Hmmm...an excuse you say?? Well, I got the babe to write something for me today...sorry if it is difficult to read, she is only 4 months, you now! (PS...to read about the incident described, click here). Without further ado...my excuse:
Monday, November 30
Lesson #19 - Excuses Are a Necessity
Hmmm...an excuse you say?? Well, I got the babe to write something for me today...sorry if it is difficult to read, she is only 4 months, you now! (PS...to read about the incident described, click here). Without further ado...my excuse:
Sunday, November 29
Lesson #18 - Accidents Can Happen To Anyone...At Anytime
I am writing this after breathing a HUGE sigh of relief. I just got home from the emergency room, where I went with the man and the babe.
The babe had been fussy all afternoon/night. At around 6p the man and I gave her a bit of Tylenol because it felt like she was getting hot and fever = no good for kiddos. We fed her a bottle, burped her, changed her and put her down for bed around 9p. The man and I were just about to watch a movie (side note: we just bought The Proposal - on sale for $3 at one of the many Black Friday sales we pillaged) when we heard the babe crying. Knowing that she wasn't feeling well, I thought it would be good to bring her down and cuddle while watching the movie. The man went up to get her and I went into the kitchen to get something to drink. As I was coming out of the kitchen, I heard a loud thump and the man say, "Whoooooaoh shit!"
Much to my horror, the man had slipped and fallen down the stairs!! His foot slipped from under him and he landed on his back/butt - sliding down a few stairs at the bottom. I look to the stairs, see the babe laying face down on the landing and then hear a cry I hope to never hear again (though I know I will). As the man was sliding, he accidentally dropped the babe. She slid down his chest and onto the carpeted floor.
Now, in the man's defense, it wasn't his fault. It could have happened to anyone (yes, evenperfect me) at any time.
He scooped up the babe and rocked her. The man was covered in dust (I know, I know...I need to vacuum) and was trying to keep himself together. I ran over and we both tried to comfort the babe...knowing that she was mostly scared/tired and hopefully not hurt. After a solid 10 minutes of crying, she just stopped and fell asleep in my arms. To be sure she was okay, we decided to go to the emergency room - just in case.
We arrived in the most quiet ER I have ever visited - thankfully. We were checked in and admitted within minutes (not the hours I was used to from my youth) and finally seen by a doctor. The babe turned out to be the talk of the ER and all the nurses (even the male EMS tech) LOVED her. The babe was all smiles until the doctor took her.
In the end the babe came out with only a little bump on her head and a bruise on her shoulder.The man felt terrible and I tried to reassure him that it could have happened to me too. My nerves were on the fritz for a bit, but I think I'm okay now. Call me overprotective - call the ER trip an extreme measure - say what you will. I'm just glad that the babe is okay!!
**UPDATE: I forgot the BEST part of all!! So, we're sitting in room number 10 waiting for the doctor. He finally comes in after a few minutes and asks - again - what happened. The man and I go through the story...she slid down the man's chest, tumbled over 1 or 2 stairs and landed on the landing on her face. The doctor just looked at us and said, "I dropped my daughter too...she flew 5 feet...kids are resilient, you know." Good grief!! Here I thought they were going to call child services on us...now I definitely feel better about my parenting skills. Sheeeesh!
The babe had been fussy all afternoon/night. At around 6p the man and I gave her a bit of Tylenol because it felt like she was getting hot and fever = no good for kiddos. We fed her a bottle, burped her, changed her and put her down for bed around 9p. The man and I were just about to watch a movie (side note: we just bought The Proposal - on sale for $3 at one of the many Black Friday sales we pillaged) when we heard the babe crying. Knowing that she wasn't feeling well, I thought it would be good to bring her down and cuddle while watching the movie. The man went up to get her and I went into the kitchen to get something to drink. As I was coming out of the kitchen, I heard a loud thump and the man say, "Whoooooaoh shit!"
Much to my horror, the man had slipped and fallen down the stairs!! His foot slipped from under him and he landed on his back/butt - sliding down a few stairs at the bottom. I look to the stairs, see the babe laying face down on the landing and then hear a cry I hope to never hear again (though I know I will). As the man was sliding, he accidentally dropped the babe. She slid down his chest and onto the carpeted floor.
Now, in the man's defense, it wasn't his fault. It could have happened to anyone (yes, even
He scooped up the babe and rocked her. The man was covered in dust (I know, I know...I need to vacuum) and was trying to keep himself together. I ran over and we both tried to comfort the babe...knowing that she was mostly scared/tired and hopefully not hurt. After a solid 10 minutes of crying, she just stopped and fell asleep in my arms. To be sure she was okay, we decided to go to the emergency room - just in case.
