Thursday, July 7, 2011

The one in which I think I'm going to vomit as I watch TV with my partner.

Last night I practiced tolerance as I watched Big V tear off his overgrown, crusty toenails and pile them up on the end table. We were supposed to be bonding together while watching some MTV Real World Road Rules Challenge with the Enemy show but I couldn't actually watch the show because instead I was looking at him sitting next to me thinking this has got to be the grossest thing I have ever witnessed while trying not to hurl.

And then I thought of the time my little brother got his finger torn off and I didn't know the appendage was actually still in his winter glove, all I saw was the glove go flying and then him running to an area of fresh clean snow that he kept flipping his hand around in and then all that snow turned pink and my sister sped out of the woods with him on the back of one of the 4-wheelers and I picked up the glove and kind of shoved it as far as it would go on my hand (which lucky for me wasn't past my fingers) and me and my cousin walked back out of the woods and by the time we reached the side of the road some van pulled up and these rescue worker guys jumped out and were all is that Patrick's glove? while pointing at it and I was like why yes it is, strange creepy dude who just hopped out of a van, what's it to you? and the guy took the glove and looked inside it and then took a bit of shaved ice and dumped it in the glove and swirled it around a bit and then emptied the contents of the glove into a baggie that had more shaved ice in it and the contents were a finger.

[World's longest run on sentence right there, people. Someone contact Guiness.]

But then I realized the finger, while gross, wasn't actually the grossest thing I ever saw because it happened once but Big V yanks off those toenails all the time. So the choice to do it over and over again is what makes it gross, whereby Patrick had no choice, he was just an innocent victim, therefore, not gross by default.

Also, Big V leaves those suckers everywhere.

Like the other day I was picking up the baby's toys from the living room carpet and I put my hand down and almost got cut by what I was sure was a razor blade hidden amongst the loops... except it was a hardened toenail. I swear if Big V ever goes to prison he'll be using his big toe nail as a shank.

When he got home I turned all naggy wife on him: ohmygawd I cannot believe there was one of your huge, fossilized toe nails on the living room rug! What if the baby had found that and put it in his mouth? It could have cut up his esophogus and he could have bled to death! Why on earth would you throw those disgusting things on the carpet?!

And he looked and me and said, "Huh. It must have fallen off the top of the TV."

And then I was all: ohmygawd I cannot believe you actually put them on top of the TV! That's disgusting! What are you doing? Building a temple out of toenails? That's gross! And if you can take the time to walk up to the TV and throw them on top of it surely you can continue the fifteen steps it would take for you to throw them away in the garbage can!

Then he pointed out that the baby can not reach the top of the television set, whereas he can, and has, been caught digging through the garbage. In which case, placing the clippings on top of the television set was actually safer for the baby because he couldn't reach them. And what probably happened was that I carelessly dusted the furniture in my standard I want to get this done is sixteen seconds so I can watch Real Housewives way and it was actually I who endangered the esophogus of our son by knocking the clippings haphazardly to the floor.

And then I told him to shut up.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

I didn't mean to carry that wrong; it just ended up that way.

A couple weeks ago I hobbled into the ER expecting to be diagnosed with a heart attack, or neuro-syphilis, but instead spent a couple lively hours talking through the curtain to total strangers. It turned out I was overdosing on allergy medication. And also that I was pregnant. Which was a total shock to me because I was pretty sure it was too early to tell that. Apparently they caught the sperm as he was hooking up with the egg and saw it all go down. And then the weird people on the other side of the curtain were all congratulations! So, there I sat, twelve seconds pregnant thinking this is going to be the longest blasted pregnancy in history because who ever finds out the second after they conceive?

That was Monday, the 20th. I went home stunned and worried because (1) it is impossible for me to keep my trap shut so there is no way I could keep this silent for the next obligatory twelve week waiting period and (2) it is impossible for me to keep my trap shut so I was bound to let the cat out of the bag before it was deemed safe.

