It’s not my fault: what happened at dinner last night.

Lately, Little R has been coming home from school with some interesting new words and songs and, lets call them, dance moves.  That’s the trouble with school.  Older kids, and classmates with older siblings say things that you don’t hear on treehouse.  He’s learned some song about sticking his butt in the air, AND it’s got bonus choreography that features Jim Carey-style talking butt-cheeks!  Yay!  He once told me his teachers were bitches because they wouldn’t let him sit by his friend.  That one started a couple of weeks earlier with “ditches”.  I let it go and hoped he wouldn’t acheive mastery on that particular vocab word, but obviously he’s got a tutor at school and well, you can’t stop progress!  So I just tell him that some words/dance moves aren’t nice and I tell him why and I tell him I don’t want to hear them/see them again.  I don’t get upset or react with shock, I deliver like I’m letting him know what’s for lunch.  It’s worked really well so far.

The same works for correcting willful attempts to ruin him by his uncles.  My Uncle Gordie advised Little R to run away laughing when I’m giving him trouble.  Uncle Gord also told him that “girls go to Jupiter to get more stupider”.  To top it all off, he told Little R not to tell his mom what they discuss, because that would be breaking “the code of the guys”.  Then there’s my brother, who told my son that if he worked at it, Little R could learn to shoot lasers out of his arse.  This would allow him to explode toilets.  I just tell him not to repeat those things yadda, yadda and I add that his uncles are developmentally delayed and can’t be held accountable for their stupidity. 

Lately, we’ve been taking the kids out for dinner with us.  We’ve got it down to a science.  Baby A loves to eat, so we can keep her occupied by feeding her a steady stream of little bites and we bring the iPad for Little R so that he can play a game while we wait for dinner.  We are very smug about this.  We often high five each other on the way out of the restaurant to congratulate each other on how we’re awesome parents with well-behaved children who can go out to a nice restaurant anytime they want!  Hells, yeah!

Last night at dinner Baby A and Little R were playing across the table from eachother.  Baby A started to get excited and was squealing and giggling.  Little R looked shocked and turned to us to exclaim “Baby A just called me an asshole!”

Hey-0!

That’s hubris, people.  Overweening pride.   Just when you think you’re mother of the year, your pre-schooler shouts out “asshole” in a restaurant.

To top it all off, that one’s probably my fault.  Asshole is one of my favorite words.  Even when I think he can’t hear me, he hears me.  Why couldn’t he have yelled out “bitch” or “Donald Trump”?

Posted in Little R, Mother of the year award, Parenting | 2 Comments

Did I tell you about the Velociraptor?

So, here’s a great teaching example.  The next time you need to explain to a young person what “error in judgement”, or “chronic failure to use one’s brain”, or “behaving as though you have brain damage”, or “being an ass jacket” is, I want you to feel free to refer to this post.

So, one evening, I ran away from home to take some “me” time (you know, I went to the grocery store and ran errands without the kids) and I came home to T and Little R cuddled up on the couch together watching Jurrassic Park. I told you that he’s 4, right?

Me: What the fuck, T?!
T: What?
Me: Really? Jurrassic Park?!
T: What? Don’t be like that. It’s fine! He’s not scared!
Me: What the fuck? Do I really need to explain why I think this is dumb? What happened to you? Why are you like this? I think you should be assessed. I seriously think you may have brain damage. I’m all out of things to say–there’s something wrong with you.

Then, as we are getting Little R ready for bed:

T: R, go upstairs and get some pajamas.
R: No, I’m scared to go upstairs by myself.
Me: It’s safe in our house, the lights are on and there’s nothing to be scared of, honey.
T: Go on up, it’s totally fine. We’re standing right here watching.
R: I’m scared though!
Me: That’s ok, if you’re scared but you do it anyway that means you’re courageous!