We arrived in the most quiet ER I have ever visited - thankfully. We were checked in and admitted within minutes (not the hours I was used to from my youth) and finally seen by a doctor. The babe turned out to be the talk of the ER and all the nurses (even the male EMS tech) LOVED her. The babe was all smiles until the doctor took her.
In the end the babe came out with only a little bump on her head and a bruise on her shoulder.The man felt terrible and I tried to reassure him that it could have happened to me too. My nerves were on the fritz for a bit, but I think I'm okay now. Call me overprotective - call the ER trip an extreme measure - say what you will. I'm just glad that the babe is okay!!
**UPDATE: I forgot the BEST part of all!! So, we're sitting in room number 10 waiting for the doctor. He finally comes in after a few minutes and asks - again - what happened. The man and I go through the story...she slid down the man's chest, tumbled over 1 or 2 stairs and landed on the landing on her face. The doctor just looked at us and said, "I dropped my daughter too...she flew 5 feet...kids are resilient, you know." Good grief!! Here I thought they were going to call child services on us...now I definitely feel better about my parenting skills. Sheeeesh!
Friday, November 27
Lesson #17 - (Extended) Family Time Brings Out The Crazy In Me
Crazy being a relative term, of course. Lets be honest...we all suffer from SOME sort of crazy - and some more than others. I hate the word "normal" because who am I - or you - to judge what should be considered "normal" behavior?! I digress.
Spending the holidays with my side of the family (meaning my parents and grandma) can. get. interesting!! Actually, I should say that it DOES get interesting. It is always interesting, but something about the holidays just makes it that much more "exciting" shall we say.
When The Man and I first got to my parents' house, we put The Babe to sleep (it was almost 11p) and got to relaxing on the couch. The most fabulous show, Whose Line Is It Anyways, was on and we all watched it - laughing. Then - from the kitchen - came a beeping sound. Not just any beeping sound, but a fatladybackingup sort of beeping. The King Lobster (muh dad) proclaimed that it was the alarm from his old watch. He then made it a point to show us all his new watch:
KL: "What do you think of my new $24 watch?"
Me: "Is it an off brand?"
KL: "No. Its an on brand."
The Man: "Timex?"
KL: "No. An on brand."
That was the first of many hysterics that went on during the evening.
Then The King Lobster made a huge deal because he and The Queen Squirrel (muh momma) recently discovered Skype...I know, I know...they're a little behind the times! So, they set up the camera and dial a friend from Florida. Unfortunately, our friend's Skype was having issues and the video quality was very poor. The people on our end were laughing because the picture coming in was so pixelated:
Them: "Can you see us now?"
Us: "No. Well, yes. The picture is just really pixelated."
Them: "But there is a picture there, right?"
Us: "Yeah. It is just all screwy. What have you been drinking?"
Me: "Or wait. What have we been drinking?"
The Man: "Nothing. Maybe that is the problem. Is there a special decoder vodka we need to drink first?"
That one was enough to make everyone - on both sides of the line - laugh for a bit.
Later on in the day we had another classic family conversation...it is a little long, but its worth the read and it went something like this (please keep ALL children away from the computer screen):
Me: "Look at the picture of "X's" new son. See. This is what you're supposed to do. Take your newborn to get professional pictures done. Where the photographer sets up a little toy truck and you put a sleeping baby on the back for the pictures."
The Man: "You don't need a professional to do that. I have a truck too...and mine is bigger!" (He drives a Hummer)
Me: "Why do men always feel it necessary to use their toys to metaphorically compare penis size?"
QS: "Penis size doesn't matter. It is how a man can use it. Now THAT is what matters."
KL: "I don't need to compare toys to admit I have a small penis."
Me: "Are we seriously talking about this? I didn't mean for it to go in that direction."
The Man: "I have a big knife too."
Me: "Okay. We're done. This conversation is done."
Here is hoping that everyone had a wonderfully joyous and mostly relaxing Thanksgiving Day with their family - dysfunctional or not!!!
Spending the holidays with my side of the family (meaning my parents and grandma) can. get. interesting!! Actually, I should say that it DOES get interesting. It is always interesting, but something about the holidays just makes it that much more "exciting" shall we say.
When The Man and I first got to my parents' house, we put The Babe to sleep (it was almost 11p) and got to relaxing on the couch. The most fabulous show, Whose Line Is It Anyways, was on and we all watched it - laughing. Then - from the kitchen - came a beeping sound. Not just any beeping sound, but a fatladybackingup sort of beeping. The King Lobster (muh dad) proclaimed that it was the alarm from his old watch. He then made it a point to show us all his new watch:
KL: "What do you think of my new $24 watch?"
Me: "Is it an off brand?"
KL: "No. Its an on brand."
