TheMommyBlog

I carefully shut down my brain at nine last night and went to sleep right after the kids were tucked in. I just didn’t want to think about putting Molly down this week after bringing her home as a puppy fifteen years ago.

I’m heading over to my ex’s to help the kids get ready for school and do the school run. Then I’ll meet him at the vets for Molly’s bone biopsy. Suspected osteosarcoma, cancer in three out of four limbs, but can’t know for sure until Monday. We’ve had her fifteen years.

I just turned forty. Actually, I have been forty for fifteen hours already in China, but if I think about that for too long I’ll start dividing by zero and then the world will implode.

We arrived home a little while ago from Beijing after 30 hours of traveling by bus, air, car, and the seat of our pants. Not even the couple that flew with us to within fifty miles of our destination know what a Benny Hill episode it turned out to be. Sure, there were twelve terrific hours in the air in business class from Beijing, but the eighteen that followed courtesy of United Airlines Domestic sucked ass. I won’t go into gory details until later, so here are the highlights before I melt into my pillows:

• First leg: Awesome! Hot nuts, fillet mignon, endless libations, snuggly pillows and warm blankies.
• Cleared customs in San Francisco without a hitch!
• We were FIFTY MILES from home, but had to continue through L.A. to honor the itinerary (please, we looked for every possible loophole) before going home.
• Tried to get on the connecting flight to L.A. with one excruciatingly expensive bottle of duty-free 1995 Bordeaux and were told that it didn’t matter that we were given it to carry on board the flight from China and already checked our bags through to L.A., we were not allowed to carry it through security. It would have to go into our bags, which were already checked. Security invited us to drink the wine there (alors!) or give it up.
• Optionally, Phil could run to the check in area and see if they could box it and check it as baggage. In the end, they made him throw it away, and we had to sprint (separately) to the gate. They only held it for us because we were in first class, and I am not kidding when I say that my hair was nearly caught in the door as it was closing.
• Upon arrival in L.A., I was waved toward baggage claim while others stumbled toward connecting gates, but screeched to a halt before making a wrong turn. Alas, I had already stepped on the RED LINE dividing departure gates from the rest of the functional universe and was not allowed back in. Technically, only one foot violated the RED LINE, but RULES ARE RULES and they insisted that I had to now exit the airport via baggage claim and re-enter via check in and go through security again because I stepped on the RED LINE. I was ready to ride that argument all the way to jail, I swear to puppies, I was. It was like a scene from Silkwood. I was contaminated, and my transgression prohibited me from any contact with the inside of the concourse. Our friends were five feet away from me, trying for an alarmed and disappointed goodbye hug, but they were physically prevented from touching me. And then, as I refused to be separated, they threw Phil out along with me.
• That argument lasted just long enough for us to miss our connecting flight. We were put on standby for the next one in four hours, and then didn’t make that one either. However, our bags did.
• Once we realized that the standby list was just being rolled over and over into later flights and that there was no way out tonight, we rented a car and DROVE the last 350 miles from L.A. and thenpicked up our bags at the San Jose Airport. Did I mention that only three were there because one arrived in L.A. seven hours later than its companions? And didn’t get on the standby? They’ll deliver it tomorrow. We hope.

So now we’re home, and the house is hot as balls from being closed up for a week, I had to take a defibrillator to my computer to get it going after such a long time untouched, and there were one hundred twelve unread messages in my inbox.

I was ridiculously happy to have a shower as soon as we got home, and stepped out at exactly midnight to find Phil waiting with a crystal goblet. “Happy Birthday. Cent’anni!”

..She will need a walker. If you give your mom a walker, she will need a one-story house and an accessible shower stall. So, hey! I live two miles from the hospital, and have a master suite with a million pillows and a total ADA-compliant, walk-in shower! Come on over! I’ll be your Convalescence Home. The kids will love waiting on you.

In the first hour, she takes her first real shower. I’ve lived here for ten years and had at least ten showers (maybe more) and THIS is the one that finally snaps the hot water handle deep inside the wall. The next thing I know there’s a plumber walking in the door saying, “I can fix that for $312.13.” I pulled out my checkbook and both mom and step dad dogpiled me, insisting that they will pay for it.