R heads slowly, tentatively up the stairs to get some pajamas as T and I watch proudly. Then, suddenly, T screams out “R, WATCH OUT! THERE’S A VELOCIRAPTOR IN YOUR ROOM!!!”
R, turns and races back down the stairs with a look of total and utter terror on his face; screaming like he fears for his life because he’s being chased by a Velociraptor.

R has slept with me every single night since. T has been sleeping with the Velociraptor.

Posted in Are you fucking kidding me!?, Little R, Parenting, T | 2 Comments

I’m going to live in the woods.

My favorite thing that happened this lovely long weekend?  Coming downstairs to find Baby A crawling around in the fireplace brandishing a piece of charred firewood, and covered in soot and ash.  Yes, that’s right, crawling inside of the fireplace.  Why, oh why did I leave my baby unattended you ask?  I didn’t. I left her in her father’s capable hands.  I went upstairs for 10 minutes and when I came down Little R was fast asleep in his bed (at 6:30!  You can imagine what time he went to bed after his late-evening nap.) and Baby A was crawling around in the fireplace, eating ash, smiling and looking at the soot-tracks she’d made in the white carpet.  Through it all, my husband slept on the couch, peaceful as can be.  Oblivious to my screams of outrage and horror.  Oblivious to the shit-storm of burning hate that I was raining down on him.  He’s a very sound sleeper and when I leave him in charge of the children, a strange chemical reaction happens in his brain that causes him to immediately lose conciousness.  I think he needs shock therapy or perhaps some kind of behaviour modification therapy involving swift kicks in the ass.   What happened next between us, I’ll leave to your imagination.

My other favourite moment this weekend was this conversation between Little R and I:

 Me: (Cuddling in bed) R, I had such a fun day with you today.  You’re my favourite boy in all the world.

R:  Why am I your favourite boy?

Me:  Well, you’re so special and smart and kind and such a great big brother and so wonderful in every way!

R:  You’re my favourite Mommy in the world.

Me: Why am I your favourite Mommy?

 R: (Reaching out to touch my hair) Because you have really nice hair.

Posted in Are you fucking kidding me!?, Baby A, T | 3 Comments

I’m the Mom (Snicker)

Today, I spent the morning making pancakes with my son’s preschool class.  I’ve been so excited about it all week, because it’s one of those “real mom” moments.  You know, one of those moments where you feel like you’re really doing it instead of just pretending?  My friend Lisa just wrote a post about this very idea on her blog the other day.  The idea that the moments you think will be watershed moments, often don’t end up that way.  For instance, I didn’t feel particularly married on my wedding day, but I sure did the first time I got asked out after I was married (I’ve still got it!). 

I didn’t automatically feel like a mother when my son was born.  I felt like a mother two weeks later when I had to bundle him up and take him to his first well-baby check-up.  I was in charge of keeping the baby’s appointments and driving the baby, and being the expert on the baby!  I suddenly felt like a mom.  It comes and goes though.  There are lots of moments when I think “this is strange, look at me giving a time-out!”  and I feel like laughing; it all seems so improbable.  Most of the time, I just can’t believe I’m in charge.  Certain things really make me feel totally motherish though: advocating for the kids, filling out any kid-related paperwork, travelling with the kids and often a new experience. 

Volunteering this morning was one of those times.  I was the Mom. Volunteering. In the Classroom!  Just like a real grown-up.  Like real Moms do!  I talked about it all last week, to everyone–how it was going to be such a trip to be the classroom helper.  Me, the class Mom!  Not just the jackass winging her way through the days, no no, someone responsible enough to be the classroom helper.  Someone mature enough to have children that she remembered to enrol in preschool.

I loved seeing Little R so excited to have me there and seeing him feel proud of me.  I loved seeing what he was like at school and what he could accomplish when it was the teacher asking and not me (he’s busted, by the way.  He can totally cut his own food and do his own shoes, sneaky bugger.  He can even wash his own dishes–things are going to change around here!)  I loved seeing him interact with his little friends and getting to meet all the kids that he talks about. 