The Man: "Timex?"
KL: "No. An on brand."
That was the first of many hysterics that went on during the evening.
Then The King Lobster made a huge deal because he and The Queen Squirrel (muh momma) recently discovered Skype...I know, I know...they're a little behind the times! So, they set up the camera and dial a friend from Florida. Unfortunately, our friend's Skype was having issues and the video quality was very poor. The people on our end were laughing because the picture coming in was so pixelated:
Them: "Can you see us now?"
Us: "No. Well, yes. The picture is just really pixelated."
Them: "But there is a picture there, right?"
Us: "Yeah. It is just all screwy. What have you been drinking?"
Me: "Or wait. What have we been drinking?"
The Man: "Nothing. Maybe that is the problem. Is there a special decoder vodka we need to drink first?"
That one was enough to make everyone - on both sides of the line - laugh for a bit.
Later on in the day we had another classic family conversation...it is a little long, but its worth the read and it went something like this (please keep ALL children away from the computer screen):
Me: "Look at the picture of "X's" new son. See. This is what you're supposed to do. Take your newborn to get professional pictures done. Where the photographer sets up a little toy truck and you put a sleeping baby on the back for the pictures."
The Man: "You don't need a professional to do that. I have a truck too...and mine is bigger!" (He drives a Hummer)
Me: "Why do men always feel it necessary to use their toys to metaphorically compare penis size?"
QS: "Penis size doesn't matter. It is how a man can use it. Now THAT is what matters."
KL: "I don't need to compare toys to admit I have a small penis."
Me: "Are we seriously talking about this? I didn't mean for it to go in that direction."
The Man: "I have a big knife too."
Me: "Okay. We're done. This conversation is done."
Here is hoping that everyone had a wonderfully joyous and mostly relaxing Thanksgiving Day with their family - dysfunctional or not!!!
Thursday, November 26
Just For Fun - Holiday Greetings
Just a short little post wishing all of you in the Blogosphere a...
VERY. HAPPY. TURKEY. DAY!!!!!!
"Gobble, gobble, gobble,
its time to do a trot...
and to say a little thanks
for all that you have got.
Gobble, gobble, gobble,
its time for me to say...
stuff yourself (dirty minds) with fun & food
and have a HAPPY TURKEY DAY!!!"
I can't WAIT to blog about the lessons I learn THIS Thanksgiving!!
VERY. HAPPY. TURKEY. DAY!!!!!!
"Gobble, gobble, gobble,
its time to do a trot...
and to say a little thanks
for all that you have got.
Gobble, gobble, gobble,
its time for me to say...
stuff yourself (dirty minds) with fun & food
and have a HAPPY TURKEY DAY!!!"
I can't WAIT to blog about the lessons I learn THIS Thanksgiving!!
Tuesday, November 24
Lesson #16 - A Moth Can Kill You If It Really Wants To
Welcome to "Transient Tuesdays"...I am glad that you decided to stop by! Have a seat, kick up your feet and enjoy this week's post from The Cribbed. One of my last posts - Lesson #14 - was inspired by one of her previous blog posts. I asked The Cribbed to be a guest blogger and what follows is her fight-to-the-death with the most ballsy moth I've ever heard of!!
My history with moths is a long and sordid one. You see, I am not a fan of bugs in general, however; moths are a sure stand out in my heebie jeebies category. The main reason for this is their sheer flutteriness. Are they going over here? Are they swooping down there? Oh wait, now they are two hundred feet away. For the love of God, now they are dangerously close to my hair... it's a nightmare. Their very unpredictability is what makes them so frightening.
As recently as last week, I suffered a horrific moth attack. Our current home does not have central air, so we leave our windows open. A lot. Which allows the flies (we call it Nightmare on Fly Street) and the moths to enter our home at will. Normally a moth will find a good place on the ceiling, stay in the exact same spot for 2-3 days and eventually disappear. I don't know where they go, I don't know what they do, and I don't care. As long as they aren't in my bedroom when I go to sleep, I am fine.
One moth, however, had something to prove. He threw all caution to the wind. He was willing to live life to the fullest, no matter what the cost. He was a moth maverick. A fluttery rebel. I knew I was in for the moth fight of my LIFE when I found him fluttering around my television screen at eleven o'clock at night. 'You flutter where you want moth, but right in front of my tv screen, late at night --- thems fightin' flutters. That was IT. This moth HAD TO DIE. Moth death squad ... engaged.
I get out of bed, my narrowed eyes scanning the room for ANYTHING to kill it with. Ahhh, this room is useless in a moth attack! Hardback novels, earrings, sewing box, fleece pajamas bottoms, hangers, scrapbook organizer. Useless. (Now why my shoes never flashed into my head as an option, I don't know. Call it initial battlefield panic).
