Moron Monday

So today was not my favorite day on record. I seem to be having a lot of those lately – it must be so much fun to read my posts! Maybe that’s why google analytics said we’ve had zero readers since about Thanksgiving. And here I thought that site wasn’t working or something.

ANYWAY. Today.

The day got off to a splendid start when Andy woke me up by saying “Someone’s puking.” That someone ended up being Kate, who threw up twice before the alarm was set to go off. Yay. It was my turn to staff the sick bay so I made the 10,000 calls it requires to arrange for me, Kate and Sam to be out for the day and stayed home. Except we couldn’t exactly stay home, because today was also the one day a month that the cleaning lady was scheduled to come. We canceled her last visit here due to Kate puking last month, and I wasn’t about to do it again. My shower and kitchen floor were begging me not to. So we had to leave the house for a quick five hours.

Here’s where things really went down the tubes.

I needed to go to CVS and to run some things to Andy at school. One of the things he needed was money, and unfortunately I misplaced my debit card a couple weeks ago, which made getting cash challenging. I had a flash from my childhood and remembered that back in the olden days, people used to write checks to “cash” and get money from the bank. So, I wrote such a check for $100 and loaded up the kids and a bunch of junk in the car. We went to CVS and then headed to the bank, but when we got there, the check was nowhere to be found. I was still able to get money using a withdrawl slip (duh), so I dropped off all the junk to Andy and headed to my grandma’s (see again, homeless nomads on a sick day). She and I both scoured my car for the missing check. Not there. I scoured the CVS parking lot. Not there. It was nowhere, and there was nothing to do but wait to see if $100 would magically vanish from our checking account.

Then I decided it would be prudent to check with the pediatrician about Kate’s situation. To be honest, what I really wanted to find out was if it was ok to send her to school after these random incidents because juggling days off (especially when she seems FINE) is getting old. However when I told the nurse “My daughter has been vomiting semi-regularly since December 12,” her reaction was less “It’s cool, you must be tired of taking off work, send the girl to school already!” and more “Um yeah, that is somewhat concerning, you should bring her in.” So I took her in, toting her brother along with us. The doc had no explanation but wanted to explore it further and sent us down the road to the children’s hospital outpost to get an x-ray. But when we got there, I couldn’t find the written orders the doctor had given me 10 minutes before. I scoured my car for the missing paper. Not there. I piled the kids back in the car, went back to the doctor’s office to find it. Not there. It – like the check – was nowhere.

My car was obviously eating paper.

So we went back to the x-ray place, where they sent me back out to my car just to “double-check” and then eventually called the doctor to fax the order over. (Which really, that office needs to step up the technology. I also had to fill out a yearly update that required me to write our home address four times and record Andy’s social security number in three different places. Let’s get with the program, people. There are unorganized moms like me all over the place.) By that time, I was tweeting about hating being me. I was *thisclose* to offing myself.

We finally got the x-ray done (which was clear, but we still don’t know what the issue is) and after a leisurely trip to Target and Jimmy John’s we got the ok from the cleaning lady to re-inhabit our house. When we got home, the missing check from this morning was safely tucked in our mailbox, with a note from the mailman saying he’d found it in the street a few houses down.

My faith in humanity was restored.

My faith in myself, however, will take a while to recover.

Post to Twitter

Baby Mine

I am sitting on Joshua’s bed as Jonah lays across me, nursing ardently before bed.  The room is dark, his blankie lays across his chest, and he is focused on the task at hand.  I’ve got one arm under his shoulders, and one arm under his bum, and his long no-longer-a-baby-legs hang off my lap and dangle heavily in the space between the bed and the floor.

How did it come to pass that my baby no longer fits snugly in my arms?  It seems like yesterday that his little body barely spanned the width of my chest when he curled against me to nurse.

Sleepily he reaches out with his left arm and grabs my hair, running his hand the length of it.  He pushes my face to the side so he can get to my ear, makes a grab at my earring.  Recreational activities, fighting sleep while he nurses.  Funny baby, I am still his favorite toy.  I am wearing my glasses tonight and he gets them about half off of my face before I can pry his fingers off of them.  Giving up, he turns his attention to his own ear – like his older brother, he plays with it when he’s tired.

I kiss his face and stroke his hair, I kiss his little fingers and bury my lips in his chubby cheeks.  I love my sweet baby boy so much it hurts.  Just yesterday I was complaining as I was pumping out a bottle of milk so Bobby and I could go out, but I will be sad when he weans. He’s my last little nursey baby.

How did he get so big? He will be 13 months old this week.  Soon he will be too busy to cuddle his mama, to play with my hair, to want to be mine and to want me to be his.

He unlatches himself and gives me a milky, sleepy smile.  I squeeze him tight, kiss those pink cheeks again, and gently place him in his crib with his bevy of blankies.  He rolls over, gripping one tightly.

Good night, baby mine.  Try not to grow too much tonight while you sleep.

Post to Twitter

I am in an abusive relationship with my keychain.

Man, you can tell from the title that this post is going to be a winner.

It’s true – my keychain is abusive. It hurts me and I keep coming back.

Here’s the offender:

Not that you can tell from that fine piece of photography, but it is made of a thin wire rope. Quite frequently a strand of the rope breaks, and a tiny, unnoticeable metal splinter pops up and pokes the crap out of my hand. It is super awesome… I’ll be walking along, minding my own business when I reach for my keys and stab myself. It draws blood! And also lots of cuss words.

This will happen three or four times in a row, and each time, I vow to buy a new keychain. But then that particular pokey part will break off, and the keychain doesn’t hurt me anymore. So memories of my wounds fade, and I begin to think that my keychain is not so bad. Eventually, I forget to buy a new one.

And then, for no particular reason, it will turn against me and sprout a new needle. I curse and bleed and vow to throw it in the trash, but then…

It’s a vicious cycle, really. If I had to guess, I’d say it has been going on for a year. That’s right, I’ve been carrying around a keychain that regularly makes me bleed for a year.

As my dad would tell me, I have rocks in my head.

Post to Twitter