Wednesdays, dalmations, and diapers-- Oh My!

Wednesdays are our marathon days here at the D residence.

Allow me to illustrate.

7:00-7:45am, everyone up, dressed, ready for breakfast. Breakfast around 8:00-- usually something super simple like those fun yogurts-in-a-tube and toast. 8:15, tooth-brushing frenzy in the bathroom. Once all teeth have passed inspection, (and numerous globs of sparkly, neon blue toothpaste have been removed from the sink, cabinet, bathroom floor, and little faces,) coats, shoes, socks, hats, etc... are put on and it's time to hit the road. 8:30am, Daddy leaves the house with A, drops her at school, and heads to work. Simultaneously, I leave the house by 9:00 with little G to get him to baby music class by 9:30. (this only after I've put his shoes and socks on for the nine-hundredth time, since he likes to take them off & hide them these days. ) Once at music class, we spend a glorious hour singing, dancing, banging drums, shaking egg maracas etc... until it is time to go. We head out to complete our Wednesday errands and grab lunch before heading to pick A up from school by 12:45pm. From school, we head directly to dance class (no passing Go/collecting $200) where A proceeds to sashay, tondue, and shuffle-ball-change her way through an hour and fifteen minutes of a pink, frilly, tutu-filled class with her little ballerina comrades. After dance, we usually head to the bank for our Wednesday banking needs and, only once this is complete-- we finally head home.

Which means, we aren't usually home until almost 4pm.

That's right folks, almost an eight hour day out of the house, schlepping to and fro various kid-oriented activities in my sweet, sweet Mamamobile. (After having it for 2 years now, and I still refuse to call it a station wagon.)

It's a loooooooooooooong day to be out & about with two kiddos, and no naptime. (Repeat: NO NAPTIME.)

But we do it, every single Wednesday, and by endearingly referring to it as our "Marathon Day" (as opposed to a more derogatory choice, i.e. "brutal Wednesday" or "sucky Wednesday") we get through it with smiles on our faces.

(usually.)

And then there was...today.

Oy.

Today, when breakfast ran late. And those "convenient" little tubes-o-yogurt ended up in little G's hair, ears and nostrils before 8:30 am, necessitating a wardrobe change before we'd even accomplished anything substantial.  And A's socks were too "bumpy" under her leggings (?!) and a meltdown of princess proportions ensued. And we forgot to brush teeth altogether. (don't judge, it happens to the best of us on occasion...) And she was a late for school & missed morning snack. Today, where the second I turned my car on, the electronic digital dash thingamajiggy (I like to use the technical terms, clearly) screamed "LOW TIRE! LOW TIRE!", convincing me that my tire would blow out at some point unless I drove under 25mph at all times today, and swerved to avoid every single pot hole/tree branch/pebble/gum wrapper in the road.  Ahhhh today....where most of the other cherubs from little G's music class had nasty, juicy, and eerily similar coughs, so I spent the entire hour more preoccupied with sheltering him from the barrage of contaminated raindrops-o-saliva than reveling in my egg-maraca skillz. (fo' sho.) Today, where we got trapped at the post office behind an (adorable, but sloth-paced) ninety-something-year old couple who bought a book of stamps and subsequently proceeded to peel & stick each stamp on about five hundred pieces of mail, perfectly & straight, all while having a conversation with seemingly the only teller at the post office. Today, where little G had EIGHT poopy diapers  in a five hour time period (poor guy must have eaten something that didn't agree), and I was at the mercy of the two square inches of the Mamamobile trunk (damn you, third row seats!) to try and change a squirmy, flailing, preoccupied, squirmy, poopy...(did I mention, squirmy?) toddler. (sidenote, my car smelled just delightful for the better part of the day.) Today, where I spent the majority of A's dance class in the parking lot changing more poopy diapers, and wasn't there when A came out (with the other ballerinas) into the waiting room to invite the Mommies into the studio to watch their little performance...and started sobbing because she thought I had left her. ("No honey, Mommy's just elbow-deep in your little brother's poop...AGAIN! I'll be right in!!!")

Oh yes friends, it was just one of those days.

Needless to say, by 3:30 when dance class was over, I had vetoed the typical Wednesday banking obligations and decided we just needed to get home. (especially since little G's bum was stinky yet again, and I was completely out of diapers.)

As we pulled out of the Dance studio parking lot, little G sucking his thumb and quietly looking out the window, it occurred to me that this was the first moment of quiet I'd had all day. However this quiet moment was extremely short-lived, and almost as immediately as it had begun, it was interrupted by a little voice in the back seat.

"Momma, you know what?"


"What honey?" I asked her, peering at her eyes in the rear-view mirror.

She let out a loud, dramatic sigh, rolled her eyes, and threw her hands out, palms up.

"There's just NEVER a dalmation in our house, huh Momma!?"


"Oh, honey, you know we'd love to get you a puppy, but Daddy's allerg--"


"No, Momma!" she said, chuckling. "I mean, there's never a DAL-MATION in our house. Right?"


"Honey, I don't know what you are talking abo--"


And before I could even finish the sentence, I burst into hysterical laughter. I put the car in park, in the middle of the parking lot, and just laughed. And laughed, and laughed. My laughter was met with copycat giggles from the back seat. Smiling, silly, un-brushed tooth giggles.

"What, Momma? What is so funny about that? You say it all the time when we have crazy days like this, you say, 'Ay, ay ay, there's never a dalmation in our house' "


"Honey," I replied, my cheeks aching from laughter at this point as I struggled to get the rest of my words out.

"There's never a DULL MOMENT. That's what Mom says when we have crazy days like this. Never a dull moment!"


She burst into hysterical laughter as she realized that her dalmation statement was a bit... off.

"Ooopsie!" she giggled, clearly feeling a bit embarrassed about this little mishap...




And all of a sudden, everything about this Wednesday was just plain perfect.  :-)

Why do so many of my posts involve the word "penis"?

As I stood at the kitchen sink this afternoon, straining the mac-and-cheese twisty pasta I had just concocted for lunch, a very perplexed voice from the living room called my name:

"Momma?"

"Yes, Aves?"

"Are there any humans with four penises?"

(stopping mid-macaroni-strain to try and contemplate what on Earth she had just asked me, and more importantly... why.) "Ummmm, no honey. As far as I know, humans have just one.... why?"

"Well, because cows have four penises, Momma!"

"No honey, I'm pretty sure cows have just one also," I tell her as I haphazardly begin to stir the milk and cheese into the pasta pot.

"No Momma, they really do! (giggling) They really do have four penises. And it looks pretty funny! Come see!" 

In this moment, I am absolutely terrified. Terrified  to turn my head towards the living room TV and see the horror of what animalistic porno her poor, preschooler eyes have stumbled upon whilst I cooked her lunch in the kitchen.

Slowly, I rest the pasta spoon on the counter, and make my way into the living room. Before I see just what she is watching, I can see the Nick, Jr. logo on the bottom of the screen, and am at least relieved that she is watching a Momma-authorized channel. Phew.

And then, I stop dead in my tracks, and my eyes are immediately fixed upon the following image she has so graciously paused on the TV:






"See Momma? FOUR penises! Isn't that so silly! A-ha-hahahaha!!!"

And in conclusion, I'd publicly like to thank Nickelodeon's "Back at the Barn Yard" for thoroughly confusing my daughter about the male cow's anatomy & capabilities.

Peet-a-Boo!!

Prologue: Gavin's nether regions- you know- his, ahem, manhood - is affectionately referred to around here as his "Noodle." This, after Ava seeing it for the first time a few days after his birth, intently observed a diaper change and remarked that "baby Gav has a looooooong, silly noodle!" ANd from that day forward, "noodle" it was. However at this point in time, Gav is just learning to say words and can't quite master "noodle," and therefore has re-named his noodle,  "Noonie." 



________________________________________________________________________________



One of Gavin's first words was actually the phrase,  "Peet-a-boo!" -- Obviously, his own little rendition of peek-a-boo. (This is undoubtedly because Ava started playing it with him fresh-out-the-womb, and it was such a familiar sound/word to him, that it was a natural choice once his little brain started to figure out how to form and say words.)

For several months now, we'd look over at him, hide our face behind our hands, and watch him mimic this motion as his tiny, happy little voice shrieked:

 Peeeeeet-a-boooooo!

Super cuteness right there, if you ask me.

And so this morning as I cleaned up the post-breakfast madness in the kitchen, it wasn't entirely shocking to hear his voice, from behind his closed bedroom door, exclaiming Peet-a-boo!!! Peet-a-boo!!! followed by insane amounts of giggling.