I'm in the line of fire, unarmed. So I call in reinforcements. Ballerina, the Bug Killing Wonderpup. My 80 lbs lab is chasing this moth all over my bedroom, over the bed, in the corner, up in the air, but it's crafty, this moth. It won't be stopped by a mere dog. Not even by a vicious chocolate killing machine.
At some point I found a flimsy piece of paper, and I enter the chase. It's here, it's there, it's up to the right, to the left, it's all over the place. Then it made its boldest move yet.
IT FLEW UNDER MY BED.
Now there is no way I am sleeping with a moth under my bed. NO-WAY-ON-GOD'S-GREEN-EARTH. There is also no way this Fatty McFatterson is able to squeeze under the bed, to get to the moth, to kill it. I'm yelling for my husband, I'm yelling for Jesus, I'm yelling for Oprah. I'm yelling for someone, anyone to help me annihilate this thing.
But no one comes. The dog had given up. I'm all alone. It's just me. And the moth. With extreme vigor, I start waving my arms under the bed, making giant sweeps, trying to shake up the moth. Flush him out of his under-the-bed lair. Nothing. He was not going to budge. And either was I.
Long story even longer, it took me a good 45 minutes to get that stupid moth out from under the bed, and then it was overkill. I beat that thing until there wasn't a scrap of antennae left. If I could've hoisted its bloody corpse over my head and run through the streets screaming, I would have.
I think; however, that the moth's family may have come back to seek revenge for his untimely death. Just yesterday, my baby daughter was holding something blackish brown in her tiny baby hands, which I thought was just a piece of mulch. Then it started to FLUTTER ...
Want to read something entertaining for a change? Go to www.speakingfromthecrib.com. You won't be disappointed. Or maybe you will be. I guess that all really depends on what you thought of me in the first place.
My history with moths is a long and sordid one. You see, I am not a fan of bugs in general, however; moths are a sure stand out in my heebie jeebies category. The main reason for this is their sheer flutteriness. Are they going over here? Are they swooping down there? Oh wait, now they are two hundred feet away. For the love of God, now they are dangerously close to my hair... it's a nightmare. Their very unpredictability is what makes them so frightening.
As recently as last week, I suffered a horrific moth attack. Our current home does not have central air, so we leave our windows open. A lot. Which allows the flies (we call it Nightmare on Fly Street) and the moths to enter our home at will. Normally a moth will find a good place on the ceiling, stay in the exact same spot for 2-3 days and eventually disappear. I don't know where they go, I don't know what they do, and I don't care. As long as they aren't in my bedroom when I go to sleep, I am fine.
One moth, however, had something to prove. He threw all caution to the wind. He was willing to live life to the fullest, no matter what the cost. He was a moth maverick. A fluttery rebel. I knew I was in for the moth fight of my LIFE when I found him fluttering around my television screen at eleven o'clock at night. 'You flutter where you want moth, but right in front of my tv screen, late at night --- thems fightin' flutters. That was IT. This moth HAD TO DIE. Moth death squad ... engaged.
I get out of bed, my narrowed eyes scanning the room for ANYTHING to kill it with. Ahhh, this room is useless in a moth attack! Hardback novels, earrings, sewing box, fleece pajamas bottoms, hangers, scrapbook organizer. Useless. (Now why my shoes never flashed into my head as an option, I don't know. Call it initial battlefield panic).
I'm in the line of fire, unarmed. So I call in reinforcements. Ballerina, the Bug Killing Wonderpup. My 80 lbs lab is chasing this moth all over my bedroom, over the bed, in the corner, up in the air, but it's crafty, this moth. It won't be stopped by a mere dog. Not even by a vicious chocolate killing machine.
At some point I found a flimsy piece of paper, and I enter the chase. It's here, it's there, it's up to the right, to the left, it's all over the place. Then it made its boldest move yet.
IT FLEW UNDER MY BED.
Now there is no way I am sleeping with a moth under my bed. NO-WAY-ON-GOD'S-GREEN-EARTH. There is also no way this Fatty McFatterson is able to squeeze under the bed, to get to the moth, to kill it. I'm yelling for my husband, I'm yelling for Jesus, I'm yelling for Oprah. I'm yelling for someone, anyone to help me annihilate this thing.
But no one comes. The dog had given up. I'm all alone. It's just me. And the moth. With extreme vigor, I start waving my arms under the bed, making giant sweeps, trying to shake up the moth. Flush him out of his under-the-bed lair. Nothing. He was not going to budge. And either was I.
Long story even longer, it took me a good 45 minutes to get that stupid moth out from under the bed, and then it was overkill. I beat that thing until there wasn't a scrap of antennae left. If I could've hoisted its bloody corpse over my head and run through the streets screaming, I would have.