I think though, that my favourite part of the morning was watching that poor teacher during circle time.  She would say “What day of the week is it?” and a few kids would answer “Thursday!” and then someone would shout out “I’m three!” with four fingers held up.  This would lead to a chorus of “I’m four!  I’m five!  I have a Diego Rescue Train!”.  And then she would have to try to recapture their attention and then it would start all over with the next question.  It was like watching someone trying to herd cats.

Cheers to the preschool teachers and T.A.’s–you’ve got some mad skills with the patience and persistence.

Also, are there any Moms out there who feel like it’s not their first day of parenting, every day?  I rarely feel like I know what I’m doing.  That’s normal, right? 

P.S.  If you actually do feel like you know what you’re doing, don’t answer this question.  I don’t want to feel bad about myself….

Posted in Parenting | 1 Comment

I’ve made this mistake for you. You’re welcome.

Here’s something not to do. 

For my babies’ birthdays this past weekend, I decided to order cupcakes from the new OMG Cupcakes shop.  On the Monday before the party, I went into the shop to check it out.  I knew it was going to be something special, because at 11:00 AM on a workday, the line-up reached to the door.  The line was filled with glassy-eyed women in an apparent cupcake stupor.  I heard them make their orders one by one and watched them leave.  Most of them sat in their cars and ate at least one cupcake before they left.  I thought it was kind of funny and kind of sad.  I mean, I could almost feel the semi-sexual satisfaction in the air.  I made my order for the party and asked for one of each of the two flavors I picked to take home. 

When I got to my car, I opened the container, chose the chocolate ganache and pink buttercream frosting OMG Signature Cupcake and took a bite (it seemed like the thing to do).  It tasted like cupcakes taste in heaven when the angels bake and make frosting for the Baby Jesus.  I have litterally never had a desert, of any kind, that gave me so much semi-sexual satisfaction.  Now I was part of the sisterhood of the cupcake addicted.  I no longer saw those women as kind of funny and sad, oh no.  Those women are geniuses!  I felt like my life had improved at least 18% now that I had The Cupcake.  I felt so fulfilled.

I was back the next day, and then on Wednesday, with the husband, to try a couple more flavors.  Then on Saturday, we had the party.  There were 13 cupcakes left over when the party was done, and those little packages of love and contentment came home with me.  I don’t want to tell you exactly how many of those leftover cupcakes I ate, but you can assume it was a high percentage.  Embarrassingly high.

“Where’s the mistake?” you ask.  “Overeating?”  No, no.  The mistake is to buy a body fat analysis scale the next day because, gee, that would be neat to know!  Don’t do that.  Don’t ever, ever do that.  You will be so deeply sorry.  The innocence of my relationship with The Cupcake, the pure joy, is gone.  Now I’m back with Spinach and Lentils, but I still get with The Cupcake on Saturdays.  What Spinach and Lentils don’t know, can’t hurt them, right?

Posted in Life | 3 Comments

Strawberry Starfish

It’s been a while and there’s just so much to say, but I’m going to start with a story about, well, my strawberry starfish.  This is a little tough for me, as I’ve met lots of very nice people who read my blog, and many of them I will have to face again.  The thing is, it’s really funny, and anyone who knows me well, knows that I have absolutely NO problem talking about my strawberry starfish, or my vagina, and that I especially love talking birth.  Most people think that’s odd and this means I have exactly one friend that I can really open up to on matters of the downstairs (what up, Carrie!).  Not today though!  Today everyone gets to hear about it!  I missed you, internets….

At the end of November, my Granny passed away and I decided to leave my children at home while I flew to the funeral.  I couldn’t imagine doing the coming days while having to take care of my 9 month old and her wild older brother.  This put me in a position I haven’t been in for a very long time.  It meant travelling alone.  This is definitely not all bad.  Hello, Getting A Full Night’s Sleep.  Oh, how I’ve missed your soothing touch.  Meet me in the Vice-Regal Suite at 8:00 and bring your sexy friend, Nytol.  But it does mean travelling alone.  In the winter.  Highway driving in a blizzard.  Alone.  Wheel-gripping terror.  The funeral, as you can imagine, was stressful, heartbreaking.  Watching my Mom grieve, not pleasant.  When I got home, I hugged the kids, had a bite to eat and then started throwing up.  For two days.  I totally heart the stomach flu. 

