How was your Thanksgiving? Did you eat some turkey? Do some shopping? Go to the ER?
No?
Well, I did. Sorry you missed out.
Thanksgiving started out great. The kids were playing nicely and there was lots of good food. After we gorged ourselves on near deadly amounts of fried turkey, my mother-in-law, both my sister-in-laws and I decided to do some shopping. We left our kids in the capable hands of the guys and let outta that place like our asses were on fire. ( Don't judge me. I love The Kid, but you would've done it too).
After a few hours of shopping we decide to come home. When I come in the door I yell for The Kid. She pops around the corner and smiles. Good. I don't hear any crying and the house hasn't burnt down; she's been pretty good. To confirm this, I ask my father-in-law how she's been. "Good" he says " but she bumped her head. She cried for a minute, but then she was fine". I look The Kid over. 'Nothing really bad HOLYCRAP! What the hell is that?!' I think to myself. Right above her left eyebrow is the evidence of her little tumble. Actually it looks more like she was whacked in the head with a cricket bat. That bruise was nasty, but it didn't seem to bother her any so I calm down... a little.
We sit down and eat some leftovers for dinner, but The Kid was not having any of that. All in all, she ended up eating a cup of diced peaches and drank half of Nanny's cranberry sierra mist. How nutritious. A couple hours later we decide it's about time to make the 45 minute trip home. We load The Kid and enough leftovers to feed a tribe into the car and head for home. In the rain.
About 15 minutes from our exit, The Kid wakes up. She starts coughing and then vomiting... like Linda Blair. That's right, Exorcist vomit everywhere. I freak out, wake Bubba up and pull the car over to the side of the road. As soon as the car comes to a stop he jumps out and takes her out of her car seat. The Kid just keeps throwing up and crying and refusing to look at me. This is when the fear sets in. Head injury + vomit = Big Problems. When she stops puking for a minute we strap her back in the car and call my cousin, the nurse. With a "if she was mine, I'd take her" we tear ass to the hospital.
Now, this is the time when every bad scenario plays in your head: what this means, what they'll do to her in the hospital, everything. I have got to stay calm. As much as I would like to start screaming and crying too, I bite my lip and get to the ER in record time.
After filling out paperwork and rehashing the story four separate times to various nurses, office personnel, and my father (Oh yes, he was there. Did you think he'd miss an opportunity to worry about something beyond his control?) we're back in a room and seriously antsy. The doctor finally comes in and says hello very unenthusiastically. He takes a cursory glance at The Kid and says "I think we'll do a CT scan" and leaves. Come again?
So, let's look at the pros and cons:
Pro: They'll be able to look inside The Kid's head and make sure nothing's rattling
Con: She may glow in the dark and/or grow a third nipple from the radiation.
(Yes, I'm that mother.)
After I get Dr. Bedside Manner back in the room to explain to me exactly why it's prudent to stick my kid in this machine (he actually made a valid point... through gritted teeth.) we head down to the CT room and this is where my second panic attack begins.
If you've even seen those slick GE health care commercials (or watched your fair share of House) you know how one of those fancy electrical-doughnut-thingys work: you lay on a table, completely still, and it slides you in for a minute and then back out. No big deal, right? Wrong. News to me: you have to strap children down. No, not just 'strap down'. You have to wrap up them up like a mummy, lay a lead vest over them, put foam chocks on the side of their head so they don't wiggle, then put a strap over their body and forehead. Yeah; all that. So here I am , holding her down telling her "It's ok! It'll be over in just a minute" while she gives me that look and screaming what I'm sure translates to "I hate you woman! Get me out of this damn thing or I will suffocate you in your sleep!". Finally the machine stops and I pull her out of the straps. She climbs me like a spider monkey and gives me a look that says 'You better give me a good Christmas after all this crap or I really will kill you'. Glad to see she's feeling better.
We get back to the room and start the waiting game. After the longest 30 minutes of my life, the doctor comes in to give us the good news: She didn't knock herself stupid and DCS was not coming to take my child. Hurray. As we get ready to head home I tell The Kid "You better never scare me like that again".
In case you were wondering, first thing the next morning she climbed on the ottoman and stood up just to dare me. I believe she lives to watch me slowly die. Ahh, motherhood.