I think; however, that the moth's family may have come back to seek revenge for his untimely death. Just yesterday, my baby daughter was holding something blackish brown in her tiny baby hands, which I thought was just a piece of mulch. Then it started to FLUTTER ...
Want to read something entertaining for a change? Go to www.speakingfromthecrib.com. You won't be disappointed. Or maybe you will be. I guess that all really depends on what you thought of me in the first place.
Monday, November 23
Lesson #15 - There Is ALWAYS Something To Be Thankful For
This week I'm linkin' it up...Supah-style!! Okay...so this year has been a bit of a whirl wind for me. I mean, it isn't often that two people meet, get married and have a baby all within a matter of ten months! Okay, maybe it is more common that I think. In any case, I wanted to take a minute today to list a mere fraction of my list of things I am thankful for.
Well, first and foremost, I am definitely thankful for my family and friends!! Wait, does that count as one or two? I'm counting it as one - get over it. Being married to the most understanding husband a crazy lady could ask for and giving birth to the funniest, happiest baby who will eventually be giving me heartburn...all in the same year...AWESOME!! Having the most supportive parents/grandparent a gray-haired giving daughter/granddaughter needs has made life exciting. Being able to share laughs with the highest quality OCD compulsion-sharing friends an ADHD brain can handle is just the icing on the cake.
Second, I am thankful for the fact that I am employed and still getting a paycheck - given the hard economic times we are in currently. While my boss continues to be unforgiving, I can't help but think of where I'd be without my job. I am willing to put up for the put-downs...for now.
Third, I am thankful that my family and I have these four walls and roof we call home. To me, there a huge difference between owning a house and being able to call it home. Our experiences with and love for each other, have turned a simple townhouse into the place we will raise our daughter (and however many more children we end up having).
Last, but not least, I am thankful that I am healthy and able to move around to do the things I do. For those of you playing along at home, the man recently broke his hand. Seeing his frustration while trying to do things like feed the babe or open a jar. It makes me thankful that I am able to do a little extra to get things done. Lets be honest - if both of us were broken, the babe would be running amok...without even being able to run yet!!
Well, first and foremost, I am definitely thankful for my family and friends!! Wait, does that count as one or two? I'm counting it as one - get over it. Being married to the most understanding husband a crazy lady could ask for and giving birth to the funniest, happiest baby who will eventually be giving me heartburn...all in the same year...AWESOME!! Having the most supportive parents/grandparent a gray-haired giving daughter/granddaughter needs has made life exciting. Being able to share laughs with the highest quality OCD compulsion-sharing friends an ADHD brain can handle is just the icing on the cake.
Second, I am thankful for the fact that I am employed and still getting a paycheck - given the hard economic times we are in currently. While my boss continues to be unforgiving, I can't help but think of where I'd be without my job. I am willing to put up for the put-downs...for now.
Third, I am thankful that my family and I have these four walls and roof we call home. To me, there a huge difference between owning a house and being able to call it home. Our experiences with and love for each other, have turned a simple townhouse into the place we will raise our daughter (and however many more children we end up having).
Last, but not least, I am thankful that I am healthy and able to move around to do the things I do. For those of you playing along at home, the man recently broke his hand. Seeing his frustration while trying to do things like feed the babe or open a jar. It makes me thankful that I am able to do a little extra to get things done. Lets be honest - if both of us were broken, the babe would be running amok...without even being able to run yet!!
Saturday, November 21
Lesson #14 - Even If You Think You Are...You Are Never Alone
This post was inspired by a recent post by another blogger. I always wondered if I was alone in the world, but after reading her stuff I realized that I have found a kindred spirit! If you haven't already read her posts, RUN - DO NOT WALK to Speaking From The Crib IMMEDIATELY. It is some of the BEST wet-your-pants material you will read. EVER!
I don't know about you...but I have a big mouth...not to be confused with a loud mouth...which I also have, on occasion. No, those people not only spew whatever comes into their minds like they suffer from diarrhea of the mouth, but they also do it in such a manner so that EVERYONE in EVERY corner of the Super Wal-mart can hear EACH. LAST. FREAKING. WORD. But I digress.
I suffer from diarrhea of the mouth and, much to the man's dismay (and that of numerous friends who have been the unfortunate companion during one of my bouts), I tend to spew at the WORST times. There is a bit of thought that goes into the situation before I spew - despite what those around me may think. Take, for example, a past trip to the mall. Now, I have definitely made my fair share of trips to the mall...this one, however, seems to stick out in my mind the most.
