K's potentially serious eyes. I will update this as I can.
At this point though, I see my little boy with his eyes matted shut, who also has 2 infected ears, but complained of little.
***********
Aweigh post below.
**********
Updated: K's eyes are looking a lot better today. The doctor said that the antibiotics are working and he should be just fine. Thank goodness.
Monday, March 23, 2009
My Inpiration Has Disappeared
I had forgotten, blissfully forgotten, what it was like to have a sick baby. Not to say that Ms. D hasn’t been sick at all in her 10 months (gulp! 10 months?) but her illnesses have been simple, yet annoying, colds for the most part.
Last weekend she had the flu. Those who have had a sick infant know that when babies throw up they are generally scared and confused. There is a lot of crying (most of it from the baby). When my babies have been sick, I generally resign myself to being barfed on multiple times. There really is nothing else I can do but hold my baby and murmur in her ear that things will be okay as she empties her stomach all over my shirt.
That’s not to say that I necessarily mind being barfed on. I mean, it is better than being shat on I suppose. And I am so happy to know that I can at least be minimally comforting to my child. I always wish there was something more I could do.
Maybe I’m missing something. Is there something I should/could be doing to help my babies when they have the flu?
****
Aweigh post below.
Last weekend she had the flu. Those who have had a sick infant know that when babies throw up they are generally scared and confused. There is a lot of crying (most of it from the baby). When my babies have been sick, I generally resign myself to being barfed on multiple times. There really is nothing else I can do but hold my baby and murmur in her ear that things will be okay as she empties her stomach all over my shirt.
That’s not to say that I necessarily mind being barfed on. I mean, it is better than being shat on I suppose. And I am so happy to know that I can at least be minimally comforting to my child. I always wish there was something more I could do.
Maybe I’m missing something. Is there something I should/could be doing to help my babies when they have the flu?
****
Aweigh post below.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Giving You The Finger
So Thursday was apparently the day for me to fall down the stairs again. I've done it 3 times now in this house. It's sort of expected that it will happen every few years.
It was late morning. I was rushing to use the bathroom and get back downstairs. D has started climbing stairs and this time I thought I'd just pop upstairs to potty quickly and get back before she attempted the stairs. Most of the time I pop her in the pack and play or bring her upstairs with me but for whatever reason (thank goodness) I left her in the living room this time.
It was almost time to leave to take K to Boppa and Amma's house so D and I could go to her ECFE class. I suppose that's why I was rushing too. I came out of the bathroom and made it down the first few steps to the landing without incident. Then the second half of the stairs and my feet seemed to fail me. I think I hit the tread with only part of my foot which led to my foot slipping off the tread and sending me instantly downward. The brunt of my fall was taken my the three fingers of my left hand and (to a lesser degree) my right forearm. My finger bent backwards and I immediately thought that I'd broken all three.
D was at the bottom of the stairs, but again, thankfully, off to the side so I didn't land on her.
K said something on the order of "that's why you need to hang on" or something similarly unintentionally smart-assed. Then he wanted to climb in my lap and comfort me which really was not what I wanted at the time, although very sweet and well-intentioned.
I sucked it up and went to D's class but later that night I thought my middle finger might really be broken. I discussed the topic at length with several of my followers on Twitter. I don't think I've ever had such a response to any of my tweets.
Then Friday morning I realized I couldn't bend my finger much anymore and it was rather bruised. I called to make an appointment to see a doctor even though I knew they would essentially just tape up my finger and say "yep, you broke it!"
So here is the finger, pre-x-ray (which was RUSHED, btw. VIP finger apparently.) I did actually have it taped better than that the night before but I'd taken it off to shower and couldn't just slid it back on. And I'm too cheap to use more gauze and tape.
(Please take note of the awesome new jeans that are one whole size smaller than my old jeans. Also I love my Sketchers athletic shoes. My camera phone photography skillz ROCK!)
Here is the finger post x-ray and post exam by doctor. He was not impressed with my taping job but I didn't feel like explaining the whole shower-removing, cheap-Heather connection.
Turns out the fracture is actually above the joint where the swelling and the bruising actually stop. It's HAWT though, isn't it?