What was shocking, however, was that his big sister was at school, and nobody else was home. Who on earth could he be peet-a-booing with?

Ohmygosh. It hit me. I suddenly envisioned him, sitting his chubby little self in front of the floor length closet mirror in his bedroom, doing peet-a-boo with his own reflection, and realized what an adorable photo-opp this would make for the baby book! Leaving the dishwasher wide-open and the sink still running  of course remembering to shut the sink off as to conserve water like a good, environmentally conscious little housewife, I booked it into the living room to grab the camera and then quietly crept down the hallway, praying that I wouldn't  interrupt the uber-cute moment I was about to capture on film.

I was giddy with anticipation!

I creaked his bedroom door open, slowly, quietly, camera in hand, & ready to go, and...

Hmmm.
No baby in front of mirror. I was perplexed.

"Peet-a-boooo!"  I heard again, and realized it was coming from behind the glider in the corner. Slowly, I crept to the corner, and peered over the glider.

And there he was. My boy. 

Diaper completely off,
      in all of his glory,

          sitting on his bum, 

               feet together and knees apart.

He looked up at me and smiled mischeivously.

"Where is your diapey, little man!??" I asked him

He looked down at his bare little situation down below, looked back at me, and replied, "Uhhhh-ohhh."

'Uh-oh is right," I replied as I picked up his (thank goodness, dry) diaper from the floor next to him. (sidenote, said diaper had clearly been completely mangled in his fervent attempt at freeing it from his body.)


And then, still sitting there bare-bum on the floor, (with his feet still together,) he closed his knees for about ten seconds, then threw them apart, looked down at his manhood, and shrieked:

"Peet-a-Boooooo, Noonie!"

and giggled.

That's right, folks.

My son was playing peek-a-boo with none other than....his very own noonie.


I'm sure he will thank me in fifteen years for deciding against photographing this totally bizarre adorable little milestone, and for recounting it words instead. And in the end, I suppose this makes a much better baby book entry than what I had initially envisioned  :-)

More tea ASAP!!!

As I lay sick & miserable in bed on this icky,  raw, damp, dark evening, combating the first nasty head cold of the 2010 fall/winter season, I listened from behind my closed bedroom door to the pandemonium fervent efforts put forth by my husband to round up the troops for bedtime, (albeit an hour and fifteen minutes late.) 

I heard no tooth-brushing. No tucking-in. No bedtime songs, no before-bed potty-ing. No picking out stories, or zippering up of footie pajammies. None of these things.

But what I did hear, was giggling...lots and lots of quiet, conspicuous giggling. Soon followed by the quick little pitter-pattering footsteps up and down the hallway...and then more giggling, which soon erupted into explosive belly laughter. 

I quickly muted the TV and strained my (clogged, throbbing) ears to hear what was going on outside my door.

And then I heard the following:

Ava: "I'm the naked Elf! I'm the naked Elf! I'm the naked-est Elf!!!"

Gavin: (pitter-pattering down the hallway after her,) "Bum-bum! Bum-bum! Bum-bum!" 

(*followed immediately by the sound of 2 tiny little brother hands spanking his big-sissy's bum.)

Two things are for certain at this very moment...

1). I better start chugging more of this herbal looseleaf tea and get better ASAP before things get any more out of control around here,

and

2). I freakin' love my life.   :-)

That's all.

Photo shoot FAIL

Welp, I had a 3:00pm appointment scheduled today for the kiddos to have professional pictures taken together. For the first time in like, a year. It was long overdue and I was super excited to have found them (reasonably priced,) adorable matching outfits for the occasion. I couldn't wait!

However, said photo shoot ended up having to be cancelled.

Why, you may ask? 

Here's the breakdown of how today actually went down:

10am- Gav falls & smashes his eye into ottoman in living room. Eye = puffy, red, swollen and squinty. (but otherwise ok thank God!) Redness begins to disappear and I think to myself, there's still hope!

11am- Ave & Gav decide to play in bathroom. Gav smashes Ave in the head with toilet lid. Ave now has impressive gash on forehead, in the shape of toilet lid, in addition to swollen red eyes from crying about it. I think to myself, maybe there's still hope, depending on how quickly she stops sobbing about this incident and perpetuating the swollen eyes look...

12noon-  Gav smashes his lunch (eggplant & pasta) all over himself, including in ears, up nostrils, and in hair. Awesome. I think to myself, I should probably cancel this appointment. Eggplant and pasta sauce isn't easy to scrub off a squirmy baby...

2pm-  Ave decides to "tattoo" herself. With permanent marker. I think to myself, silly me for making an afternoon photo appointment and for attempting to maintain order until 3pm. I then call and cancel the photo appointment.

And proceed to enjoy a 2:30-in-the-afternoon-glass-of-wine.

:-)

Dear Crayola,

Thank you kindly for producing TRULY kid friendly, TRULY washable, TRULY non-toxic markers. (Even the black ones that hold an uncanny resemblance to permanent markers at first glance.) Thank you for somehow living up to your promise of their washability, even from the mouth/lips/tongue of a curious toddler.

In other news, thank you Gavin James for shaving yet another several years off my life in an instant. Never a dull moment with a little boy in the house  :-)

A wee bit confused...

Ava is big on languages lately.

Allow me to illustrate: "Momma, how do you say butterfly in Spanish? How do you say goodbye in French? How do you say cheeseburger in Armenian?"  (This pretty much goes on all day long. But I happen to love the art of languages and love her eagerness to learn them even more, so I try and teach her as much as I know in those little moments.)

Having said all of that, tonight, on an educational channel that we allow her to watch before bed, there was a piece on Sign Language. She eagerly watched the segment, intently absorbing the information and doing the movements as the woman taught them. In ten short minutes, she learned how to say "garden" and "planting" and "flower" in sign language.

It was pretty cool.

So cool, in fact, that I thought this might be a great opportunity to discuss what sign language was, and who uses it to communicate.

"Aves?"

"Yeah Momma?"

"Awesome job learning all those words in sign language!"

"Thanks Momma!!"  (proudly grinning ear to ear, and continuing to sprinkle imaginary seeds in the air for garden.)

"Hey Aves, do you know who uses Sign Language to talk?"

"Of course I do, Momma. Chinese people!"

A whole month?? Yikes!

Well hello, blog stalkers friends. Do any of you even remember me?? First and foremost, please accept my apologies for my inexcusable 4-week hiatus from the blog world. To say that life has been "crazy" or "chaotic" or "busy" or "hectic" would all be massive understatements. To the point that trying to recount all of it artistically, in coherent paragraphs, might prove impossible.
And so, without further ado, may I present to you:

"Completely random list of events (both major and minor) that have transpired since my last entry, in no particular order."

• Had major flooding in our basement. Stripped all carpeting, bleached all floors, purchased all new Pergo flooring, laid it ourselves....only to have basement (and all of this BRAND NEW flooring) flood. Again. Spent 6 hours ripping up aforementioned brand new flooring while crying/bitching/moaning/self-loathing the entire time. Wine helped with this sad process immensely. Thank God for Jackie's help into the wee hours of the night that horrible evening. Her quick wit, plus the help of about 40 towels, 3 fans, and a Sharpie ended up saving the day. Had to let all of the pieces dry for a few weeks in a dry, warm basement.  (we just laid the floor down again last week...so far, so good.) On a positive note, this has forced a major revamping of our playroom which, once is finally finished, is going to be pretty kick-a$$.
• Threw a beautiful bridal shower for mi hermanita Meredith, who will be married in less than 2 weeks!! Lots of older, unknown mystery Spanish relatives came, which was oodles of fun, especially considering the "inappropriate lingerie" theme of the day.  Highlights of the brunch would have to include: 1). Meri sheepishly looking up at the tables of Cubanas y Espanolas to try and identify "Rosita," whose satin, crotchless leopard panties she'd just unwrapped, and 2). Jen's box-o-fun ("fun" = "inappropriate toys from one particularly Amazing store") that Meri shamefully opened in front of said Cubanas.  Of course, I wrote an obligatory speech which caught me off-guard when it invoked tears, but it was heartfelt and sentimental, and I am so glad that I had the opportunity to share it with her. The day was beautiful, my sister was beautiful, and it really was such a special time for all of us.
  