It was a crummy day outside and I wanted to walk. Keep in mind that this was pre-motherhood, so my thoughts towards those with offspring wasn't what they are currently - now that I are one. Also remind yourself that this was a time when the Sept. 11th attacks weren't just a vague notion, but still fresh in peoples' minds. Anyways, I wanted to walk and walk I did. In and out of stores I went, down one side of the mall and back up the other side. I was there to walk laps, albeit casually, not to shop - for once.
As I made my way around the second floor and proceeded to the first floor, I noticed a large pack (think = wolves) of toddlers and teens walking my way. The children seemed to be making their way towards me at a rapid rate of speed as I got off of the escalator. I felt like an elderly woman in the grocery store parking lot having to dive away from an on-coming car because I wasn't crossing the cross-walk fast enough nor did I bother to give a quick "thanks" to the driver who paused momentarily and is now cursing me. Little did I notice the mothers (that is right kids, there were MANY of them) of said children pushed strollers behind them in hot pursuit. While I wouldn't usually comment on such a situation, I felt it necessary to do so this particular time because I was almost the unfortunate victim of a woman who had lost her shopping-cart-pushing-rights and decided to have a kid so she would have lifetime stroller-pushing-rights.
Note: Ladies, if you have issues pushing a damn shopping cart AND you plan on having kids sometime in the future - take some DAMN lessons!! A shopping cart is quite similar to a stroller. The. End.
As the mothers raced past me, I mumbled, "Jesus, what do you think that thing is - a f@%king airplane?" Oh...did I forget to mention that said mothers and children were not of the Caucasian, African American or Hispanic ethnicity?? Well, no, they weren't...which might have been why the reference to a plane came so easily in my bout of mouth diarrhea.
I didn't say it LOUD but apparently I said it loud ENOUGH. YIKES! I can't be certain, but I am sure that day I ended with more jihads sent my way than when I woke up. It was a scary experience...I really thought I would get jumped. Though, it wasn't scary enough for me to learn my lesson and keep my mouth shut from that point on...because...lets be serious...how much fun would that REALLY be?!?!
I don't know about you...but I have a big mouth...not to be confused with a loud mouth...which I also have, on occasion. No, those people not only spew whatever comes into their minds like they suffer from diarrhea of the mouth, but they also do it in such a manner so that EVERYONE in EVERY corner of the Super Wal-mart can hear EACH. LAST. FREAKING. WORD. But I digress.
I suffer from diarrhea of the mouth and, much to the man's dismay (and that of numerous friends who have been the unfortunate companion during one of my bouts), I tend to spew at the WORST times. There is a bit of thought that goes into the situation before I spew - despite what those around me may think. Take, for example, a past trip to the mall. Now, I have definitely made my fair share of trips to the mall...this one, however, seems to stick out in my mind the most.
It was a crummy day outside and I wanted to walk. Keep in mind that this was pre-motherhood, so my thoughts towards those with offspring wasn't what they are currently - now that I are one. Also remind yourself that this was a time when the Sept. 11th attacks weren't just a vague notion, but still fresh in peoples' minds. Anyways, I wanted to walk and walk I did. In and out of stores I went, down one side of the mall and back up the other side. I was there to walk laps, albeit casually, not to shop - for once.
As I made my way around the second floor and proceeded to the first floor, I noticed a large pack (think = wolves) of toddlers and teens walking my way. The children seemed to be making their way towards me at a rapid rate of speed as I got off of the escalator. I felt like an elderly woman in the grocery store parking lot having to dive away from an on-coming car because I wasn't crossing the cross-walk fast enough nor did I bother to give a quick "thanks" to the driver who paused momentarily and is now cursing me. Little did I notice the mothers (that is right kids, there were MANY of them) of said children pushed strollers behind them in hot pursuit. While I wouldn't usually comment on such a situation, I felt it necessary to do so this particular time because I was almost the unfortunate victim of a woman who had lost her shopping-cart-pushing-rights and decided to have a kid so she would have lifetime stroller-pushing-rights.
Note: Ladies, if you have issues pushing a damn shopping cart AND you plan on having kids sometime in the future - take some DAMN lessons!! A shopping cart is quite similar to a stroller. The. End.
As the mothers raced past me, I mumbled, "Jesus, what do you think that thing is - a f@%king airplane?" Oh...did I forget to mention that said mothers and children were not of the Caucasian, African American or Hispanic ethnicity?? Well, no, they weren't...which might have been why the reference to a plane came so easily in my bout of mouth diarrhea.
I didn't say it LOUD but apparently I said it loud ENOUGH. YIKES! I can't be certain, but I am sure that day I ended with more jihads sent my way than when I woke up. It was a scary experience...I really thought I would get jumped. Though, it wasn't scary enough for me to learn my lesson and keep my mouth shut from that point on...because...lets be serious...how much fun would that REALLY be?!?!