Today? Is Saturday. He had to come back because it turns out that it can’t be fixed by removing the handles. All these tiles have to come out. And it’s now running to eight hundred dollars. And oh, the sunflower shower head I have that rains this lovely rain down on you? Is all totally crimped now. Did you want another one like that? Or do you want the one that came with the replacement handles I picked up this morning? I could run out and get you one… NO. Just use what’s there. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, we need that bed and bath back, stat.

For those of you wondering how we skated through another holiday without a scrape, turn up the schaudenfreude!

I woke up to an extraordinarily tender ear yesterday–not the normal kind of ache, just a dull throb along the cartilage at the top. As I walked my fingers along the ridge, I found a DENT in my ear. Yes, A DENT. And behind my ear was the most horrific bruising. Have you ever tried to look behind your own ear? You could bruise yourself that way. I finally asked my kids to look and tell me how bad it was and Logan actually yelped and jumped back. Nice.

I got it at the park while carrying Daphne’s scooter over my shoulder. As I started to put it down, the wheeled board swung around and smacked me in the side of the head. I knew it hurt, but I didn’t know I’d wind up looking like an animal that had lost a fight. Seriously, you could ID my body by this thing now. It’s forever.

Speaking of forever, I will never, ever regret raising my children in a perpetual snuggle. Every time they write about their mother for something at school, “snuggling” gets mentioned in there somewhere. It’s my favorite thing to do, ever. And so I give you my children’s Mother’s Day gifts to me this year: Logan’s, Dylan’s, and Daphne’s, front and back.

I just went out to pick up my prescription, but didn’t get out of the driveway. The car won’t start.

That’s right! This is getting so repetitive I can’t believe it. This is not a gimmick, I do not make these things up.

I just returned from three hours at the urgent clinic where I paid a fortune for chest Xrays and treatment. Why? Because I couldn’t get an appointment with my own doctor to save my life. They had an opening for “flu” but not for “sinusitis and probable pneumonia.” I am not making this up. That is what the receptionist told me.

Also? He asked if I was a nurse or a doctor or something, because I was using words he’d never heard before. Oh. So, “prolonged URI with secondary bacterial infection of the sinuses” is something wacky in your office? What trade school did you roll out of? I finally asked that if the doctor couldn’t see me, could he please call me and we’ll do it over the phone.

A while later, a woman we’ll call Tweedledum phones to say, “He says you should steam, and use saline drops, and get some cold medicine.” It was all I could do not to reach through the phone and throttle her. I can’t even begin to tell the story, so I’m pasting a conversation I had with a friend before I went to the doctor.

Oh, and keep in mind that when I got to the counter with the freshly restored insurance coverage information, it couldn’t be verified. I had to pay cash. In advance.

Hi everyone! I’ll give you three hints!

1. I’m so sick that I can’t talk, can’t eat, and shouldn’t be sitting upright!
2. My neighbor asked me to take her to the shop to pick up her car, which had a flat!
3. While gassing up to take her, my car died and had to be jumped!

Thaaaaat’s right! It’s somebody’s birthday!

Happy Birthday, Mom! Enjoy the beach today! I promise to rest up so we can still take you to dinner tomorrow!

The Northfields: Happy new year! Hope your new year is great (and i hope the wee ones are doing well), or at least better. xxx.

Me: They are great! we just saw the water horse. Lovely country (and accents). Happy new year!

This year the curse only spanned seven days:

Dec. 23: sprained neck while roller skating

Dec. 26: doctor sends me to emergency to check for broken bones in my neck. All three children come with me because Gil is in CO, Phil is in NY, and parents are in Italy

Dec. 27: Daphne spends twelve hours throwing up while I hold her; ends with last-ditch suppository solution

Dec. 28-30: all children have stomach flu in turn, I get to shove pellets up three bums

Dec. 30: Gil’s plane delayed 12 hours - an agony when you’ve had the week I’ve had and were looking forward to being free by noon.

Phil’s plane due in SF at the same time Gil’s is due in SJ, have to drive all the children to SF an hour away to get Phil. Gil can get himself home. And I am clinging to these last three hours of dwindling sanity, hoping I’ll be up for a sip of Perrier-Jouet at midnight.

Kiss everyone for me! xxx

Finally, finally, all three children are unconscious. Only one had to be drugged, but I had a prescription for that.