My husband (worried that I might decide that the Universe hated me and that I should just hide in the basement until the universe forgot I existed, and thus it would have stopped picking on me) decided to surprise me with a trip to one of my favorite places–the Jasper Park Lodge.  Yay me!  As I packed I was on the phone to my friend Cheri, telling her how much I deserved this trip and how even though Little R was now in the vomitous throes of the stomach flu, that it would take an act of God to keep me from my suite at the JPL.  She said she thought everything would be fine because, really, what else could happen?

Well, this could happen.  I went down to the basement and threw a load of laundry into the washing machine and as I stood up and swung the washer door shut, searing-no- SCORCHING pain ripped through my back from my left butt cheek to my ribcage.  I couldn’t finish standing up, I couldn’t bend down, I couldn’t move a muscle without total agony.  And then I panicked.  I realised my children were alone upstairs. That my poor little boy was, at that very moment, on the couch throwing up Cheeto-coloured vomit onto the carpet with no one to rub his back.  So, instead of waiting for him to finish and then calling for him to throw the phone down the stairs, I forced myself upstairs. This involved a lot of breathing techniques, exclamations of pain, sweat and positive self-talk.  On the last stair, as I braced my hand against my knee and pushed up to the main floor, I swear I heard my back come unfastened.  I was sure all my ligaments had just torn loose from my spine.  I collapsed at the top of the stairs and then quickly realised that I should have stayed in the basement. Turns out the stress of the week, plus traveling in economy, plus the stomach flu equals one tense back ready to blow at the least provocation. I guess you can’t hide from the universe, or acts of God.

The next part will go down as the 12 most humiliatng hours of my life.  I’m sure of it.  Screaming at the 12 year-old nurse who had the bad fortune to be on shift when I delivered Baby A that “THESE ARE MODERN TIMES!!! THERE MUST BE AN ANESTHESIOLOGIST IN THIS BUILDING!!!  PEOPLE HAVE SURGERY HERE!!! LOOK AT MY FACE, BITCH!!!  E-PI-DU-RAL!!!” really is a distant second. Long after my 3-hour visit with the cold, hard floor at the top of the stairs; long after the arduous and painful journey on hands and knees to the couch with my cheek pressed to the carpet; long after the ugly, ugly contortions required to get myself onto said couch, came the undeniable need to pee.

I was able to ignore it for 9 full hours, but it was time.  Time for my husband either to shove some towels under my butt so I wouldn’t pee on the couch, or time for him to help me use the toilet.  We chose the toilet. I crawled on my forearms and knees all the way to the bathroom door. And this is where I met my own personal Waterloo. I have, let’s say, a moderate problem with the idea of germs, viruses, dirty things etc. I think it’s because I get sick so much. I feel like the germs are just waiting for me to let my guard down. Now, I know my bathroom floor is clean, but the idea of touching a bathroom floor, near the toilet, with my bare skin, it’s just too much. However, the very real threat of my husband having to clean me up because I peed myself kept me moving forward. He kept calling, “are you OK? Do you need help?” and I kept calling out “don’t look at me! Leave me my dignity!”. There was to be no dignity for me, though. Because once I was there, I realised that I couldn’t get my pants off. No way, no how.

“T! I need you to come take my pants off!”
“Really?!”
“It’s not going to be what you hope it’s going to be!”

With my hands on the floor I reached my butt up into the air so T could get my pants off. In the harsh bathroom light I begged him not to look at me, to just pretend like it wasn’t happening, to please not look at my strawberry starfish. As my last shred of dignity slipped away I asked him to please help me find the toilet seat with my butt. And with my hands still on the floor, and my head hung low in defeat I finally peed. And it was done, he’d seen my strawberry starfish in fluorescent lighting.