Wednesday, November 18
Lesson #13 - Yes. People Really ARE That Stupid
I would like to apologize before I even start writing this post. I had to take Nyquil last night in order to get to sleep and while I do get a fabulous night worth of sleep, I dread the next day. I get jittery, jumpy and crazy...my legs won't stop moving and my brain suffers from a VERY severe case of ADHD. So, I am sorry if my post is all over the place today. If you're anything like me, though, I'm sure you'll be able to keep up!
Anyways, I was on my way to work this morning and realized I needed to get gas (for the car...my bodies inner-workings are just fine, thanks). I got into the right lane - behind a Dodge Calibur - and pulled into the gas station. Now, as neurotic as it sounds, I always use the SAME pump at this particular gas station - because, well, I'm just THAT crazy. The Dodge ended up pulling into the gas station as well and I was forced to follow it to my usual pump - which the driver ultimately STOLE from me! Today my pump had one of those orange and white barrels in front of it giving me the DONTEVENTHINKABOUTUSINGTHISPUMPORYOURCARWILLEXPLODE warning. Well, he Dodge driver pulled in front of it anyways - and I pulled in behind her. If I couldn't have my usual pump, then I was going to take the one right behind it.
I thought that maybe the driver of the Dodge was just pulling over to answer a phone call or stop at the corner store for a quick coffee pick-me-up - boy was I wrong! The driver got out of her car, credit card in hand, and pushed the barrel out of her way. Apparently its presence was inconvenient for her pumping gas. I watched as she opened the gas tank of her car, swiped her credit card, pulled the nozzle out of the housing and pushed the proper fuel button. As she tried to get the nozzle into her car's tank, she was prevented from doing so due to the barrels position between her car and the pump. So the driver did what ANY reasonable person would do...you guessed it...she moved the barrel over...AGAIN!
Standing in front of my legally working pump, with my jaw on the ground, I watched in HORROR as the driver of that Dodge pumped a full tank of gas and replaced the nozzle back into the housing. All the while I was praying,
"Dear Lord, I know that I haven't been a great person and all but if you could please prevent this woman's car from spontaneously combusting at this precise moment I will be forever grateful! Amen."
I don't know about you all out there in the blogosphere...but when there is an orange barrel in front of a pump, I tend to just move on and drive to another available pump. I'm not sure why the barrel was there, or even if it was put there as a joke. Honestly, the woman didn't seem to have any issues getting here credit card authorized or filling her tank. I wouldn't have taken the risk. Not. At. All.
Makes one think...maybe she woke up this morning - took a look at herself in the mirror and said, "Today, I am going to Press. My. Luck!!
Anyways, I was on my way to work this morning and realized I needed to get gas (for the car...my bodies inner-workings are just fine, thanks). I got into the right lane - behind a Dodge Calibur - and pulled into the gas station. Now, as neurotic as it sounds, I always use the SAME pump at this particular gas station - because, well, I'm just THAT crazy. The Dodge ended up pulling into the gas station as well and I was forced to follow it to my usual pump - which the driver ultimately STOLE from me! Today my pump had one of those orange and white barrels in front of it giving me the DONTEVENTHINKABOUTUSINGTHISPUMPORYOURCARWILLEXPLODE warning. Well, he Dodge driver pulled in front of it anyways - and I pulled in behind her. If I couldn't have my usual pump, then I was going to take the one right behind it.
I thought that maybe the driver of the Dodge was just pulling over to answer a phone call or stop at the corner store for a quick coffee pick-me-up - boy was I wrong! The driver got out of her car, credit card in hand, and pushed the barrel out of her way. Apparently its presence was inconvenient for her pumping gas. I watched as she opened the gas tank of her car, swiped her credit card, pulled the nozzle out of the housing and pushed the proper fuel button. As she tried to get the nozzle into her car's tank, she was prevented from doing so due to the barrels position between her car and the pump. So the driver did what ANY reasonable person would do...you guessed it...she moved the barrel over...AGAIN!
Standing in front of my legally working pump, with my jaw on the ground, I watched in HORROR as the driver of that Dodge pumped a full tank of gas and replaced the nozzle back into the housing. All the while I was praying,
"Dear Lord, I know that I haven't been a great person and all but if you could please prevent this woman's car from spontaneously combusting at this precise moment I will be forever grateful! Amen."
I don't know about you all out there in the blogosphere...but when there is an orange barrel in front of a pump, I tend to just move on and drive to another available pump. I'm not sure why the barrel was there, or even if it was put there as a joke. Honestly, the woman didn't seem to have any issues getting here credit card authorized or filling her tank. I wouldn't have taken the risk. Not. At. All.