• My baby boy hit so many HUGE milestones this past month: Melted my heart on Monday, 4/5/10 when, per usual, we heard him on the monitor waking up in his typical fashion: "A-Da-da-da-da-da..." Followed by silence for a few seconds...and a very obvious, very deliberate, perfect little noise from his mouth: "Ma-ma." I ran into his room faster than I ever thought my legs were capable of moving, and saw him standing there, grasping onto the crib railing, beaming ear to ear. He looked into my eyes, reached for me, and said it again: "Ma-ma!" Suddenly in that moment, every single sleepless night, breastfeeding infection, dark circle under my eyes, smell of spit-up on my shirt, and incident of being peed on were all worth it  :-)  In addition to this, he now knows so many words: Balloon, story, book, kitty, Dada, Mama, Sissy/Ava, ball, and doggy, to name a few.  Clearly he isn't saying them yet, but when I ask him "Where's ___?" about any of them, he points to them/looks at them/crawls to retrieve them instantly.  About 2 weeks ago, he also began WAVING!!!  He will immediately wave back at a person who waves to him (with no prompting!), and/or will wave to someone when we say the words "Gav, wave" or "Bye-bye."  I've started teaching him the word "kisses" this past week-- which, in his mind, means a sloppy, open-mouthed attack on his prey...but it is adorable, and clearly he gets it...so I am excited about that.  Baby genius? I'd say so  :-)  In other news, he is about 2 seconds away from walking.  Seriously.  He pulls up on everything-- couches, chairs, the refrigerator, book shelves, people's legs. He watches his big sissy run/walk all day long and you can just tell he is itching to join her.  He amazed us today, when he actually stood up ALONE for about 15 seconds outside on the grass!!! He has this amazing, proud look of accomplishment on his adorable face, as if to say "Look guys! Look! I'm doing it!!" He soon became wobbly, farted, fell on his tushy, and immediately began smiling and clapping for himself. (oh, that's right! clapping! another big milestone!) Of course we all joined in this celebratory clapping and smothered him in kisses, hugs, and more claps. It was a pretty cool moment, and made us realize just how soon our little man will be walking! He has also sprouted another 2 teeth in the past 3 weeks. So if you're keeping tabs, that's 4 teeth now-- two top, two bottom. Little buddy's ready for filet, if you ask me!  Another huge milestone for Gav was his Christening last weekend...which was a really nice day with all of our family and friends.  He did fantastic, smiled the whole time, and fell asleep right after the ceremony.  Truly, this child is one of the happiest babies I've ever known. How lucky am I to be his Momma?? If you answered "ridiculously lucky," then you'd be right  :-)
• With the help of my sister, I found my biological father. (<---Wow...it's been a few weeks now, and still it amazes me that I can type that sentence out.)  Here it is again, just in case you missed it: I FOUND MY FATHER. 29 years of wondering, of imagining, of dreaming about what he looked like...what type of person he was...his interests, his eye color, his favorite food...all culminating in one brazen, impersonal Facebook email to a man who "might" have been him...who inevitably turned out to be him. The chances of that happening-- especially considering how common a name he has-- were slim to none, so you can imagine my shock and excitement when it turned out that we'd struck gold; we had found the right guy. Amazing.  ('I guess it's half timing, and the other half's luck...') I won't go into details here, in order to respect the privacy and new nature of all off this...but things seem to be evolving remarkably well, and consequently I am on my way to feeling fulfilled, and full-circle, with this part of my life  :-)
• Learned that I have another sibling in this world...wow. Again, still so raw and emotional and fresh to even be able to write that.  But as a big believer in first impressions, I can say wholeheartedly that this person seems wonderful, compassionate, warm, friendly, and--most importantly-- open to the idea of getting to know a sister who she never knew existed, 29 years too late.  I am so incredibly grateful for this opportunity, and am eager to catch up on almost 3 decades of 'stuff' with her.  And although I'm still in the very beginning phases of getting to know this person, I already feel such a wonderful connection.  (Dragonfly necklaces and Kate Spade china? Unbelievable.)  Genetics, you never cease to amaze me  :-)
• Experienced a 'Sonic' burger and fries for the first time ever. (one just opened up about 3 miles from our house, so we figured we'd give it a go.)  Let me cut to the chase: So not impressed. It took Jeff an HOUR to order our food in the drive-through(?!?)  "Fast food?" I think not! Furthermore, the sandwiches were made sloppily, the tater tots were cold, and these "legendary" slushies? Well, let's just say...not so legendary. In a nutshell: Won't be going back.
  
• Heard what sounded like a woman being axed to death in the woods behind our house, and frantically called 911.  The police arrived here in under 5 minutes and began taking a full report. The screeching noise occurred again while the officer was here. He immediately closed his little scribble pad and informed us that this noise was actually a Fisher Cat, and not our lovely Asian neighbor having a deadly domestic dispute in the woods. Oops. Live and learn, right??
• Ava has also had a pretty chock-full month: She participated in her second annual Spring dance recital and did fantastic.  She tapped to "Tutti-Frutti" and did an adorable "Spoonful of Sugar" ballet routine.  She earned a new American Girl doll for doing so great, and of course requested a post-recital celebratory dinner at-yup, you guessed it- Friendly's  ;-)  In other Ava news, she was asked by her piano teacher to perform a SOLO during their next class!!! This was clearly an uber-proud Momma moment for me, and my eyes welled up with tears as she told me the news. Her song choice is "Hot Cross Buns" and she'll be performing (and singing!) it on May 2nd.Way to go, Aves!
  
• Speaking of the Avanator, I experienced perhaps one of the best Avaisms to date. Allow me to set the scene: Jeff had just gotten back from rock-climbing, (one of his newly rekindled passions.) Aves hadn't been feeling good that day, and was still up at 10pm when he arrived home. He sat down next to her, gave her a big hug, and then told her the following news to try and make her feel better: "Honey, guess what?" "What, Dadda?" she asked. "Well, I asked the people at the rock gym how old you have to be to climb...and they said you just have to be five!! So that means, you can do it with me soon!" A cautiously happy, but simultaneously puzzled  look came over her face in that moment. "But Dadda...you're, like, WAY bigger than five. How come they let YOU do it??"   I freaking love four-year olds.

Okay, well that's a quick re-cap of my past month. Hopefully after reading some of this, you'll understand and forgive me for the lack of entries. It's been a pretty remarkable, life-changing month in a lot of respects, and I've just needed some time to digest it all...that's all.   But I'm back, and fully intend on charging full-speed ahead back into the wonderful world of blogging...




Just bear with me while I try and balance it all  :-)

And who woulda thought....it figures.

Perhaps Alanis should have added this little anecdote to her infamous ditty-o-ironies in that 1995 hit song...

Jeff impulsively purchased a big-boy cell phone plan last week. (This, after 14 years of a "free" Radio Shack "employee" plan that was no longer making sense financially since he somehow kept going over the "generous" plan allotment of about 12 minutes per month with no free nights or weekends.)

I was very, very proud of him. Way to take the bull by the horns and do something completely impulsive for a change, babe!, I thought.

His weapon of choice? Why a brand spankin' new iPhone 3Gs, of course.  And just as immediately as he had signed away his first-born in a binding 2-year agreement with AT & T, he was in love.

iPhone love.

He sat for countless hours on the couch with her, whispering sweet nothings into her speaker. Caressing her soft, silky, touch-screen, app-filled curves with his fingertips. Singing to along with her. Sneaking out to the car with her at night for some alone time. Feeding her chocolate covered strawberries on a bearskin rug, in front of a roaring fireplace.(While elevator-inspired, saxophone renditions of early 90's Boyz II Men songs serenaded them.)

I was beginning to feel like a third wheel in my own house...Tres bizarre.

On day five of this love affair, he drove to work.

It was a Thursday.

And at lunchtime that day, he called me on the verge of tears a very manly breakdown.

Upper management had apparently called an "important" meeting that day. And to paraphrase, it went something like this:

"We know that a bunch of you have iPhones, however they just aren't secure enough for use at our company any more. Having said that, after today, we will be issuing you all...brand new BLACKBERRIES!"
(*this is the part where Jeff's heart stopped beating for a few minutes straight, and he went into a semi-permanent state of shock.)

And just as immediately and as intensely as he had fallen in love in the first place...he began a four-day (and very textbook, might I add,) journey through Kubler-Ross's Stages of Grief.

Stage 1: Denial. "This cannot f**king be happening right now! I mean, come ON! Are you SERIOUS?? I FINALLY cave and get a plan less than a WEEK ago-a plan that allowed me to be fully connected at all times at work, and at home- and now I can't even use the phone!? This is a joke, This is a sick freaking joke....I don't believe it."

Stage 2: Anger.  "This is BULLS**T! I am pissed. Seriously. I just spent a week learning and falling in love with the iPhone. I've downloaded all of my contacts. My apps. My music. My pictures. How do they expect me to go from the iPhone to THAT? It's like going from a Lexus to a Kia. Ridiculous, that's what this is. F**king ridiculousness..."