Daphne threw up at least ten times today during at least two dozen attempts over a twelve hour period. She was miserable, and I was by her side constantly, running to the toilet with her every time she began to cry, holding back her hair and supporting her weight.

“This is the worst day of my life!”

“I know, honey, it’s awful being this sick.”

“I already prayed to God to make me better so I don’t have to throw up anymore.”

“Oh, hon, I don’t think there’s anything to be done; your body has to fight it off and beat the virus by itself.”

“You mean He can’t help?”

“I don’t know hon, there are only so many things he can attend to at once.”

“I hate this day.”

Finally, I called the pediatrician, who laughed and laughed as I told him that I’d been skipping pain meds in case he needed me to bring her in. You know, the ones I’m supposed to be taking for my neck injury. The very thought of me with three kids in the ER last night had him giggling—after he gave me advice for Daphne, of course, but he’s read my book and knows a good story when he hears it.

This is how sick she was: she said that she was so glad I called Dr. Mike, because then I could give her something that might stop her tummy hurting, even if it has to go up her bottom, and she couldn’t wait to go to sleep so that the day could be over with. Her pale little face, with the sticky bangs held back in one of my old clips, alligator jammies, bare feet, and earnest little arms held tight around my neck.

I tucked her into my bed with her Fur Berry and thought she’d be okay, but she came out fifteen minutes later clutching her tummy and crying, “Mama, make it stop!”

“Baby, I can’t make it stop. We’ve started the medicine and all we can do is wait. I’m so sorry I can’t take the hurt away.”

She climbed up into my lap. “Just try your best, okay, Mama?”

And so I held her tight as she fell asleep.

Or person. I just loved spending quality time with the kids tonight at the emergency room. We were on our way out the door to see Water Horse when my doctor returned my message from the 23rd saying that I’d injured my neck. He wanted me to be seen right away, so we printed out alternate movie times just in case (oh how the hopeful shall flounder) and headed on down to Los Gatos Community Hospital. Just like old times.

After about thirty seconds of poking my neck and testing neurological reflexes, the doctor said that he didn’t think I’d broken any bones in my neck and so didn’t need a CAT scan. Therefore, it was all muscular and needed rest and pain meds. Which was nice. Have you ever tried to entertain slash keep quiet a nine, seven and five year old in an ER examination room? Neither had I. I kid you not when I say that my blood pressure was the highest I’ve ever seen it in my life. I’m usually 118 over 80, spot on. Tonight I was 144 over ninety-something.

Oh, and ohmygod, there was an elderly lady on the other side of the curtain who was obviously confused, upset, and in pain. She called and called for help, but I knew the nurses were hearing her and had reason to let her get it out of her system. She began talking to a lot of people I’m sure weren’t there; in fact, we heard her say later that she wanted to go back to New Hampshire to see everyone. I think they sent her back to the assisted living place. They sure seemed like they knew here, calling her Love and being so sweet and gentle with her.

Especially when Dylan spotted a spattering pool of blood next to her gurney and flipped out. I called the nurse to check it out and he wasn’t surprised in the least. I then spent the next fifteen minutes explaining in whispers that if you pull an IV out of your arm it will bleed and drip like that. I didn’t, however, let them stand near the curtain, where I could see her hand trailing along the curtain, trying to get our attention so we could get her out of there. “I’ll pay you money...” Yikes!

Okeydokey, time for pain meds and bed. I suppose I ought to carry the boys to their beds but they look so cozy on the new couch… which they better not pee on. Crap. Just what my neck needs. Seventy and fifty pounds of limp children.

Whiplash. I have fucking whiplash on Christmas Eve.

When I woke up this morning, all the muscles in my neck were screeching, my shoulders were up around my ears, and my head hurt, though not as badly as last night after the roller rink.

Mom thinks I should act my age and stop with the skating this and skating that, and she’s right. I just took Daphne over to Dad’s so I could have a couple of hours to put something warm on it and rest until it’s time to go to Mom’s for dinner. At four. Which should give me about two hours to get my ship in order.

Whiplash. Why am I even typing? That’s it; I’m leaving the computer. But first, the exchange in the car just now:

“Mama, can I sit in the middle seat since my brothers aren’t here?”