Showing posts with label Story Of The Week. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Story Of The Week. Show all posts
Monday, December 13, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Freak Out
As my husband is well aware, I have a list. This list contains words that I cannot even hear without dry heaving. These words are so disgusting, I'm having a hard time typing this right now. I will not list these words for fear I may puke and pass out, but believe me, they're bad. They're pretty much everyday words that, to me, have a undesirable connotation. They are literally dirty words. Bubba knows these words and if he's feeling incredibly loving, he'll drop them into everyday conversation just so he can push my freaking buttons.
As charming as my neurosis are, you would think it would be make Bubba sad to know that my child has now inherited them. Not my husband.
We discovered Boo-Boo's little... er, issue... a couple of weeks ago. Bubba and I thought it would be a grand idea to teach The Kid animal sounds (you know, good parenting and all), so we sat down with a little book and started looking at the animals. "This is a dog. The dog says 'Woof!'. This is a cat. The cat says 'Meow!'". Everything was going just swimmingly until we got to the cow.
Now, this isn't just any cow I'm sure, oh no. Bubba's in the middle of saying "This is a cow. A cow says..." when he makes the sound of the most demonic bovine that ever exhisted. As soon as he says "Mooo..." she looks up at him with a face full of fear and discust and begins to cry. Not just any cry, mind you, but the "Slow Cry".
Every parent knows what that is. It's not the "I'm so mad I could kill you" or the "Oh look, the floor just reached up and slapped me so pick me up and give me candy". Oh no, this one starts with The Look. The look that says "Did you really just do that?". The one meant to break you. If that doesn't work, next is the Lip Quiver. This means " My feelings are truly hurt". If that still doesn't help, they pull out the big guns: The Big Cry. The Big, Nasty, Sobbing Cry. It's just years and years of unending sorrow. "Why, oh why have you done this? But I thought you loved me!" cry. I felt terrible. I'm a bad Momma. I looked over to my lovely husband to see if he felt my sorrow. Well, I should have asked him after he stopped laughing.
That freaking laugh. The same laugh I hear after I stop regurgitating my dinner over ... those words. Now he has two of us to laugh at. So now, for fun, Bubba will just get infront of The Kid and moo that low, slow, evil moo. Not because he's mean or unfeeling. Because he's a parent, and that is one of the small joys of parenting.
That and knowing when they get older, they can be your indentured servant help you clean the house.
As charming as my neurosis are, you would think it would be make Bubba sad to know that my child has now inherited them. Not my husband.
We discovered Boo-Boo's little... er, issue... a couple of weeks ago. Bubba and I thought it would be a grand idea to teach The Kid animal sounds (you know, good parenting and all), so we sat down with a little book and started looking at the animals. "This is a dog. The dog says 'Woof!'. This is a cat. The cat says 'Meow!'". Everything was going just swimmingly until we got to the cow.
Now, this isn't just any cow I'm sure, oh no. Bubba's in the middle of saying "This is a cow. A cow says..." when he makes the sound of the most demonic bovine that ever exhisted. As soon as he says "Mooo..." she looks up at him with a face full of fear and discust and begins to cry. Not just any cry, mind you, but the "Slow Cry".
Every parent knows what that is. It's not the "I'm so mad I could kill you" or the "Oh look, the floor just reached up and slapped me so pick me up and give me candy". Oh no, this one starts with The Look. The look that says "Did you really just do that?". The one meant to break you. If that doesn't work, next is the Lip Quiver. This means " My feelings are truly hurt". If that still doesn't help, they pull out the big guns: The Big Cry. The Big, Nasty, Sobbing Cry. It's just years and years of unending sorrow. "Why, oh why have you done this? But I thought you loved me!" cry. I felt terrible. I'm a bad Momma. I looked over to my lovely husband to see if he felt my sorrow. Well, I should have asked him after he stopped laughing.
That freaking laugh. The same laugh I hear after I stop regurgitating my dinner over ... those words. Now he has two of us to laugh at. So now, for fun, Bubba will just get infront of The Kid and moo that low, slow, evil moo. Not because he's mean or unfeeling. Because he's a parent, and that is one of the small joys of parenting.
That and knowing when they get older, they can
Monday, May 10, 2010
A Comedy of Errors
It was the flood of the century and my father felt it was the perfect time to clean out the gutters. While rain was pouring down at a rate of 2 million gallons per second, he was outside, on a ladder, pulling out rotting dead leaves. During this ill advised attempt at home maintenance, he inadvertently left the gate open. So, while he was around the front of the house, my brother's dog was sneaking out the back.
