TheMommyBlog

Monday, June 12, 2006 Our Holiday Curse, Family

How about, Where the hell have I been? That’s a good question. I’m not so sure myself.

Today I passed my trial by fire at work. I created configuration documentation for, designed new user interface for, and presented to a client the software my company makes. Woo doggies. I nearly fainted with relief and pride when the two-plus-hour call was over. Until I realized how much I still had to do to tidy up and bundle it off. Just think: one down, eleventy to go!

So I do apologize for the stale content (not as stale as my breath! *cymbals*) and lame linking around. Phil can attest to my zombie-like mien. He came by tonight long enough to listen to me yell at the kids for trying to kill one another while he grilled up some chicken we ate off paper plates in my kitchen. No, the dishwasher is not yet repaired. I even bought a stainless dish rack from Ikea. If that’s not sucking it up, I don’t know what is. I can’t wait for the 15th when the Maytag guy shows up. Not that I bought a Maytag, ohhh no. I have a top-of-the-line LG set. Which isn’t operational at the moment. More of life’s rich irony.

SPEAKING OF WHICH, is there a holiday coming up? Someone Famous’ Birthday? Lithuanian Plow Beating Day? Oh! Father’s Day? Well! It’s no wonder! My ex is going out of town for the weekend (so I get two weekends in a row, with a creamy week-long center) and the kids all have impetigo. Wait, that’s not completely accurate; the kids AND my ex all have impetigo. That’ll learn him to take it seriously. The trouble is, the kids are at that age where they can powder their own noses without help from Mommy, so Mommy doesn’t have much occasion to examine their nether regions. It wasn’t until my eldest called down the hall the other night, “MOM, I HAVE WARTS ON MY BUTT!” that I even clued in. I groaned inwardly. And outwardly.

*Organ music*

“Honey, those aren’t warts.”

“They aren’t?”

“It’s imetigo.”

“NO! NOT AGAIN!”

Exhibit A
Exhibit B
Exhibit C
Exhibit D
Exhibit Enough Already

I swear the stuff is like lice: no one child can have it without passing it to all the others. They just aren’t old enough to remember to wash their hands every time they touch something dirty, or clip their nails, or not scratch until they tear skin, or stop picking at a sore once it show up. As soon as I saw Logan’s, I went into military action.

“OK, listen up, everyone! We are no longer going to share towels. We will no longer share baths or clothing. Until Logan’s rash clears up, he will use my shower and a designated beach towel so no one will forget which one is his. We will wear undergarments at all times. We will strive to wear additional clothing over our undergarments. We will not scratch our bottoms, or anything else that itches or looks like a boo-boo, and we will bring any such boo-boos to the attention of the grownup in charge. We will not touch each other’s bottoms or boo-boos. No matter how funny it is, and it IS funny, we will not flash said boo-boos at one another or otherwise tempt someone into contact with our bottoms or boo-boos. Also? No kissing or sharing drinks. Period. You are accustomed to being at war with one another; this is no time for peace to break out. No kissing. I MEAN IT. And especially no sneaking sips out of my sodas. God knows I don’t need one of those blisters on my face while I’m on call to meet with clients.

“Oh, and another thing: no-parties-or-playdates-even-though-I-know-it’s-your-baseball-awards/first-visit-to-cafeteria/end-of-year-celebration.” I held my breath while mayhem ensued. “I’m very sorry, I really am, but we have to protect your friends. If we go to these events and we pass the rash to anyone else, no one will feel happy about it. Not the child, not the doctor, and certainly not the parent who has to schlep around to the clinic, the pharmacy, and keep the child at home. Not to mention the ordeal of having to administer three doses of vile antibiotics per day for ten days.” Oh, wait, that’s me.

About those antibiotics: SO not tasty. They can flavor it, but you have to quick, ask your child to decide between fifteen flavors, or else go with whatever the doctor called in. Everyone in this house hates the default bubble gum flavor. Logan wound up with cherry, which tastes like Blueberry Hill mixed with Kool-Aid powder. So far he’s only had three doses, but the first dose took twenty minutes to make it down the hatch and the second was spilled in the pre-swallow anxiety. The third was tossed back like a shot because Phil was there, watching.

I could ask him to suck it up, but when Dylan showed up with spots our regular doctor called it in and let me choose the flavor this time. I went for grape. Not only did Dylan get exactly what he wanted, but he got a different antibiotic which is only two doses daily for seven days. So that’s going over well.

*eyeroll*

To top it all off, Daphne has faint spots now too, so starting tomorrow we get to track multiple daily doses of three prescriptions of antibiotics for three children, all staggered over a two-week period. And there will be at least one house-change in there, complete with transport of all five bottles and ensuring the continual refrigeration of same.

Is anyone sorry I’ve started posting again? I freaking am. I’m depressing myself.

At any rate, I will be out at a Franklin Covey seminar all day Tuesday, so I won’t be around to breathlessly await your comments. That’s right! When you’re knee-deep in urgent deliverables, that’s the time to take an entire day off to learn to prioritize! Yes, sir!

*slumps over keyboard*

And with that, she swilled the last of her wine, popped an orange chocolate into her mouth, and shut down her many computers.

P.S. Apropos of nothing, there are photos of two of my friends with Pamela Anderson in the extended entry. Tahoe. Who knew?

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