My very sexy splint, to be worn AT ALL TIMES, except when I'm taking a shower (but only if I put it RIGHT BACK ON upon exiting the shower). I'm supposedly saddled with this for 3 to 4 weeks. Good times. Especially since M's 3-week school break is starting. I AM quite sad that I will not be able to wash dishes (that I mostly don't wash anyway). Oh well, doctor's orders!
During my exam the doctor paused and noted that my fingers are apparently freakishly long from the joint up. He felt the need to comment on this and seemed to sit in utter disbelief for a few moments. It's nice to know that I can stun doctors.
Freakishly long? These are the non-hurty digits.
It was late morning. I was rushing to use the bathroom and get back downstairs. D has started climbing stairs and this time I thought I'd just pop upstairs to potty quickly and get back before she attempted the stairs. Most of the time I pop her in the pack and play or bring her upstairs with me but for whatever reason (thank goodness) I left her in the living room this time.
It was almost time to leave to take K to Boppa and Amma's house so D and I could go to her ECFE class. I suppose that's why I was rushing too. I came out of the bathroom and made it down the first few steps to the landing without incident. Then the second half of the stairs and my feet seemed to fail me. I think I hit the tread with only part of my foot which led to my foot slipping off the tread and sending me instantly downward. The brunt of my fall was taken my the three fingers of my left hand and (to a lesser degree) my right forearm. My finger bent backwards and I immediately thought that I'd broken all three.
D was at the bottom of the stairs, but again, thankfully, off to the side so I didn't land on her.
K said something on the order of "that's why you need to hang on" or something similarly unintentionally smart-assed. Then he wanted to climb in my lap and comfort me which really was not what I wanted at the time, although very sweet and well-intentioned.
I sucked it up and went to D's class but later that night I thought my middle finger might really be broken. I discussed the topic at length with several of my followers on Twitter. I don't think I've ever had such a response to any of my tweets.
Then Friday morning I realized I couldn't bend my finger much anymore and it was rather bruised. I called to make an appointment to see a doctor even though I knew they would essentially just tape up my finger and say "yep, you broke it!"
So here is the finger, pre-x-ray (which was RUSHED, btw. VIP finger apparently.) I did actually have it taped better than that the night before but I'd taken it off to shower and couldn't just slid it back on. And I'm too cheap to use more gauze and tape.
(Please take note of the awesome new jeans that are one whole size smaller than my old jeans. Also I love my Sketchers athletic shoes. My camera phone photography skillz ROCK!)
Here is the finger post x-ray and post exam by doctor. He was not impressed with my taping job but I didn't feel like explaining the whole shower-removing, cheap-Heather connection.Turns out the fracture is actually above the joint where the swelling and the bruising actually stop. It's HAWT though, isn't it?
My very sexy splint, to be worn AT ALL TIMES, except when I'm taking a shower (but only if I put it RIGHT BACK ON upon exiting the shower). I'm supposedly saddled with this for 3 to 4 weeks. Good times. Especially since M's 3-week school break is starting. I AM quite sad that I will not be able to wash dishes (that I mostly don't wash anyway). Oh well, doctor's orders!
During my exam the doctor paused and noted that my fingers are apparently freakishly long from the joint up. He felt the need to comment on this and seemed to sit in utter disbelief for a few moments. It's nice to know that I can stun doctors.
Freakishly long? These are the non-hurty digits.Thursday, March 5, 2009
Anatomy of a Tonsillectomy
We sit huddled in a corner behind a curtain striped in shades of orange. For all the noise in the large room the din seems muted. M is watching A Bee Movie and trying her best to ignore the steady stream of questions from doctors, nurses and parents. It’s hard to tell if she truly is unconcerned or if it is all bravado.
The time comes for us to part ways. I hold her hand and we walk to the end of the corridor. I kiss her and her hand slips from mine. She disappears behind the cold doors. A moment later the doors reopen and I see her, my oldest baby, halfway down the hall. Her hand is in another woman’s. She’s walking away from me, looking both old and small in her dog-patterned hospital pajamas. Her step is still confident. I imagine she is smiling.
Back in the waiting area, I approach the desk to find out my daughter’s patient number. They will post the progress of my precious child’s journey on a screen, my only link to what is happening to her. I find her number and read “839059 has entered the OR” and that’s when the tears cannot be held back any longer. Moments later I have regained my composure and sit directly in front of the screen to wait for word that the reason we are here has started, the moment that my baby is essentially being hurt with my consent.