Then on Friday I ended up back at the doctors because of some other unrelated stuff that was related to my girly parts. I have a history of problems with girly parts so they wanted to see me right away. Mostly to worry me, I suppose, but in this case there were some issues that needed attention and so I was put on a host of drugs. And that lasted a week.

And then on Sunday, just about the time I got to thinking hey, at least now I don't have to try to get in shape for our 20-year high school reunion this August, I started bleeding. Like, a lot. Normally I wouldn't have thought anything of it. Normally I would've said something along the lines of phew! You're a couple days late but, boy, am I glad to see you! But since I knew then I also knew this wasn't a good sign.

So I ended back up in the ER waiting room once again. This time with a bunch of really crazy people that I enthusiastically texted my sister about. People like gross puking guy who sat right in my direct line of vision. He hung his head in a bucket and made gagging noises that made me want to scream.

And then there was crazy motor scooter lady who I think just happened to be hanging out in the ER drinking their free coffee and watching TV and randomly trying to strike up conversations with people who were desperately trying to avoid her. Like me.

And then there was the loud talking cell phone user. She seemed quite jolly, laughing about the barbeque she just come from and how crazy that be-yotch Danielle was, what with all her gettin' all up on every man that walked by. Girl, she gots to learn to reign that shee-yot in!

Finally it was my turn and since I was considered a sensitive patient I got my own private exam room with attached bathroom and a flat screen TV and warm blankets. Three of them. And I felt kind of guilty because, you know, they seemed to be fussing a lot over something that was the size of a grain of rice, and yet it was awfully chilly in that there exam room so I gladly accepted those warm blankets.

And that made me wonder why we didn't exercise this practice more at home. So I turned to Big V and asked him if he would be interested in warming a blanket in our dryer every evening before I went to bed and if he would also be so kind as to go down to the dryer in the basement and carry it up quickly - but not too quickly because I wouldn't want the cool breeze of his quick ninja-like movements to tragically cool the blanket, because then he'd have to go back down to the basement and do the whole warming process all over again, but Big V said he was not at all interested in that plan because he's warm blooded and doesn't need blanket heat assistance.

Whatever. I still think he should at least consider it.

Anyway. After the IV from hell....


This is like the Alcatraz of IVs
 ... and a bunch of really invasive prodding the doctor announces I need an ultrasound. Which I've had before because I've had kids and ultrasounds are easy. You just lay there while some stranger smears cold goo on your stomach.

Except that's not exactly what he had in mind.

And his description included the words after inserting the catheter
and I was all woah! woah! WOAH!
and the nurse was all you'll do fine
and Big V was all haha! you need a catheter
and I was all I'm suddenly feeling faint
but the nurse was like a slick car salesman and had me actually believing I wouldn't feel a thing.

But she lied.

Because I don't care how gentle someone is, you can feel that.

And then she had me all believing I was brave and did great and even complimented me on my fantastic urethra. True story. I even sent a bragging text to my sister because I don't think anyone ever told her that she has a fantastic urethra. Take that, stereotypical over achieving, successful big sister who tans easy whereby I am left with pasty white skin no matter how much sun I am exposed to!

Also, I'm pretty sure I have the best urethra in the family because no one has ever mentioned it before and I'm thinking they would have if someone told them they had a good urethra because that's just not something you hear every day and you would be proud of that sort of compliment.

But things quickly took a turn for the worse when I heard the words we'll just fill your bladder up with fluid.... because that confused me. Isn't a catheter meant to drain things? Empty things? What is this whole fill things up talk?

Oh, yes, believe me, they actually can - and will - use a catheter to fill your bladder up with fluids. And it does not feel very pleasant at all.

Then comes the part where they have to take the catheter tube out. Naturally, I was all am I going to pee on this bed? and the nurse was all naturally, you are. And so I made Big V promise to never use this against me in case he tries to put me in an old folk's home. (I am older than him by six whole years; you never know when they can turn on you.) And then I peed my bed a little bit.