I went to JPL anyway.
I’ll be in physio twice a week till the end of March.

Posted in Life, Way too personal | 8 Comments

Much, much better than getting punched in the face

There are many, many days where staying home with the kids feels like Sisyphus pushing that rock up the mountain.  Making meals, cleaning up after meals, reinforcing consequences, directing activities, laundry, diapers, laundry, laundry, laundry: its endless.  Then there are moments like the one I had with R last night.

The boy would. not. go. to. bed.  This happens all the time.  It means endless trips up the stairs to sit with him for “just one minute”, to bring a snack, to get him a drink of water, to listen to him tell us “just one thing”.  So, I resigned myself to not watching the season finale of Breaking Bad, but to coddling my little boy unconscious.  It never ceases to make me curse the sleep gods that I can lay Baby A in her crib fully awake and she takes that as her cue to go totally comatose for 13 hours, and my three year old routinely takes more than an hour to put to bed and wakes up (sometimes multiple times) during the night.  Having a baby who sleeps, but not being able to sleep through the night yourself, is like getting a gift you can’t unwrap.  So, realizing that tonight was turning into one of those nights, my mood soured and I morphed into Sisyphus.

I went upstairs to sit on the edge of his bed to listen to him tell me “just one more thing”.  He started to tell me about how all of his teachers like to punch him in the face and tell him to go home to his mama.  How the kids at school won’t play with him.  How he’s sad, sad, so sad when he’s at school.  I might find this alarming if I hadn’t recently watched my son turn into the biggest drama queen in the entire universe.  He’s started hanging his head and moping over to the stairs where he plops down, throws a glance over his shoulder and sighs, “there’s no one to play with me” and then hangs his head again.  This is usually his response to me telling him I can’t take him to visit his cousins because, well, they’re in school, or it’s 6 am or some other obviously groundless reason.  I’m fairly confident that his teachers don’t punch him in the face, and he’s always pissed off when I arrive at school to pick him up, because I’m RUINING HIS LIFE!  So, I attributed this litany of woe to R wanting me to sit up there and love him up until, oh, midnight or so.

After hanging my head in my hands for a minute, I thought I might be able to turn him from his sob story by asking him what he likes about school.  And do you know what he said?  “I like it best when you come and get me from school, because you’re my mama and I miss you all the days.”  Gah!  Heart melting, tears forming, highlight moment.  And before I could even start to gush about how much I love him too, and how I’m so glad he’s my boy, he launched into the most charming description of what he loves about school.  He loves “tivities” and “go to the park” and “Leslie, cuz she’s my real friend and I wave at her and she wave at me and she wears a headband and it takes a few whiles to make a new friend….”  And I’m so glad that I had the good sense to just sit on the edge of his bed to listen and ask him questions even though it was way past his bedtime, because I’ve never heard him say so much about his thoughts at one time.  It was the most charmed ten minutes of my life with him, and I loved it and soaked it up and tried to will myself to remember it forever.

Posted in Little R, Parenting | 3 Comments

Parental discretion obviously required

This morning, I asked little R if he’d like to watch a few minutes of a movie while I put Baby A down for her nap.  He replied “Yay!  Can I watch the movie with the girl fucking?” 

Blink, blink. 

“What did you just say?”

“I wanna watch the new movie with the girl fucking.”

I could feel my mind searching like an old commodore 64, grinding through memory files; desperately searching for the piece of information that would make sense of what had just come out of my baby’s mouth.  I could only have been more shocked if 8 month old Baby A said it.  However, in that case, the shock would be quickly replaced with glee, as I ran to grab the video camera and do a search for the number of Oprah’s production team.  It would mean I was going to be on Oprah’s final season, and then I would write a book about my incredible infant profanity prodigy!  I’d be rich!