Now, this dog is not the smartest dog in the world; think less Lassie and more Marmaduke. I can just picture the scene now: my 56 year old dad, on a ladder in the pouring rain cursing while the dog quietly sneaks past him and bolts down the road.
After about 20 minutes, dad comes inside. "Have you seen Maime?" he asks (yes, that really is the dog's name. Don't ask.) "No..." I reply. "Oh God, she got out." he says. 'Oh crap' is right.
This was not good for a couple of reasons:
1. This dog is s-t-u-p-i-d.
2. My brother has a t-e-m-p-e-r
So, here we all go out the door like a shot, screaming for that stupid dog. My brother's mad, my mom and dad are upset, and The Kid's excited. She thinks this is exactly what she needs to keep her from her nap. After many, many colorful, four letter words from my brother, my dad decides to go out looking for her. In the middle of a flood of biblical proportions. Excellent idea.
So, after about 30 minutes, I finally get The Kid to sleep and decide to join the fun. I get in the car with a rain jacket on and begin to ride around the neighborhood with the car windows down, whistling. The first person I come across (stupid enough to be out in the rain, like me) is the cable guy. I pull my car over and ask if he's seen the dog. "Nope. Sorry." he tells me. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy so I continue driving around looking like a fool. I see a couple more people out walking their dogs and such and ask them. 'No's all around.
Then I come up to a house with some boys outside playing basketball. There's about 6 boys, all around 12 years old. I pull my car over next to the driveway. "Hey kids!" I yell. The boys stop dead in the middle of the game and look at me. "I've lost my dog" I say. All the kids take a step back. "Have you seen a big black dog running around here?" "No ma'am" the bravest one replies, from the safety of the garage. "Ok. Thanks." I reply and drive off. Then I start thinking. Crap. I just sounded like one of those weirdos who try to kidnap little kids. I better get the hell outta here before their mom calls the cops... or 'To Catch a Predator'.
When I get back home, The Kid's still asleep and there's still no sign of the dog. Great. Then The kid wakes up, cranky. Even better. It's still raining and it's getting bad so I start to worry. I go get The Kid out of her bed and follow mom out on the screened-in porch. As a last ditch attempt, mom stands out in the back yard yelling "Maime... Maime...".
Then, all of a sudden she yells "MAIME!! COME HERE PUPPY!!". I look up and there she is: the world's dumbest dog standing on the other side of the chain link fence looking at us like 'How'd you get in there?'. The Kid sees her buddy and starts screaming and flapping her arms like a chicken having a seizure. So, we all run towards the gate; mom, The Kid, and me, all barefoot and screaming in the pouring rain.
Yep, we like to keep it classy here in Tennessee.
Now, this dog is not the smartest dog in the world; think less Lassie and more Marmaduke. I can just picture the scene now: my 56 year old dad, on a ladder in the pouring rain cursing while the dog quietly sneaks past him and bolts down the road.
After about 20 minutes, dad comes inside. "Have you seen Maime?" he asks (yes, that really is the dog's name. Don't ask.) "No..." I reply. "Oh God, she got out." he says. 'Oh crap' is right.
This was not good for a couple of reasons:
1. This dog is s-t-u-p-i-d.
2. My brother has a t-e-m-p-e-r
So, here we all go out the door like a shot, screaming for that stupid dog. My brother's mad, my mom and dad are upset, and The Kid's excited. She thinks this is exactly what she needs to keep her from her nap. After many, many colorful, four letter words from my brother, my dad decides to go out looking for her. In the middle of a flood of biblical proportions. Excellent idea.
So, after about 30 minutes, I finally get The Kid to sleep and decide to join the fun. I get in the car with a rain jacket on and begin to ride around the neighborhood with the car windows down, whistling. The first person I come across (stupid enough to be out in the rain, like me) is the cable guy. I pull my car over and ask if he's seen the dog. "Nope. Sorry." he tells me. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy so I continue driving around looking like a fool. I see a couple more people out walking their dogs and such and ask them. 'No's all around.
Then I come up to a house with some boys outside playing basketball. There's about 6 boys, all around 12 years old. I pull my car over next to the driveway. "Hey kids!" I yell. The boys stop dead in the middle of the game and look at me. "I've lost my dog" I say. All the kids take a step back. "Have you seen a big black dog running around here?" "No ma'am" the bravest one replies, from the safety of the garage. "Ok. Thanks." I reply and drive off. Then I start thinking. Crap. I just sounded like one of those weirdos who try to kidnap little kids. I better get the hell outta here before their mom calls the cops... or 'To Catch a Predator'.