It is perhaps 10 or 15 minutes later and the highlight changes to green: “839059 procedure is under way.” With that, I return to my youngest baby who is waiting with my mom in a family room. It is impossible to not think of what is happening down the hall; impossible to not have second thoughts no matter that it is too late to stop it.
One half an hour later, an eternity and a blink of an eye, and I hear my name. We gather a few things, her father and I, and follow the nurse to see our baby.
There are no words of warning. Turning the corner into the recovery room I see my daughter’s tear-streaked face. She’s screaming but the scream doesn’t come out as loud as she’d like it to.
She pulled out her IV so we had to put another in. She’s pretty emotional.
I hold my baby girl’s hand and try to whisper to her. I stroke her head and smooth her hair. She decides she no longer wants her tonsils removed. She is not really present.
Medication is injected into her IV line and she starts to get sleepy. Too sleepy. Her respiration slows. Take big breaths M, the nurse begins to urge. I try to make it a game for her. Make a breath bigger than Mommy’s. Make the beep get high pitched again.
The nurse’s husband comes to give her keys. They are trading cars. I can’t talk now. She is curt, dismissive, and re-enters the room to stand by M's side again.
I begin to realize that there is a slight problem. This is not quite routine. The tone of the beeps lowers again. See if you can make a bigger breath than Mommy, M. The breaths are as much for me. The nurse does not leave the room even for a minute until finally she seems to breathe easier…the nurse, M, me.
And suddenly she is sitting up, asking to sit in the chair, then asking to go for a walk. She’s regained her fight and feistiness. She eats one cup of chocolate ice cream, then another. Then pudding. Then apple juice. She needs to use the restroom. She smiles and smiles again.
My breath returns.
The time comes for us to part ways. I hold her hand and we walk to the end of the corridor. I kiss her and her hand slips from mine. She disappears behind the cold doors. A moment later the doors reopen and I see her, my oldest baby, halfway down the hall. Her hand is in another woman’s. She’s walking away from me, looking both old and small in her dog-patterned hospital pajamas. Her step is still confident. I imagine she is smiling.
Back in the waiting area, I approach the desk to find out my daughter’s patient number. They will post the progress of my precious child’s journey on a screen, my only link to what is happening to her. I find her number and read “839059 has entered the OR” and that’s when the tears cannot be held back any longer. Moments later I have regained my composure and sit directly in front of the screen to wait for word that the reason we are here has started, the moment that my baby is essentially being hurt with my consent.
It is perhaps 10 or 15 minutes later and the highlight changes to green: “839059 procedure is under way.” With that, I return to my youngest baby who is waiting with my mom in a family room. It is impossible to not think of what is happening down the hall; impossible to not have second thoughts no matter that it is too late to stop it.
One half an hour later, an eternity and a blink of an eye, and I hear my name. We gather a few things, her father and I, and follow the nurse to see our baby.
There are no words of warning. Turning the corner into the recovery room I see my daughter’s tear-streaked face. She’s screaming but the scream doesn’t come out as loud as she’d like it to.
She pulled out her IV so we had to put another in. She’s pretty emotional.
I hold my baby girl’s hand and try to whisper to her. I stroke her head and smooth her hair. She decides she no longer wants her tonsils removed. She is not really present.
Medication is injected into her IV line and she starts to get sleepy. Too sleepy. Her respiration slows. Take big breaths M, the nurse begins to urge. I try to make it a game for her. Make a breath bigger than Mommy’s. Make the beep get high pitched again.
The nurse’s husband comes to give her keys. They are trading cars. I can’t talk now. She is curt, dismissive, and re-enters the room to stand by M's side again.
I begin to realize that there is a slight problem. This is not quite routine. The tone of the beeps lowers again. See if you can make a bigger breath than Mommy, M. The breaths are as much for me. The nurse does not leave the room even for a minute until finally she seems to breathe easier…the nurse, M, me.
And suddenly she is sitting up, asking to sit in the chair, then asking to go for a walk. She’s regained her fight and feistiness. She eats one cup of chocolate ice cream, then another. Then pudding. Then apple juice. She needs to use the restroom. She smiles and smiles again.
My breath returns.
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