I’m an imperfect parent, for sure.  I’ve let go some “stupid dogs!” and a few “I’m going to punch you square in the balls!” and the occasional “shitballs!”, but I try hard not to let the boy hear my profanity and I know for sure that I’ve never talked about fucking in that context.  I know, because I never use that word in that context.  I use it in every other imaginable context, but not that one.  Suddenly, the answer came to me in a flash of understanding:  girl viking, viking!  From his new movie!  A girl viking!  We went over the difference between the ‘f’ sound and the ‘v’ sound, and we practiced pronouncing viking a few times.

Ironically, these moments of unholy terror turned into a real parenting coup, because I realized that R had acknowledged girl vikings.  Yes, that’s right.  About a week ago, we got a magazine in the mail that had a photo of a woman on the cover.  She was dressed like a viking and had her foot up on a big rock, as though she had just triumphantly conquered something (as it turns out, it was cancer–it was for an article about beating cancer).  R’s reaction was to turn to me and say “That magazine’s just joking.  Girls can’t be fighters, girls are only princesses!”  It killed me; he was ruined already and he’s only three.  I was going to have to try much harder with Baby A.

We are the parents who let our son play with whatever toys he wants, and since almost all his friends and cousins are girls, he plays with a lot of girl toys.  He even went through a phase when he was about two, where he had to have his purse with him whenever we left the house.  And we were all “we’re urbane, we’re cool with it–we don’t reinforce gender stereotypes.  Pass the volkswagen and the organic soy latte.”  How had our son come to the conclusion that girls could only be princesses?  I came to the conclusion that it was playing with all those girl toys, and watching all those awful princess movies.  If he thinks so little of girls’ abilities, what do all the little girls out there think of themselves?  I blame the media, mm hmm, that’s it–the media.

We did some reading of books with girl protagonists; we watched a couple of movies with strong, female, leads; we attended a couple of women’s studies lectures.  It worked I guess, because now he recognizes dragon-slaying, ass-kicking, girl vikings.  We’ll work on his propensity toward violence later.

Posted in Little R | 5 Comments

Folding sheets and other virtues

Today was one of my mom’s days off.  I don’t think of them as her days off, so much as I think of them as my days off, though.  She comes over, so thrilled to spend time with her grandchildren, and when she arrives I go running from the house giggling, with my balled-up fists to my mouth.  I watch her coming from the front window and my heart soars with the prospect of freedom.  I watch her coming and she’s floating on a golden cloud; an angel come to deliver me.  I cherish those mornings of child-free errand-running almost as much as I cherish wine or chocolate bars or peabutter.  You can imagine my disappointment when I called my mom this morning and instead of saying “I’m on my way” she said “I’m not feeling well, I’m going to lie down for a bit”.  I of course replied “well, how will you watch the kids if you’re sleeping?”  She clarified “No, you’ll be watching the kids.” But, but….  No sweet freedom, no morning off?  No coming home to piles of neatly folded laundry? 

I was forced to take my children with me on the errands I had to do today; the errands I had been saving for my (mom’s) day off.  Into the car seats, out of the car seats.  Load the stroller, unload the stroller.  Unfold the stroller, insert Baby, wrangle preschooler, do 5 minute errand.  Reverse and repeat. And repeat.  And repeat.  It was not at all what I had planned.  I had planned to take advantage of my mother’s obsessive compulsive need to fold laundry.  She folds sheets into perfect little bundles that would make Martha Stewart look like a slovenly drunkard, and she folds my nightgown and matching robe into a perfect package and then uses the belt, like a ribbon, to tie a bow around it.  It’s like a little bon bon of love that is dropped magically into my new life of servitude, I mean, motherhood.  But there was none of that for me today, oh no, mom has a cold.  A cold that she blames poor little R for.  Can you believe that?  That boy is NEVER sick….