Stage 3: Bargaining. "Ok Trace...Fine. I get it- you are going to get the iPhone and I will one day be okay with that, but can I just spend the rest of the weekend with her? I promise, that's all I need. Just one more FULL day. Let me just use the ridiculously convenient touch-screen Chipotle App ONCE more to order myself a Carnitas burrito without EVER having to take my finger off the screen and/or speak to a live human being...Just ONE more time. Please. That's all I am asking..."

Stage 4: Depression. Well, folks-- this is where we are today. And where we were yesterday. And, come to think of it--the day before that, too.  He miraculously seemed to whiz right through stages 1-3, but we are at a standstill here at stage four. As I write this now, he sits sulking on the couch, staring down at the very unfamiliar (and not as sleek) scroll-ball based Blackberry. He detests it. His face is pinched and mean when he looks at it. Almost like he's mad at it. Resentful of everything that it lacks. The navigation bars and menus aren't as intuitive, and the lack of a touch-screen is something to be mourned. My heart aches for him, and I feel tremendously guilty that I have inherited the previous love of his life. (Was it wrong of me to adorn her in a stylish new pink and purple 'Speck' case today-- a far cry from the masculine black one that he had dressed her in for the first 4 days of her life?? Too soon....?)

Stage 5: Acceptance. I am hoping that we reach this place soon. VERY soon. He has been moping around the house like a 6-year old boy who lost his pet goldfish for 3 days now, and frankly, he's got to move on. Honey, if you are reading this, PLEASE pick yourself up by your bootstraps and truck on ahead.  The Blackberry isn't the worst thing in the world. At least it's FREE, right?! That's pretty huge. (which is also what she said.) It will help us trim some of the financial fat from our budget and you can still use her on the weekends, okay? Just keep telling yourself that it's not goodbye, it's "See ya soon"...



 And that, my friends, is way more ironic than ten thousand spoons when all ya need is a knife. Or, rain on your wedding day. (Which, I've always felt, falls far more appropriately under the category of "bad luck" than "irony," no? And while we're on topic, isn't wedding-day rain actually supposed to promote luck? I digress...)

The silver lining to all of this is?  Why, of course, that I have adopted one pretty cool little gadget! I went from a 2005 flip-phone to a George Jetson-worthy apparatus in under a week. And contrary to Jeff's beliefs, I am actually very excited about all the fun things I'll be able to do with her!  (So what if my only favorite "app" at the moment happens to be Ava's Zoo matching game?) I've only had her for a day. Give me some time. Allow us to get to know each other....and I'm sure that by the end of the week, I'll be just as head-over-heels gaga about this adorable little contraption as my hubby once was- in a lifetime a long, long time ago.

Allow me to fill you in on the past few days:

1). First chiropractic appointment with Dr. M on Monday afternoon. Findings: My neck is straight. Which in theory, (and from my stick-figure drawing days,) sounds like it would be an okay thing. However from a Chiropractic standpoint, "straightneck" is a very bad condition. Apparently, your neck is supposed to have a natural "C" curvature to support the massive 8 pounds of noggin that sits atop it...and mine has increasingly, over the years, lost this curvature and progressed into a straight line. In addition to this, my lower back pretty much sucks and the distance between the disks is eroding...so we need to work on that, too. He pretty much told me that I will need to be seen three times a week for four weeks in the beginning (I will apparently have to start raiding my childrens' piggy banks and/or playing guitar at Alewife station to make this happen, since my insurance covers NONE of this...) and then once a month for maintenance thereafter. But really, how can you put a price tag on your health? And so with financial apprehension (but high hopes of physical relief,) I began treatment Monday. And overall, this first visit went well except for 3 teeny, tiny things:


A) While explaining the towel exercise I was to be doing at home every night, Dr. M said to me (of the towel that I was to use), "Make sure it is at least a nice thick 6 inches in diameter and FIRM when you grab it. It will feel the best this way, especially while lying on your back." (Now if that doesn't constitute a Global "That's What She Said" award, or at least a close runner-up, I don't know what would...) I had to avoid eye contact with Jeff at all costs in the aftermath of this statement, as to not burst into completely juvenile, inappropriate laughter in front of a very classy, very professional, very crisp-collared Dr. M.


B) Let's just say that my first adjustment laying on the table could have gone...better. He first adjusted my spine, which meant that I was laying on the table on my belly. That was an easy enough position for me to get into, considering I was able to look down, see the table, gauge where I needed to position myself, and lay on it. Cake. However when he told me that he was then going to do my neck and that I would need to lay on my back on the table-- it was a completely different story. Mainly, because my neck and back are so ridiculously stiff & immobile right now, that I am unable to turn my neck at all to see where I am going. (think Tin-Man in Wizard of Oz: "Oil....oil...") That said, as I was attempting to lay on the table, I apparently over-shot the distance between the donut-shaped thingy (that your head is supposed to cradle itself in,) and--well-- Dr. M's crotch. Yup, that's right folks. Visit #1, and I lay my head directly upon his PENIS. With an abrupt "Whoops, let's just scoot you down a little more," and a humiliating few moments of silence that ensued, Dr. M and I both somehow ended up surviving this completely shameful ordeal. (Sidenote, I'm sure Dr. M's little patient file for me probably now reads something like "Watch out for this skanky little whore. She'll won't stop at anything, including faking "stiff-neck" to cop a back-of-her-head-feel of manhood regions...")


Now for those of you who may still be unclear as to the visual of this circumstance, I have taken the liberty of attempting to illustrate it for you. (MAJOR DISCLAIMER: I am not an artist. Not even close. My 4-year old daughter draws better stick people than I do, no lie.) Having said that....allow me to "illustrate" for you the turn of events that took place at the chiropractic office on Monday, March 15, 2010.

PHASE 1: Dr. M is quite happily waiting for me to lay on my back on the table. Please note how his crotchal region hugs the donut-shaped area where my head is supposed to lay:

PHASE 2: "The incident" occurs:

PHASE 3: Complete, painful awkwardness for many, many moments.

C) And for the third and final reason why this visit didn't pan out so well:  I had a miserable stomach ache the ENTIRE duration of the appointment, but attributed it to a new medication that I had taken earlier that morning....I was wrong. Which leads us to tidbit #2 of "filling you in on my week."



2). Got slammed with the STOMACH BUG that everyone who is anyone in New England has acquired in the past month. I thought we'd escaped it here, but alas, no. Immediately upon arriving home from the Chiro, my stomach ache was way worse, waves of nausea were coming faster and faster, and I was shivering. Freezing cold. Add warm comfy jammies, a down comforter, a fleece blanket, a 74-degree house thermostat reading... and I was still freezing. This is when Jeff brought out the big guns-- also known as the Braun Thermoscan Ear thermometer-- and confirmed with a reading of 102.9 that this was, in fact, me being sick and not some freak adverse reaction to a medication. Crap. I proceeded to spend the better part of the evening next to a vomit bucket convulsing, shivering, having hot flashes, shivering more, dry-heaving, hallucinating, having every joint in my body ache (do fingernails count? they were aching too...), and--well-- expelling things from my body in gross ways that not only do you have no interest in reading about, but I have no interest in recounting in words. Therefore, Jeff had to take 1/2 the morning off from work today (which is less than ideal considering how much time he's already taken off this year to aid his perma-sick wife...) while I laid in bed unable to move. Fortunately my Mom was able to come for the remainder of the day so hubbster could get into work for a few hours, while I continued to lay in bed completely unable to move. (Until about 2 hours ago when I finally hobbled into the living room to slump in the recliner, now only partially unable to move...hey, progress is progress, right?)



And that, my friends, is all of the excitement ridiculousness that you've missed over the past few days. Riveting, I know. Stay tuned for the remainder of the week as I tackle Chiro appointments # 2 and #3, and please pray that Dr. M and I are both able to escape these visits with zero inappropriate head-to-crotch contact. Oh, and if you could also please pray that this nasty stomach bug magically disappears by tomorrow morning, leaving the rest of my family unscathed, that'd be swell too...Thanks :-)

Tellin' it like it is....

Aves:  "Momma, can you please shave your legs this morning when you shower?"

Me:  "You know that Mommy's neck and back have been hurting  a lot lately. It is hard to lean over in the shower and shave with a bad back.... And by the way, you're four years old!   Why does my leg hair bother you, ya big goof ball?!"  (*I go to wrap my arms around her to give her a massive bear hug & a tickle....)

Aves:  "Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!" She squeals in the most high-pitched scream ever to fall on human ears. "Dadda, come save me, quick!"

Jeff:   (in the kitchen with Gav, unaware of what is going on) "...Save you from what, honey?"