“No, Daphne, you need to sit in your car seat. You’re not six years or sixty pounds yet, so the law says you have to ride in your seat.”

“CURSE MY BODY!”

And then she continued muttering, “How dare you?” as she gnawed on her knee.

P.S. The first thing she said this morning was, “Wasn’t last night the greatest?”

Heh. I can always count on Jmom for that little extra bit!

Man Charged in Trick-Or-Treat Thefts
(11-02) 14:25 PDT CINCINNATI (AP) --

Bullies have been poaching Halloween candy from smaller kids since trick-or-treating began, but police say a Cincinnati man went too far this year in helping a younger cousin fill his goody bag. Derrick Finn, 21, has been charged with complicity to aggravated robbery.

“He served as the lookout while his cousin stole someone’s Halloween candy,” said Betsy Sundermann, an assistant Hamilton County prosecutor.

Finn took some cousins out for beggar’s night on Wednesday and was arrested later that evening after the alleged victim pointed him out to police. He remained in jail Friday pending a court date next week. Bond was set at $5,000.

A 15-year-old has been charged with misdemeanor robbery, and a 14-year-old has been charged with misdemeanor complicity to robbery, prosecutors said.

Finn’s lawyer said suggested the candy hardly was enough to cause the level of crime to rise to a felony.

“Depends on what kind of candy it is,” Hamilton County Municipal Court Judge Lisa Allen responded.

Man. I cannot believe you stole our candy. Do you see these little cherubs? How excited they are to go trick-or-treating? The glowing faces, the sweet, sweet, little pigeon-toed stance that says, “This is the best night of my whole life and by bedtime I will be rich, rich, RICH!” Wait, that was just Dylan.

But you. Sometime before things really got swinging, by 7:30 p.m., you’d already emptied the massive punch bowl filled with candy that I left on our doorstep next to the jolly straw pumpkin and under the dangling, four-foot spider. You even pulled each of my little pumpkin lights lining the walk out of the ground and kicked some of the tops off.

I live on a busy corner of a very family-oriented neighborhood. My ex and my mom also live in terrific neighborhoods, and when the kids were little we went for the spectacle of Grandma and Grandpa’s block party; now that they are older they want to trick-or-treat with their school friends in their Dad’s neighborhood. Fine. Fine.

For three years, I have put out the same bowl on a little stool and you adhered to the honor system. Parents instructed you to take just one, and leave enough for all the other little trick-or-treaters. Often by the time I returned home, there was still half a bowl left and I would spend the rest of the evening putting fistfuls into children’s bags just to get rid of it all.

This year, I put out the biggest stash ever. And you took it. You missed a few pieces, though, when you shook the contents into whatever duffel bag you were toting. One fell into my potted lavender. Another into the bark. A third next to one of the little pumpkin lights lying helplessly on its back in the grass.

Just look at these children. You took candy away from the dozens just like them who looked forward to coming to the corner house with the huge stash every year. YOU. ARE. A. JERK.

Father’s Day itself went swimmingly, with a wonderful dinner at mom’s with my stepbrother, sister-in-law, and nephew from Toyko, plus a niece from Santa Cruz, mom and step dad, Phil, three kids, and me.

That’s a lot of people to have to call three days later to notify them of a raging case of shingles in one of the dinner guests.

Have I mentioned that neither the children nor I have ever had Chicken Pox? And that I had the vaccine in 1996, Logan had it in 1998, and that it’s time for boosters? And that the CDC has now gone back to their original position recommending immunization at 12 months and 4-6 years? Read for yourself.

So, we had lots to talk about at the Pediatrician’s office while we were this morning, watching her do minor surgery on Dylan’s tick bite that was not healing but growing bigger and angrier and, well, more and more unwelcome.

To recap: two hours in the examining room, seventeen brawls, minor surgery, antibiotics, a CDC fact sheet, and a trip to McDonald’s, all before noon.

Some people actually think you have to die to glimpse Hell.

P.S.  No fewer that three moms, including the Pediatrician, complimented my new “World’s Best Mom when my kids are in school” t-shirt. None of this was lost on Logan, who thinks it makes them look bad. I say, no, it’s just that when they’re at school, we miss them so much that we’re extra good moms. *cough*