Worse than all of that though, was the disappointment that R felt when we drove past “Nannie’s” house and he asked if we were going to visit her.  I told him that his Nannie has a cold and she was having a nap.  This was something that he clearly could not process.  You see, Nannie, to the best of my knowledge, has never denied my son anything.  This is the woman who once poured my son a BOWL OF SUGAR and when questioned, quite logically explained that he LIKES sugar.  This is the woman who I’ve heard tell my son “You can’t play with that drill because your Mommy said ‘no’ and she’s the boss in this house, but she’s not the boss at Nannie’s.  Wanna go to Nannie’s?”  You’d like to play with Mommy’s jewellery?  Of course!  You’d like to practice juggling flaming batons?  If it will make you happy, sweetheart!  You’d like a bowl of chocolate-covered crack nuggets?  Coming right up, joy of my soul.  This leads to a lot of our son screaming at us that he wants his Nannie whenever he doesn’t get his way.

So, this morning when I denied him access to his Nannie, R screamed from the back seat “My whole city is RUINED!”  When I asked for clarification, R told me in a totally rational fashion that Nannie’s cold RUINED! his whole city, world and life.  He was so upset that I had to chance waking up my mom and phone her.  When I did, she wasn’t sleeping and I explained that she had created a monster and that her grandson was having a psychotic break because Nannie was denying him his request for her presence.  I told my mom that if she came over, I’d make her tea and she could lie on my couch instead of hers and that she and R could snuggle and watch his new dragon movie and I wouldn’t even make her fold laundry.  So she came.  There was snuggling, and tea and all was right with the world.  And I remebered how, as a kid, I never felt that my mom was unavailable, never, not once.  She always took my calls at work and I knew if I needed her, she would come right home.  Even when I was 18, or 25 or 33.  And now my boy feels that about her, too.  As I folded laundry I hoped that my children would always feel that I will be there for them in the middle of the night, at work, as kids, and as adults.  That, I will likely achieve, but I will never be able to fold sheets like my mom.  I know–I`ve tried.

Posted in Life | 3 Comments

Trump Card

It’s been a while since I’ve been healthy.  This means its been a while since the family has had regular meals, since the house has been clean, or since anyone’s had fresh underwear.  This is my sphere of influence.  Yes, when I’m down and out, laundry goes undone.  That’s a serious problem, really serious.  Serious.  It could really effect…something. Important. 

After our family course of antibiotics T and I got sick again.  We’re both on another round of antibiotics.  We have strong germs.  R’s are weak; he was cured after the first round.  This lingering, lingering, long, long, very long bout of illness has had many unforeseen consequences.  Firstly, the makers of Safeway brand vinegar and the makers of Norwex disinfecting cloths are millionaires because of me.  I keep disinfecting doorknobs, switch plates, remotes and phones to stop the reinfection of all of our throats and ears.  Secondly, our lovely new doctor thinks my husband is a drug addict because he thinks its funny to ask for oxycontin for the pain of strep throat.  The third effect, though, is by far the best.  It is pulling up to the McDonalds drive through (yet again) and having your three year old clearly articulate his desire for “a chicken nuggets happy meal with a side of hamburgers… and a boy’s toy, please”.  Not a proud moment for a parent.  He can’t acurately count to ten, but he can very accurately order from a drive through window.  He even has the correct use of the specialized language required, as evidenced by the use of the terms “happy meal” and “a side of”.  Yes, we’ve been eating a lot of take out lately.  On the plus side, R’s gained 3.5 pounds!  That’s the 2.5 he lost when I totally ingnored his raging bacterial infection and he nearly starved to death, plus a side of hamburgers.

The other very special memory that I have courtesy of this very long, long, drawn out, long bout of disease was this conversation:

“T, can you go downstairs and get me a drink of water?”

“Why me?  We’re both sick.”

“I know, but you’re not really sick.  Plus, I have a fever and swollen glands and an ear infection, so you should want to help me.”

“No way man, you’re always sick.”

“So, if I had cancer, you’d say ‘you always have cancer–get your own water’?”

“You have a sore ear, you don’t have cancer.”

“I know, I’m just pointing out the flaw in your logic.”

“If you were missing your legs, then maybe I’d get your water.”

“You watched me give birth to both of your ten-pound children, right?”

“Fine.”

Posted in Life, T | 8 Comments