Aves:   "From being attacked by this hairy, hairy beast of a Momma!!!!!!!!!"


And on that note....this hairy beast is off to attempt a shower & a leg shave. Which will be interesting terrifying, considering I still can't bend my neck to look down. Wish me luck folks.

Murphy's (new-shoes) Law:

Buy your daughter a brand-spakin' new pair of (fifty dollar) sneakers for spring... (Hey, you'll pay anything as a parent to get your child the "only footwear engineered & specifically patented to address the podiatric needs of a child's rapidly growing feet")

Figures A & B:

...and she will, upon the first day of wearing them, stumble upon the only piece of stray gum in her school parking lot and step DIRECTLY ON IT.

Figures C & D:

It's a good thing my daughter is as cute as she is... Oh, and it also helps tremendously that these are from Stride Rite's new, 100% machine-washable line. Crisis averted- Whew!

Never have I ever....wanted to dissapear into thin air

...like I did today.
Allow me to set the scene: We are at the Hallmark store at the mall picking up a card. Because it was yet another yucky, icky, cold, wet/sleeting/snowing/raining day here in New England, the mall was packed with lots of other moms hoping to re-gain some sanity by escaping the confines of their homes for an hour or two. And so we stood in line to make our purchase for a good 10-15 minutes. (unheard of at Hallmark store!) Now those of you with kiddos can understand hat ten minutes in kid time equals, like, 5 years in grown-up time.  There was whining, flailing, begging for toys, bribery with Cheerio-s and other miscelaneous snacks, and ultimately a game of "I Spy" to pass the minutes more quickly.

I started the game....

"Ok Aves, I spy something yellow with a shiny silver top."

After looking around the store for a while in deep thought (forefinger tapping on her cheek as she did,) she finally had her 'A-HA!' moment and realized what I had spied; a Yankee candle on the front display. 

"Good job! Okay, your turn," I told her.

"Hmmmm," she began as she looked around the crowded store for a good clue to stump her Mom. And then a very mischievous look came over her face.

"Momma?"  she said. "Can I tell you a secret?"

(*It is extremely important to note here that this is how she "tells secrets"....she cups the back of her ear (instead of her mouth) as she tells said secret, leaving her voice totally exposed for everyone to hear, and then for some reason feels the need to tell the secret at ten 100 decibels higher than she would normally say any other random thing.  So in essence, an "Ava secret" is quite a paradox in and of itself.)


"Of course you can, baby," I tell her.
And so I assume the secret-telling position, stooping to her level by squatting next to her. She cups her ear, leans towards me, and proceeds to state loudly:



"I was going to say 'I Spy a lady with massive boobs in front of you!' and I just wanted to tell you Momma, they are BIG. Even bigger than yours! And you can even see her booby crack because her shirt is too small!"

This secret-telling session cumlinated with a tremendous, high-pitched giggle from her, and her infamous raised eyebrows and wide-eyed expression, begging me to laugh in accordance with this hilarity.

I don't think that another time in my life has ever existed when I actually wished that someone would throw a bucket of water at me and, in true Wicked Witch style, I could melt into the floor leaving behind nothing but my pile of clothes.

At this very moment, I was three things simultaneously:

1). Completely morfitied. 
2). Horrified that this (supposed) big-breasted woman in front of us (who clearly) heard the entire "secret" might turn around and read me a riot act about disciplining my child and teaching her respect & decency.
3). Baffled & clueless as to how to end this conversation ASAP before things got worse (if that was even a possibility at this point.)

All I could think of in that moment to avert more disaster was the first thing to catch my nervous eyes; the marvelous, shiny stack of multicolored Lindt chocolate balls 2 feet in front of us - any child's dream. 

"Aves, do you think you can count how many balls are in that pile up there??"  I asked her, trying to act normal, as if the horror of the "incident" 50 seconds ago never happened. "If you can, you can choose one to eat when we get to the register!!"

"Sure Momma!" she happily exclaimed (thank you GOD that children are completely ignorant to the conversation-changing tactics of their parents in moments like these and able to just go with the flow...) And so began this ridiculous Lindt ball-counting journey out loud: One, two, three, four....


I believe she was somewhere around seventy-six when it was finally our turn at the cashier.  I tried desperately to avoid eye contact with the booby-crack perpetrator (who was checking out that the cashier directly next to us), but was suddenly overcome by an overwhelming desire to glance...just one harmless glance...to see if my daughter had inherited the "I'm a complete exaggerator" gene from me, of if there was any validity to her previously urgent "secret."

Just one glance....I thought to myself, and fake-reached for a pack of gum in that direction as not to blow my cover completely...

Oh. Em. Effing Gee.

That's when I saw them.

They were massive.  And for me, (a very full-bosomed woman myself) to be alarmed at their size... that's saying somethin'.

I am not joking when I tell you they had to have been at least a J cup. Maybe a Q. Triple Q. I don't even know. HONEST TO GOD, they were each the size of medium-to-large sized watermelons. The biggest bazoombas I have ever seen, period. And the shirt  she was wearing looked like it was shop-lifted out of the closet of an American Girl doll...so you can just imagine the PDC (public display of cleavage) situation that was going on.

Ultimately, booby-crack lady never made eye contact with me or Aves and went on her merry way after her purchases were made...there was no defamation of character lawsuit threatened, no finger-waving at my child, not even a subtle, irritated acknowledgement of what was said about her or her boobies.

Phew. I thought as she walked out of the store. We're safe!

Ava grabbed her well-earned prize-- a red Lindt chocolate ball, smiled at me, and took my hand in hers as we left the store.  

"Can we play more I-Spy?"  she asked me, completely unaware of the (massive) social faux pas that she had just committed minutes prior.


But I don't even think I answered her...I was too busy daydreaming about her first game of "Telephone" in third grade....and how badly she will inevitably do, unless I take the next few years to sharpen  completely revamp her secret-telling skills.  ;-)

"Mommy, can you PLEASE take a shower?"

Me: "Umm, okay, but why do you say it like that?"

Ava: "Because Momma, it's been two days. And you're starting to smell funny....like... roast beef."




And on that note, that's pretty much all for today. Off to take a shower now...because if there's one thing you can count on a four-year-old for, it's brutal honesty.

(oh and p.s. the only reason it's been 48 hours since my last shower is because I was afraid I might slip, fall and die if I tried to shower while on all of that heavy-duty pain medication. So no judging please. Thanks)
;-)

A perfect example of why Jeff shouldn't allow Ava to ask me questions when I am chock-full-o-valium

Let me set the stage for you: I am one hour into my second valium-vicodin-ibuprofin cocktail of the day, (per my Dr's strict orders)  to alleviate the major spasms in my back that aren't subsiding.  The room is starting to spin, I am feeling woozy, my limbs don't feel like they are attached to my torso anymore, and so I retire to my bedroom to try and sleep it off. About twenty minutes later, Jeff brings Aves in, and the two of them plop down on the bed.


J: "Hey babe? Ava has a question for you- well, for us. I know you're not feeling good right now but could you just help us out for a second?"


T: "Finnnnnnnne" I mutter, and drag my drooling, space-shot self out from under the cave-o-blankets that I have been hiding beneath.


J: "Ok Ava, ask Mommy your question."

A: "Mommy, when Daddy was changing Gav's diaper today I noticed that he has this other little pink hangy thing underneath his noodle. I asked Daddy what it was and he said another part of his noodle, but it doesn't look like his regular noodle, it looks different. So, what is it?"


T: "It's his sack. Plain and simple. A sack. A sack-full-o-nuggets," I (apparently) respond.


A:  "Nuggets?! In a sack?!" Ava giggles.

A horrified Jeff shoots me an 'I can't believe you just said that' kind of a look and then intervenes:  "It's called a scrotum," he tells her.


A: "A what?" she responds, confused.


For some reason, (probably the valium,) I find the word "scrotum" completely laughable at this point and can't even say it out loud, so I confirm to her "Don't worry honey, it's called a SACK."

"Scrotum!" retaliates Jeff.

I get a case of uncontrollable giggles at this point and burrow back under the blankets as Jeff moves the troops out of my room.

But before he closes the door, he looks at me and mouths, "Sack!? Really Trace? That's the best you could come up with!?"

"Why actually yes, yes it is at this point," I cheerfully respond, and continue giggling like a school-girl as I listen to my daughter chant "It's a sack, it's a sack, Gavin has a sack!" down the hallway.


MORAL OF THE STORY: NEVER ask your doped-up wife to discuss the clinical terminology of male anatomy with your four-year old daughter. Most likely, it won't end well   :-)

Screw you, latissimus dorsi

Who ever would have known that pulling a back muscle and pinching a major nerve would be so debilitating? As in, completely-out-of-commission, your husband has to re-reschedule his work trip, can't lift your 7-month old son, can't even lift a glass of water, out-of-commission?

