Saturday, February 26, 2005

Is this for real?

I just finished reading some of this blog, Belle De Jour, a blog purportedly written by a London call girl. Does anyone know if this is for real? Apparently it isn't being written anymore, because she sold the blog as a book to some publisher, due out (it says) last month. I've heard of this for a while, and wanted to read it for myself. It doesn't ring true to me, but what do I know? So does anyone out there know the scoop?

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Toddler's creed

This isn't original (I don't know who wrote it) but I thought it was worth sharing.

The Toddler's Creed

If I want it, it's mine.
If I give it to you and then change my mind, it's mine.
If I can take it away from you by force, it's mine.
If we are playing with something together, then all the pieces are mine.
If it looks just like the one I used to own or have at home, it's mine.

When you think about it, and how attached we become to our possessions, maybe we are still two-year-old toddlers, deep inside.

Monday, February 21, 2005

Happy Birthday

Today is R, my daughter's, birthday. She's (gulp) 25. I can hardly credit it. She was born prematurely, in San Francisco, and spent two months in the ICU. She has grown into a unique and special woman with a quirky sense of humor and her own way of looking at life. She still wants hugs and kisses, and (sometimes) even her hand held. She still wants "Funfetti" cake on her birthday (ugh) and eats Fruit Roll-ups and gummi worms. She plays Everquest on the computer, and goes to see horror movies (like Hide and Seek, and The Grudge), reads Stephen King novels and bodice rippers, and none of this comes from me! Among her friends, she's the one who shows up on time (!), who wraps her gifts in real paper, who remembers when everyone's birthday is. She waters my house plants, takes the recycling stuff to the pick-up place, and sweeps the front steps when it snows. She buys milk when we're out, and pays her own car expenses and student loans. It took a few years of adolescent angst, but we got past tantrums, and sulks, and fights over whose turn it was to do the dishes. I don't always approve of what she does, but she isn't me, and her view is (wince)just as valid as mine. One of these days she'll move out on her own, and I know I'll miss her, and miss listening up for her to come in, and miss sharing a bowl of "Yucky Charms" with her. But maybe I'll get to be a grandma sometime too, the ultimate payoff for raising your own kids.......Meanwhile, Happy B-Day, princess. We love you.

Monday, February 14, 2005

Hi Ho Hi Ho It's Off to work I Go...

Ribs finally mending, barring a serious coughing fit. No more rib-wrap (woohoo) and no more pain drugs. Firm resolve NEVER to venture down the stairs with anything but 100% dry shoe soles, and a firm grip on the bannister. Why do we feel so dumb when we fall? The first thing you do is look around to see if anyone noticed your little whoopsie-daisie, like the world is going to score you down for falling (nah, that was a 4.2 tops).

Anyway, back on the home front, the laundry has accumulated to truly awesome proportions, since bending over has been off my to-do list for a while. I once kept track of how many loads of wash I did in an average week (this for a family of four) and the total was something like 30 loads. Not that I ever actually GOT to the bottom of the hamper, I just counted for seven days. I know people used to wear their clothes a LOT longer before washing them (if they were washed at all, which in colonial times they mostly weren't), and I can see with our preoccupation with odor that we couldn't do that any more, but still, for us to have 30 loads means we're changing clothes two or three times a day! And although we do have horses, I can't blame it on them, since I keep a grubby sweatshirt and pants ready for the twice daily feeding routine, just pull them on over whatever I already have on. So it must be the kids, right? I resolve to notice more on this subject and get back to you. I know you can't wait.

Things at work have piled up too, with several missed deadlines that have been postponed. Does anyone else find emails that have piled up to be confusing? They get out of sequence, and there are missing face-to-face details, and when you've finally sorted the whole thing out you find out it's all moot anyway because times have moved on. So procrastination IS it's own reward, since some things put off long enough don't have to be done at all.

Happy Valentine's day to everyone; it was a mere 36 years ago that I got my engagement ring, the envy of all the girls in the dorm that year. Made all the subsequent Valentine's Days anti-climactic, I'll say that.