When I get back home, The Kid's still asleep and there's still no sign of the dog. Great. Then The kid wakes up, cranky. Even better. It's still raining and it's getting bad so I start to worry. I go get The Kid out of her bed and follow mom out on the screened-in porch. As a last ditch attempt, mom stands out in the back yard yelling "Maime... Maime...".
Then, all of a sudden she yells "MAIME!! COME HERE PUPPY!!". I look up and there she is: the world's dumbest dog standing on the other side of the chain link fence looking at us like 'How'd you get in there?'. The Kid sees her buddy and starts screaming and flapping her arms like a chicken having a seizure. So, we all run towards the gate; mom, The Kid, and me, all barefoot and screaming in the pouring rain.
Yep, we like to keep it classy here in Tennessee.
Monday, March 1, 2010
"And the Parent Of The Year award goes to..."
Well, I learned my lesson. Babies, changing tables and hairbrushes don't mix. I found this out the hard way.
It was a couple of Fridays ago and I was getting the kid ready to go to my mother's house. As I usually do, I put The Kid on the changing table so I could put her diaper and her clothes on. She's at the stage now where she's the biggest wiggle-worm/temper tantrum-thrower, so I sometimes hand her something to play with, like a hair brush. Those little distractions usually buy me about 20-25 seconds, so that means I have to get her taken care of in about 15.
Anyway, I had just put her diaper on and I needed to get her outfit so I sat her up on the table with the hairbrush in her hand and sat down to go through her clothes.
*Those of you that don't have children: Read the following carefully!*
* Deadly Mistake #1: You never, ever leave a child on a changing table alone.(If you do, you're an idiot and a poor parent and you should-and will- be beaten about the head with a hairbrush.)*
So, as I was trying to pick out an outfit from the piles and piles of clothes it dawned on me to check on the kid. About the exact time I had that thought something struck me. Literally. It was a hairbrush, connected to a baby's arm, connected to an ENTIRE BABY.
Yes, The Kid wanted to brush what little hair I have and thought she could just lean over the side of the table and do it. What she ended up doing is almost killing us both. When she landed, The Kid could have cared less. After sitting there stunned (probably more from that fact that she landed perfectly upright in my lap than from the near-death experience) she proceeded to crawl onto the floor and start playing with the brush again like nothing happened.
After my initial shock from the realization that I almost grievously injured my child wore off, and I stopped hyperventilating, I laughed. Yes, because I'm That person. Parent Of The Year, right here folks.
Anyway, I had just put her diaper on and I needed to get her outfit so I sat her up on the table with the hairbrush in her hand and sat down to go through her clothes.
*Those of you that don't have children: Read the following carefully!*
* Deadly Mistake #1: You never, ever leave a child on a changing table alone.(If you do, you're an idiot and a poor parent and you should-and will- be beaten about the head with a hairbrush.)*
So, as I was trying to pick out an outfit from the piles and piles of clothes it dawned on me to check on the kid. About the exact time I had that thought something struck me. Literally. It was a hairbrush, connected to a baby's arm, connected to an ENTIRE BABY.
Yes, The Kid wanted to brush what little hair I have and thought she could just lean over the side of the table and do it. What she ended up doing is almost killing us both. When she landed, The Kid could have cared less. After sitting there stunned (probably more from that fact that she landed perfectly upright in my lap than from the near-death experience) she proceeded to crawl onto the floor and start playing with the brush again like nothing happened.
After my initial shock from the realization that I almost grievously injured my child wore off, and I stopped hyperventilating, I laughed. Yes, because I'm That person. Parent Of The Year, right here folks.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Codewords
Valentine's Day. The one day of the year where a grown man can buy a woman roses, chocolates, underwear, and a giant stuffed animal without getting a restraining order in return. Speaking of Valentine's, did you know that St. Valentine was not actually one person, but the name given to several martyred saints of ancient Rome? Interesting fact, huh? Which brings me to the Story Of The Week.