It all started Monday. My frantic day. Get everyone up/dressed/out the door by 8:30, get Aves to school, run misc. household errands, pick her up from school, grab lunch, run to ballet, change her into ballet attire, home by 3:30pm. Well since lunch went a little longer than expected, we got to ballet late and as I was rushing to help her into her leotard, the baby started flailing in his car seat... and as I jerked my upper body to grab him....PING. And a pop. And the most excruciating, tingling, stabbing pain ever to have existed in my body.

That is the only/best way I can describe it. Like a massive rubber band was stretched 100 times past its maximun capacity and just exploded. I choked back the tears, asked the other moms to keep an eye on Gav for me, and crawled (literally) into the dance studio office to use their phone. Thank GOD I was able to get in touch with the hubby before he was on the plane to leave for the week, told him what happened, and begged him to re-schedule his flight for the next morning so that I could be seen at the walk-in clinic that night.  I apologized to him profusely, reminding him repeatedly that "I know this is not good timing" but that something was definitely wrong here.

With help to the car, (I couldn't lift the diaper bag/Ava's ballet bag/and obviously not the baby in his car seat), I barely made it home driving with the kiddos. Jeff met us there and about ten minutes later, it was off to the clinic.  Given the amount of pain I was in and that I could barely stand up, I was called in right away.  Nurses came in, took my vitals, and before I knew it everything was a whirlwind of laying me down in the hospital bed, oxygen masks, and "we need you to relax and take some deep breaths for us..."

Completely bewildered I asked "What the heck is going on!? It is my BACK that hurts, why do I need oxygen?!"  The nurses kept answering me with "stay calm and try to breathe."

Next thing I know I am at Radiology for a chest X-ray....what?!  I try explaining to the technician that I must be here for the wrong reason, it is my BACK that is in pain, not my chest.

At least the X-ray tech gave me an answer:  "Your saturation levels were low-- 82 to be exact, which means that you are not getting enough oxygen. We need to make sure everything is okay with your lungs."

So off I go for my second X-ray in 7 days, fully convinced that the radiation is going to kill me.  Swell.

Back upstairs to see the Dr., who reports that my lungs look fine but that my oxygen levels are still low. He asks me if I feel shortness of breath and I tell him yes, since the muscle spasms are so bad, I am unable to take a deep breath.  He writes me perscriptions for a muscle relaxer and a heavy-duty pain med and tells me that I will be "as good as dead" to my kids while on this stuff and to enlist full-time help until Friday.

I chuckle to myself, and tell Doc that of all weeks for this to have occurred, the hubby needs to be on a plane tomorrow for DC for the remainder of the week. Doc responds with: 

"Listen, I get it- the whole, he's the breadwinner, you stay home with the kids, dynamic. Believe me, I get it. And although this may not be classified as a life-threatening emergency, it is definitely a medical crisis. You CANNOT be home alone with your kiddos while on these meds, and unfortunately you need to be on them religiously to help the pinched nerve and pulled muscles relax and stop spasm-ing...So do what you need to do, but you are going to need to rely heavily on the help of others this week."


Fan-freaking-tastic. Of ALL WEEKS....this can't be happening right now.  I am annoyed, stressed out, and in the most physical agony I've ever been in, (next to chidbirth).

Once home, Jeff & I decide to enlist help for Tuesday at least and call my Mom who agrees to call in sick the next day to help us out. (Thank you Mom). Jeff leaves at 4am for a flight out that morning, and my Mom mans the fort ALL DAY with both kids. I am impressed as I listen to their day full of laughter and- no tears (?!)- from my bedroom.  She stays until 11pm, and Jeff gets home around midnight.

When Jeff walks in the door he is tired beyond any amount of exhaustion humanly possible, since he has been up for 21 hours straight at this point, and he still has a few hours of work to catch up on.  Off to bed I go with the help of my friends, muscle relaxer and Vicodin, and before I know it, morning has come and another day of agony for my back. (this is confirmed as I try and sit up).  Jeff gets Ava to school (an hour late--oops) and takes the baby to the office with him for a couple of hours to get a few things done. The remainder of the day, I spend in bed and off to another Dr. appointment to make sure that there is nothing more that can be done.  I implore him- "Is there anything other than these mind-altering medications that I can use, so that my husband doesn't have to take more time off??"

He regretfully tells me that, unfortunately, these are the only things that will help the spasms to subside and that I need to take them religiously in order to help alleviate the pain.   He closes our session with the obligatory,

 "...and remember, do not operate heavy machinery, use sharp knives, drive, or be alone with  your kids while on this stuff, okay?"

I ponder a smart-ass response to the effect of, "Well, there goes my shot at winning the zucchini-chopping contest while driving a backhoe with my daughter later on today..."

But the muscle relaxer that I just took an hour ago has suddenly made me hazy & sluggish again, and he is lucky that I am able to mutter a dopey "Uhhh-huh."

And so here I sit typing this, heating pad at full-throttle on my back and my third round of meds (hopefully) kicking in soon....a very stressed out hubby worried about work...and a house that's been turned upside-down in a matter of 48 hours.

In conclusion...life could definitely be better right now. Much better.

You can file this one under: Things that make me go 'Hmmmm'

This morning, as I sat rocking my precious baby boy in his room (per our usual pre-nap ritual,) the scene was typical for any other morning around this time: Gav & I snuggled together in the glider in the corner, shades drawn, the only sounds the soft hum of his humidifier, and his sleepy little yawns. This is usually the only quiet, intimate time that we get, just the two of us each day, and I feel confident that I spend it well:  examining his tiny fingers with mine, stroking his silky blond hair, caressing his soft, pudgy cheeks, and pleasantly enjoying this bond of mother and son as he drifts off into dreamland on my chest.  The only thing that differentiated today from any other was that it took him a bit longer than usual to fall asleep, since his nose was still all stuffy from last week's sickness,  and therefore getting comfy proved a bit more difficult.

That said, I spent some of this extra time quietly staring around his room, just looking at everything around us; his adorable froggy-inspired crib, his closet chock-full-o-clothes, the humidifier vapor rising into the air, the letters on his wall, the-



Wait a minute.

Let's go back to that "letters on his wall" part.

My eyes traveled back to the strategically placed letters hanging above his changing table:

They'd been hanging there since well before his birth, but today, something jumped out at me.  Maybe it's the fact that I'm a writer and am always looking at and analyzing letters and words more so than the average Joe. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation. Maybe it's the tail end of this virus that has all but knocked me out cold-- But for some reason, a strange thing hit me today as I stared long and hard at my son's name on the wall....

If you rearrange the letters in just the right way, my strong, masculine son's name

g    a    v    i    n   

has the ability to become...



v    a    g    i    n .




Now I don't even know if this word exists, but it seems like the perfect candidate for the Frenchman's (or, Borat's) version of "vagina," especially if you put the stress on the "i" (like "vah-JEEN")

How did I not ever realize that my little boy's name is an anagram for female genitalia?!  Whoops. Sorry about that, little Gav.... let's just hope that:

1. your Momma is the only one crazy enough to have noticed this,
2. you never, ever have a "find anagrams of your first name!" assignment in elementary school, and
3. in High School, your lacrosse buddies don't make this realization. Ever. 

Valentine's Day weekend (2 of 2)

(cont'd...)

Thank God, we make it to the ER in about 10 minutes flat without me throwing up or passing out. Yes!  Mom gets a phenomenal parking spot right near the door which is crucial tonight, since my chills/fever are out of control and the temperature outside is about 17 degrees.  The brisk, wintery New England air stings the small part of my face that is exposed as we walk to the doors, and I shudder.  Brrrrr.

As we enter the ER waiting room, I am immediately overcome by a panicked sense of OCD that might actually rival my husband's; People hacking juicy coughs into blue surgeon masks, an elderly woman laying on a stretcher vomiting into a pink, kidney-shaped bowl, a teenage boy with his bloody arm in a makeshift sling, to name a few.  I can almost feel the germs climbing off of these people, scurrying across the floor, and burrowing themselves any of my exposed mucous membranes. GROSS.

I walk right up to the receptionist and tell her why I am here: "Hi, the on-call Dr. - Dr. Sullivan- wanted me to be seen immediately for a potential pneumonia."

At this point, my mom drags a chair from the waiting room for me since I am swaying back and fourth, pale in the face, and may very well pass out at any moment.

Nasty receptionist barks at her, "Leave that chair there! She can stand for just a minute!"