Saturday, February 05, 2005

Broken ribs 8, other 2

Well, that title makes it sound like I have multiple injuries, when what I meant to imply is that silly "On a scale of one to Ten, with 10 being the worst pain you've ever felt, How would you rate your pain right NOW? And I'm flummoxed. I don't want to sound like a wimp. TEN TEN! Oh GOd make it STOP. The hangnail is SHOOTING up my arm!!! I don't want to minimize my pain, by saying, oh around a 2 (COMPARED TO THAT TIME I FRACTURED MY SPINE), maybe they'll go pffssst, here, take two tylenol and call us in the morning..... because we are talking serious pain. So I wind up saying something like, I can't bend over, can't roll over, can't bear to have anything touching my rib, and they look at me expectantly and say, pen poised, so on a scale of one to ten.......
And then, they want you to get undressed, climb back on the gurney, get pushed down to xray (wham click click click, WHAM click click click - bad wheels) and climb on another trolley tray, (narrower and resembling those stainless steel ones that cafeterias use for cole slaw.) When we have just ascertained that you can't move below the waist without screaming. I feel like I am really too sick to be in the ER. Finally they give me a shot of Real Painkiller to get things going, do CAT scan, strap ribs up, send home just in time for the Real Painkiller to wear off. Now you're at home, little better off than before you left except a.) "painkiller" pills (more like industrial strength tylenol) b.) ugly beige strap that has mysteriously rolled into sausage just under your boobs and c.)an official Broken Bone diagnosis, good for one day's sympathy from one family member (if you're lucky). 16 hours later bring us back to the wee hours of the morning after spending yet another excruiating night not sleeping because of said rib; you call your doctor, go back to the top of this post and repeat. On the way home you THROW the ace bandage and those STUPID little metal clips out the window and stop at WalMart for one of those black lumbar support Velcro back wraps that fit snuggly, do not roll, and can be adjust without the combined efforts af 4 other people. Soon you will be back to the top of this post again, only by now you are asking for those pain meds by brand names " is that the XR? No codeine, right?" And thus we come to today, strapped, zapped and drugged to a fair-thee-well.
NOW I can maybe get some sleep. As long as I don't have to sneeze, cough, or laugh anytime soon.

Thursday, February 03, 2005

The ENT consult

When my son C. was around two, I took him to a speech therapist. You know how mothers have all these middle-of-the-night fears, like where they picture space debris shooting out of the sky and exploding in the crib, or menacing uber-bugs slithering out of the sink trap and infecting that sweet baby with Diptheria or whatever? I was convinced that C was partly deaf. I'd sneak in his room, crouching down so he couldn't see me coming, and then make a noise to see if he reacted (like, "AIEEE"--god knows what N thought I was doing). Or I'd watch to see if he hummed along with songs. Mostly, I worried because he wasn't talking. He'd smile and giggle and wave his little fists, but no goo-gooing. No DAda. Finally I took him to the speech therapist. In my best not-an-alarmist rational tones, I explained all my observations. And then she examined him. And then she said, "Say "good". and C said, "gud!" and she said "say....". and so on through all the "f" and "th" and "l" sounds, and he said. Every. One. And as the test went on, I felt dumber and dumber, and finally the therapist came to her conclusion. He was the victim of having a sister one year older than himself; as a result he NEVER got a word in edgewise. She talked non-stop from dawn to bedtime, and then some. What did C need to say? She'd already said it: "C wants a cookie" and "C wants a drink" and coincidently, so did she. Given a chance he babbled away with words I don't think she knew. It was humiliating and eye-opening. I tried hard to rein in the midnight heebie-jeebies.

But when R was 6, I had her at the pediatrician's. I was convinced she had diabetes. N said I was imagining things again, but I was sure. So before the doctor even came in the room, they tested a urine specimen. Negative. So when the Dr. came in and gave me that word, I gulped, and then said, something's still wrong. She wets the bed, not a little, but buckets. Her pulse is visible in her throat. She's hot all the time. She's too thin. AND LO, Mom was right. R had Graves Disease, hyperthyroidism. They started treatment that same week, and although she will always need to take her thyroid med, she's right as rain now. Left untreated, a long scary list of complications. SO there! Sometimes (ahem) MOM does knows best.

But not, apparently, enough. After falling down the stairs 5 days before, I crawled into the ER; dignosis, broken ribs. It hurts. A lot. and I think it will for the forseeable future. I'm off to see if I can score more drugs, so I can actually sleep. Why me?