Eventually, I was let loose and told the drill and told to return to the lab on Tuesday for more blood work. Which I did. And that blood work came back saying, yep, I did miscarriage and I needed to follow-up in 10 days with another exam like the one I had before. But I told them I would be busy in 10 days and unable to have my bladder unnaturally filled through a flexible straw and they were all nice try.

Then, when  I called to make the appointment, the girl there tried to tell me I hadn't miscarried that it was just a threatened miscarriage and it would need to be confirmed through a blood draw in 48 hours and I had to point out that actually it was past threatened because the nurse I talked to twelve minutes earlier told me it had been confirmed through yesterday's blood draw and didn't they know I was emotionally fragile because now I have to do crunches for that darn reunion? So she apologized and I said that's okay, maybe you can just coordinate some warm blankets to be delivered to my home and she acted like she didn't even hear me. But I know she did.

So, today, at work it all came out and I felt weird because we were all sitting around eating and they were saying I'm sorry but actually, I felt very lucky. See, I didn't even get a chance to wrap my head around everything so I don't feel devastated and also it made me think that maybe I am getting older and if we do want to add more children to this crazy mix of a family, now would be the time. You know, before I do get shoved into that old folk's home.

I grew up with a terrific extended family. It was belonging to our family that was important, not the clothes you wore, or the car you drove, or the house you lived in. My grandfather believed in God and hard work and being kind to others. And I think that is a pretty terrific life philosophy that I hope my own kids will someday live by. Also, the more kids I have the better my odds that one of them will end up a super successful rock star that will want to buy their Mommy a mansion. Just sayin'.

Also, I'd once again like to thank my awesome, wonderful, terrific sister who is the only person on earth who can make me die laughing during a play by play textathon during a miscarriage. Again -- I cannot stress enough - get yourself a sister if you don't already have one! Or get yourself another one if the one you have sucks.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Campfire's Buring, Campfire's Burning

In an effort to ensure I never get chosen as Mother of the Year, I allowed my 9-year old to go camping with friends. She's been camping with them once before; albeit a short, weekend trip just about an hour's drive away. This time they were headed up north. Over five hours away. For a week. A full week.

I dropped her off on Friday evening with plans they would be leaving bright and early Saturday morning for Land o' Lakes, Wisconsin. Did I mention it's over five hours away? Anyway, she called me last night, sobbing. They had decided to stay longer and wouldn't be home until Sunday. She begged me to please just promise to come pick her up. You know, over five hours away.

She's my baby; of course I promised.

But I didn't actually have an address. Should mom's get the actual address of where their child will be residing for seven days? Perhaps I should have.

And also, perhaps I should have said no to the whole camping bit. Why? Because this is the kid that freaks out if her ice cream isn't smooth and rounded. It's my job to teach her that she has the ability to work through her irrational panics and anxieties and fix things herself. For instance, if someone scoops ice cream with a regular old spoon in a scraping off the top skin motion she can use her utensil to shape the ice cream into a rounded scooped out shape conducive to eating.

See, I know this about my child. I know she has quirks. I know she has expectations. I know she has all these hang ups that make any other normal person go what is her problem? The explanation is simple: this is just what makes her tick.

So what kind of mother to a child like that says, Sure! Go camping with another family that does pretty much everything different for seven days! Have fun with your world all turned upside down and inside out and have fun coping with all those unknowns. See ya in a week, kid!

I feel like I set her up for failure.

Especially since she's signed up for Gymnastics Camp on Sunday. (Yes, the same Sunday they are now returning on.) Although it's a short sports camp only fifteen minutes away, it is still an overnight camp. Why yes, I just allowed my daughter to spend a week camping with friends the week before she goes away for camp. I suck at this.

And, yes, I will be going to pick her up. But not until Thursday. See, I know this about her, too. She needs to have a clearly defined goal. I explained I could get her but needed to ask my boss what day I could take off work, which turned out to be Thursday, so if she could wait until Thursday I would pick her up. And she was okay with that.

For now.