My mom isn't pleased with this “friendly” welcome and glares at the woman, who then turns to me and shouts "You better speak up, I didn't hear a THING you said to me a minute ago."

My mom, again unimpressed by this rudeness and all too-aware of the state I am in, chimes back at her: "Her ears are completely clogged and her fever is almost 105. Maybe if you let her sit down and relax she could speak up better!"

Rude receptionist rolls her eyes and begrudgingly agrees to let me sit down in a chair. 

She then proceeds to ask me a slew of questions that I am unarguably in no state to be answering.

"What is your race?"
"Cuban/American."
"Well, which is it- Cuban or American?"
"Umm, okay then, American?"
"Ethnicity?"
"White."
(rudely chuckling at me) "Sweetheart, you must mean Hispanic if  you call yourself Cuban, right?"
"Fine. Hispanic, whatever." (at this point, 'Native American/Other' would have been completely acceptable to me.)
"Do you have a health care proxy?"
"Don't know."
"Are you an organ donor?"
"No."
"Would you like to be?"
"Preferably not tonight."
(she doesn't find this funny.)
"Would you like a member of the Catholic Archdioces to read you last rites if warranted during this visit?"
"Umm...no? I mean yes? I dunno, sure. But I'd also like not to die tonight."
(she is still remarkably unimpressed by my stale, fever-induced attempt at humor.)
"Do you feel safe at home?"
"Yes."
"Smoking, drinking, recreational drugs in the past year?"
"No, just wine on occasion."
"Define 'occasion'."
"Don't know, maybe once a week?"
(annoyed as she exaggeratedly pounds the DEL button on her keyboard to change my answer) "Ok, so that is a YES then."
"Fine. Are we done?"
"Yes, please sign here indicating that you have read....."

I completely zone out at this point, just sign my Hispanic life away on the dotted line, and walk over to where my mom is sitting, slumping over in the seat next to her. So glad to be done with rudest reception lady ever.

In the hour that transpires as we wait in the waiting room, a young woman and her fiance (who had definitely been out for a Valentine's day date, given their dapper attire, ) come storming through the doors, as she repeatedly vomits into a freezer-size Ziploc bag. 

Swell, I think as she decides to sit TWO SEATS AWAY FROM ME. Just what I need- now I will be getting the  stomach bug too. 

She vomits atleast 3 times into this sad, dilapidated Ziploc-o-puke, and I am very confused as to why she is allowed to sit out here in the open, exposing the rest of us to this vile bug.  At this point, my face is completely burrowed into my coat and my jacket hood is on tight, much resembling the homemade get-up of a novice bank robber.  I just keep telling myself, "I will NOT get the stomach bug, I will NOT get the stomach bug..." and hope for the best.

Apparently I doze of for a bit after this, and the next thing I remember is a sweet-as-pie nurse named Amy taking me in for my chest X-ray.    I think to myself, Good to know at least some friendly people work here!

After Amy is done with me, a male nurse named Josh-- who looks about 16 years old-- asks Amy to "please steal this lovely young lady for some bloodwork and an EKG?" and with this request, takes my arm in his and escorts me down the hall.  
 Ha! ‘Lovely young lady?’  I chuckle to myself. I haven't showered in 3 days, my breath is atrocious, and my leg hair is longer than a Wookie's. I quickly deduce that after a few minutes alone in the EKG room with me, Josh will no longer be referring to me by this adorable pet name.
So into the small room we go, Josh the male nurse and I.  He sort of resembles a young Anthony Michael Hall but with glasses. (Basically…a younger, male version of yours truly.)  He makes small talk which immediately puts me at ease. Typical stuff; what brought you here, what an awful way to spend Valentine’s day evening, etc…  He withdraws 6 vials of blood from the top of my hand since the rest of my veins are too deep to reach, and I am stunned.

“Wow, you are the first person ever  to get my vein on the first try!”


“I never miss,” he remarked confidently, and smiled. “Ok, time for the EKG,” he stated as he began to loosen the sexy, sandpaper-soft Johnnie that I was wearing. “Ever had one of these?”



“Don’t believe so,” I replied.


“Ok then..”  and he began sticking tiny little adhesive stickers to my shoulders, arms, and calves. (I’m pretty sure he had to comb apart an area of unruly leg hair to do so. No joke.)

“Ok, so the EKG won’t hurt at all, but I am going to need you to please lift up your breasts for me.”

Umm, pardonne moi? This request caught me a little off-guard.


He must’ve sensed the confusion in my face and immediately followed this statement with
“I need to get these sticky little thingies under there, and to be honest—my girlfriend works down the hall. I try to life as few boobies as possible so I won’t get in trouble—especially on Valentine’s Day!”

I am completely amused by his sense of humor and feel oddly comfortable lifting the boobies for him, (despite the sad fact that this is more a$$ than Jeff will get this Valentine’s Day.) And so he completes the EKG, and we sit there talking for another fifteen minutes about complete randomness—his Bosnian girlfriend, the fact that his grandfather’s grandfather translated the Lutheran version of the Bible, that is is actually 25 years old just looks perpetually 14, his days at Gordon College, and the fact that he doesn’t mind missing V-day with his girlfriend since “every day should be equally romantic.” 

 I felt like responding “Ha! Just wait til your days revolve around runny-nosed kiddos, play-dates, grocery shopping, and mountains of laundry!”  

But alas, it was Valentine’s day, and he was a real sweetheart…and so I let him have his dream.




Josh told me that it was nice doing business with me, and I said the same, and he (finally) took me to a “real” room with a comfy hospital bed and some privacy. As soon as I lay down, I began shivering profusely again, and he brought me a “fresh out of the oven,” toasty warm hospital blanket- HEAVEN.  He rubbed my hand for a bit and stayed with  me until the chills subsided, ordered me more Tylenol, and then bid me adieu, telling me that he’d send my Mom in right away.


I was very impressed with his services, and swore that I’d send a gloating review of him to the Board of Directors at the hospital.



A few minutes later, my Mom came to sit in my room with me.  Another nurse popped her head in and turned the TV on for us.   

“Hi ladies, not sure how long the Dr. will be, so you may want to get comfortable!” she warned us.

I stayed huddled on my right side under the cozy warm blanket, and drifted in and out of coherency for the next two hours.   (I was desperately hoping that the conversation between a nurse and an elderly woman that seemed to occur right outside my wide-open door -regarding “the drippy Poo in your pants—Sweetheart, you had diarrhea and you are sitting all in poo. We need to change your diaper”  was just a figment of my imagination, but alas it was not. This was confirmed to me by my mother who witnessed, first-hand, the entire Poo-mergency 5 feet from us while I snored away.)

Finally, around two something in the morning, a salt-and-pepper haired Dr. with rosy red cheeks came bursting into the room, flicking the lights on with zero regard for my splitting headache.


“Hi, I’m Dr. Blah-blah,” he introduced himself. “Chest X-ray was fine. Blood levels fine. Positive for bacterial bronchitis, so we’ll start you on a Z-pack. And obviously an underlying virus causing the fever. Fluids and rest. Take care!”



It really was that fast. My head was spinning, and I lay there confused since I hadn’t even fully awoken from the warm-blanket coma that I had so been enjoying.   

Wow, I said to my mom. And that’s why he makes the beaucoup bucks?!  She tiredly agreed.



At least the nurse who discharged me spent more than 13 seconds with me, explaining the course of my pills, and asked if I had any questions. After I signed all necessary paperwork, I unwillingly peeled myself out from under the heated blanket cocoon that I had made for myself, stripped off the Johnnie, and put my own clothes on to head home.


AND SO….early Monday morning, around 3:15, my Mom dropped me back off at home and I crawled back into my own bed, where I’ve remained since.  I do feel like the Z-pack (*might*) be starting to  work, although I say this very cautiously so these words won’t come back to bite me in the butt.

Ava’s cough remains but her fever has disappeared with the rest of her other symptoms.  Gav is definitely taking a bit longer to get better, presumably because he is so little and just doesn’t know how to help himself heal the way she does. My poor little buddy. It is so sad to see him this sick, at only 7 months old.  Both are still on regular nebulizer treatments and antibiotics, but God willing, and end is in sight.


 And then there is my Jeff…. my incredible knight in shining Clorox wipes.  Remarkably, he hasn’t been contaminated with this yuckiness and we remain hopeful that by some miraculous measure, he has escaped it altogether.  He has held down this fort all by himself  in a way I never thought humanly possible and I am so proud, so lucky, so honored for this.  It certainly isn’t a small feat to be the sole caretaker of three sick individuals, all with different needs, for days on end. He's balanced medicine dosages like a champ and has made sure that each of us has had food in our bellies and lots of fluids to drink.  He is sleep-deprived and beyond depleted physically, but he’ll never show me this.  It’s times like these that the whole ‘in sickness and health…’ thing really makes a difference.  I could never have asked for a better life partner and am so privileged that our little family has him as our rock in difficult times.