Let me begin with yesterday afternoon. Bubba called me on his lunch break to see how The Kid was doing, how my day was, etc. During the course of this conversation I asked "Did you see my Facebook status? I finally started my blog!", to which he replied "I saw that. That's interesting." "What does that mean?" I reply. "Nothing. I haven't even read it yet." he says. (Note: He really did mean 'nothing'. Bubba does think I'm a nerd, but he's a nerd too, so we're made for each other.) Ok. No big deal, right?
Later that night, Bubba and I conned my parents into letting The Kid stay with them so we could go out and have a nice dinner. Since misery loves company, we invited Bubba's next-to-oldest sister and her husband to join us. I love Bubba's family, and his sister and I are pretty close, so we always have a good time. I'm very excited about the fact that I'm no longer 'computer retarded' so I ask sister-in-law if she's seen the Blog. "Not yet" she says. "I told Bubba about it" I said "He said 'That's interesting'." "Oh no." she says, and laughs. She laughs and so does her husband.
"What?" I say.
"When you say 'that's interesting', well, that's codeword for 'that's lame'."
What?!
When did this happen?!
So, I got to thinking. 'Has interesting always meant lame? What if it has? When I did miss the memo? Was it that one day in Kindergarten when I was late because Dad had to get me ready for school because Mom was sick and I went to school in a sweatsuit with a sideways ponytail? This is all his fault!' Then I calmed down, stopped talking to myself like Mark David Chapman and began to really think. I thought of all the times I told someone something I thought was really awesome or informative and was answered with a "That's interesting".
"Did you know it takes 10 gallons of water to make one t-shirt?"
"Did you know Harley-Davidson made their first motorcycle in a shed in 1903?"
"Did you know that the polar bear is the heaviest breed of bear?"
"Did you know that hummingbirds can fly backwards?"
"Did you know that you can perform an emergency tracheotomy with a ballpoint pen?"
..."Wow. That's Interesting."
Now that I've thought a little harder on it, I realize that being 'interesting' isn't bad at all. Usually the people who tell me that only say that because they don't understand what I'm talking about. Like that kind of people who don't now what apartheid was or don't get most of the obscure references on Family Guy. So, I think I'll keep being 'interesting', and go around with the wonderful air of self-importance that comes with the knowledge that I rock at Jeopardy! because of it.
Let me begin with yesterday afternoon. Bubba called me on his lunch break to see how The Kid was doing, how my day was, etc. During the course of this conversation I asked "Did you see my Facebook status? I finally started my blog!", to which he replied "I saw that. That's interesting." "What does that mean?" I reply. "Nothing. I haven't even read it yet." he says. (Note: He really did mean 'nothing'. Bubba does think I'm a nerd, but he's a nerd too, so we're made for each other.) Ok. No big deal, right?
Later that night, Bubba and I conned my parents into letting The Kid stay with them so we could go out and have a nice dinner. Since misery loves company, we invited Bubba's next-to-oldest sister and her husband to join us. I love Bubba's family, and his sister and I are pretty close, so we always have a good time. I'm very excited about the fact that I'm no longer 'computer retarded' so I ask sister-in-law if she's seen the Blog. "Not yet" she says. "I told Bubba about it" I said "He said 'That's interesting'." "Oh no." she says, and laughs. She laughs and so does her husband.
"What?" I say.
"When you say 'that's interesting', well, that's codeword for 'that's lame'."
What?!
When did this happen?!
So, I got to thinking. 'Has interesting always meant lame? What if it has? When I did miss the memo? Was it that one day in Kindergarten when I was late because Dad had to get me ready for school because Mom was sick and I went to school in a sweatsuit with a sideways ponytail? This is all his fault!' Then I calmed down, stopped talking to myself like Mark David Chapman and began to really think. I thought of all the times I told someone something I thought was really awesome or informative and was answered with a "That's interesting".
"Did you know it takes 10 gallons of water to make one t-shirt?"
"Did you know Harley-Davidson made their first motorcycle in a shed in 1903?"
"Did you know that the polar bear is the heaviest breed of bear?"
"Did you know that hummingbirds can fly backwards?"
"Did you know that you can perform an emergency tracheotomy with a ballpoint pen?"
..."Wow. That's Interesting."
Now that I've thought a little harder on it, I realize that being 'interesting' isn't bad at all. Usually the people who tell me that only say that because they don't understand what I'm talking about. Like that kind of people who don't now what apartheid was or don't get most of the obscure references on Family Guy. So, I think I'll keep being 'interesting', and go around with the wonderful air of self-importance that comes with the knowledge that I rock at Jeopardy! because of it.
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