And as for me? Well, I’ve spent the past few days in bed catching up on a gluttonous amount of Teen Mom, Let’s Talk About Pep, and The Buried Life.  (the latter of which is actually completely inspirational and touching, by the way.) I have seen approximately 7,296 ads for the New and Improved Pro-Activ Acne solution  as well as the second generation Swivel Sweeper G2. I’ve also learned that MTV does in fact still air music videos, but only between the hours of two and six am.  I’ve been surviving on Ginger Ale, Robitussin with Codeine and Riiiiiii-colaaaaaaaa lozenges.  My fever is finally down a little bit today and my biggest complaints at the moment are an incredibly sore back from all of the coughing, and this ever-present pounding headache.  Improvement- baby steps, but improvement.



Our neighbor Laura is bringing us dinner tonight because she is an absolute Saint!!!  And I am happy to report that Ava will be having something other than PB & J for dinner tonight. (this is not me judging, by the way- Jeff obviously had his hands way full and as long as she was eating anything, I was happy.)
Hopefully everyone is on the road to recovery and I’m praying that in the day or two ahead, things will slowly start to settle back into some resemblance of normalcy.

Oh, and by the way? Please click here for a brief reminder as to why last week's medicine situation ain't got nothin' on this week's.  Psshht.

Valentine's Day weekend (1 of 2)

How was my Valentine's Day weekend, you may be wondering?
Spent under a warm blanket holding the hand of an adorable male nurse named "Josh," and lifting up my boobs for him.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves... here's the story from the beginning.

My last entry was Thursday, in reference to the fact that my infant son and four-year old daughter were now both sick.  Ughh.  I was running on fumes, especially coming off the heels of a full week of sleepless nights, spent running from one bedroom to the next, giving amoxicillin doses, Z-packs, Benadryl, albuterol nebulizer treatments, and oral steroids until the wee hours of the morning.  By Friday, everyone in this house was exhausted and frustrated, given that neither of the kiddos seemed to be getting better with the medicines.  We all wanted to cry.  Everything culminated early on Saturday morning with yet another trip to the emergency walk-in clinic and a diagnosis that Ava had an ear infection too.  Fantastic.  So at this point, the score was as follows:

Aves:  RAD, random fever-inducing virus, bronchial infection, horrific wheezing cough, fluid-filled lungs, and now ear infection to boot.


Gav: same fever-related virus, identical cough (except that he's too little to know how to cope by spitting out the mucous, and was so sad,  :-(   fluid-filled lungs, and ear infection as well.

Pretty much a tie, if you ask me.

When I woke up that Saturday morning, I was starting to feel "a little off" and so Jeff took them to this appointment alone, in very high hopes that whatever I might be coming down with would resemble nothing like the monstrosity that had infected our children.  Unfortunately for our little family unit...this would not be the case.  By the time Jeff got home with the kids around noon, I was huddled in the living room recliner under three blankets shivering and sweating simultaneously.  My head was pounding, my ears were becoming clogged, and -- Oh dear God-- THE COUGH. Jeff, being the eternal optimist, made me some loose-leaf white tea and told me to drink it. "I'm sure it's just because you're run down...just take it easy today and you'll be fine tomorrow!"

Silly husband- wishful, wishful thinking.

By seven that night, everything was a haze and I could feel my fever spiking; (a kids' ear thermometer confirmed this with a 101.7 reading, which I was glad to see since I was expecting something much higher.)  Jeff brought me motrin and tylenol which I took, and then remained in the recliner, where I had spent the entirety of my day curled up in a pathetic, lifeless ball.  In the foggy distance, I could hear the kids in the bath, Jeff arguing with Ava to do yet another nebbie, and the baby coughing and crying. I wanted to help but I couldn't even muster enough physical strength to stand up.  I was useless.

Eight o'clock, and the kids are finally in bed. I hear Jeff in the kitchen making a sad phonecall: "Hi, I had a Valentine's dinner reservation for tonight-yes, nine pm-- under Jeff. Yeah, I need to cancel that. My wife is sick. Ok, thanks. You too, bye."  As sick as I am, my heart sinks in the realization that we have officially missed our (ONLY) big night out in several months. And if I wasn't so dehydrated, I probably would have shed a tear about it.

Ten p.m. and things are going downhill fast.  I am hallucinating that the oscillating fan in the living room is making me cold (*we do not own an oscillating fan) and beg Jeff to turn it off.  All this while watching Apollo something or other skate in some sort of big-shot skating competition on the 46-inch plasma in front of me.  Man, he must be cold, I think to myself as I watch him on the shiny ice, and I shiver with more chills.  Jeff takes my temp again: 103 point something. Not good considering I've been taking tylenol and motrin religiously all day long. My cough is out of control and I am expelling yucky, thick phlegm. It's not pretty.

Jeff's OCD must kick into high gear at this point and he decides that I must now be quarantined in my bedroom.  At the pace of a snail in a wheelchair, I stand up from the recliner.  Every joint in my body throbs with pain and my eyes pound.  Jeff leads me down the hallway and gets me into bed. As I am drifting off into a fever-induced sleep, I hear him in the living room ferociously Lysol-ing, clorox-ing, and opening windows to give him a fighting chance of not catching this.  (And for the first time in my life, I find these OCD rituals to be completely warranted.)

I do manage to fall into some resemblance of sleep despite the hot-cold-hot-cold-hot episodes that my body is experiencing, during which point I have a very realistic dream that we are at my parents' house in Maine, and I have turned into a maniacal Frosty the snowman, chasing Jeff around the cottage with my magical neon broomstick.  Sidenote: there are only two times in my life during when I tend to have very bizarre and vivid dreams: sickness and pregnancy. (and the answer is NO to the latter, in case you were wondering.)  Throughout the night, I repeatedly hear poor Gav coughing and crying in his bedroom next door, and wish there was any way that I could help Jeff...especially around 2am when Ave wakes up coughing herself into a vomit frenzy, and Gav wakes up screaming and coughing and gagging at the exact same time.  By some miraculous measure though, my warrior of a husband does in fact survive the night, and so do the kiddos. I can honestly say that I've never felt more helpless for my family, or more empathetic for my children- especially since I now know first-hand exactly what kind of pain and suffering this Flu-mageddon  thingy has done to their tiny bodies.  In and out of consciousness, this is what pains me the most for the remainder of the day as I lay in bed, still quarantined. My poor, poor babies  :-(


Sunday morning comes and I am now experiencing a constant ringing in my left ear and nausea beyond belief.  My cough worsens, my phlegm is more abundant, and any hint of light in my bedroom is like daggers to my eyes.  I haven't eaten in 2 days, since the thought of food makes me sick to my stomach.  I've endured 2 full-blown nosebleeds due to the dryness in our house and the massive amount of nose-blowing that has ensued in the past 3 days.  Sunday afternoon, my mom comes over to help out for a bit and give Jeff somewhat of a break. She holds Gav on the couch, who is still so sick that he has no interest in doing anything but nestling up with Nana and sleeping on her shoulder. My poor, sad little buddy. :-(


That evening, around six o'clock, I am beginning to wheeze tremendously with my coughing fits and am having sharp pains in my chest, which scares me a little bit.  Still quarantined in  my bedroom, I take my own temperature but can't even open my eyes enough to read the results after it beeps.  With the little voice that I still have, I hoarsely call Jefffffff?   and have to do this a few times before he hears me and comes running to the rescue.  I ask him to read the thermometer:  One-oh-four point two.

Yikes, this isn't good. Especially since I just took motrin and tylenol an hour ago. And the shooting pains in my chest....

We decide to call the on-call Dr. from my practice, who is alarmed by my fever and the fact that it seems non-responsive to medicine.

"I know it's probably the last thing you want to hear on Valentine's Day," he states, "but you need to get to the ER immediately, you could very well have a bacterial pneumonia."

Valentine's day? I think to myself. I had completely forgotten that today was in fact February 14th.

Jeff calls my mom and makes arrangements for her to take me to the hospital, since the kiddos are both still sick & waking up at night, and his priority needs to be at home for them.  Jayne speeds over to our house and I feel like I am walking in a Jello mold as I saunter down the hall, out the door, and into her car.  I begin shivering immediately and the movement of the car makes my nausea worse, so I just close my eyes and pray to God that I make it to the ER without hurling...