Makes one think...maybe she woke up this morning - took a look at herself in the mirror and said, "Today, I am going to Press. My. Luck!!
Sunday, November 15
Lesson #12 - Choosing To Panic Does Nobody Any Good
I have been to many a doctor appointments...be it a dentist, an ophthalmologist or an chiropractor. While I may be young, compared to most, I have had my share of appointments. Little did I know, however, that the ones with my OB/GYN would be the ones I dreaded the most!
So, about two months ago (mid-September) I went in for my "yearly" appointment. I try to tell myself that these things are a necessary evil and that going is for the greater good. I am sitting on the table being poked and my OB/GYN starts trying to have a conversation with me. While it didn't seem awkward to me at the time, I feel as though bringing up my husband and kid while in my "no-fly zone" just doesn't seem right. In any case, I answered her questions and nodded - though I don't know WHY because she couldn't see my head moving - through the appointment. Just as quickly as it began, everything was done and I was on my way.
A few weeks later I get a call from my doctor's office. The calm voice on the voice mail told me not to panic, but to call the office immediately to set-up a follow-up appointment in regards to my "yearly" exam. Okay, now I KNOW she said NOT to panic...but HELLO?!?! Against the receptionist's advice, I started to panic...thoughts of every single thing that could be going wrong with me began running through my head. Finally, I called the office back to see what the fuss was all about. A nice lady picked up the phone and started rattling off days I could come in to get my results. "Can't someone just tell me over the phone," I asked. Wouldn't that be the easy solution?? Instead of telling me not to panic, just give me the darn results over the phone. Then, if I need to make another appointment we can deal with things at the point - not a minute before. "I'm sorry, but you have to come into the office for your test results." My first question was why...didn't you bleed me (read - my insurance company) enough during my pregnancy? Is the extra $350 really going to make THAT big of a difference on your earnings statement for this fiscal year?? Instead of ignoring the good doctor - and against my better judgment - I made an appointment.
Note: Sometimes I feel as though doctors force their patients to make appointments just so they can break up their days and chat with someone - and get paid big bucks for it! The. End.
Fast forward a week later (for those of you playing at home, we are in October at this point) and you will find me in the waiting room at my OB/GYN's office...again...shelling out $20 for an appointment...again. The only reason I am having to pay the $20 co-pay is because the OB/GYN is considered a "specialty" doctor - give me a break! Okay, so the nurse finally calls my name and, like a child who just found out her parent lied and said the doctor's office is code for pet store, I walk back to the pre-appointment room. The pre-appointment room is like a holding cell where they take you and force you to get on a scale, pee in a cup, put up with the blood pressure cuff and ask you the most intimate details of your sex life. I don't even sit down before I look at the unnervingly perky/peppy nurse and say, "I'm only here for results and that is what I want. Now." She tried to get me to give her the dirty details, but I was having none of it. Obviously frustrated by my lack of compliance, she opted to take me to the exam room instead of fighting about my weight and whether or not my husband and I use condoms (she should already know the answer to that...idiot).
I waited another few minutes before the doctor finally decided to come into the exam room. She shook my hand, sat in her little rolly chair and looked at me. She explained that the test results from my yearly exam were "abnormal" and other tests had to be conducted. There wasn't much said on why the results were abnormal, though I started to think the worst. I asked if it was some sort of genetic disease or even worse - cancer!! I was assured that there was no reason to be alarmed, but I couldn't help but contemplate the "what-if" scenarios that I am SO good at coming up with in my head!! I was told to make an appointment to come back in 2 weeks for the follow-up tests. While it wasn't a dire emergency, it shouldn't be ignored either. By the time I left the office I was convinced I was going to die and only had a few months to live.
I just got back from my follow-up-to-the-results-from-the-first-test-exam (we are in November - 2 months after the original appointment - for those still keeping up at home). I paid ANOTHER $20 and was stretched, poked, prodded, scraped, cut to only be sent on my way in the end. No questions were answered and no results were revealed. I was forced to make yet another appointment to get my test results. While I am giddy with excitement to return and pay ANOTHER $20 just to hear them tell me I'm dying, I am going to wait until December to get the news. I figure the doctor can wait an extra 2 weeks to get her damn $20 from me!!
So, about two months ago (mid-September) I went in for my "yearly" appointment. I try to tell myself that these things are a necessary evil and that going is for the greater good. I am sitting on the table being poked and my OB/GYN starts trying to have a conversation with me. While it didn't seem awkward to me at the time, I feel as though bringing up my husband and kid while in my "no-fly zone" just doesn't seem right. In any case, I answered her questions and nodded - though I don't know WHY because she couldn't see my head moving - through the appointment. Just as quickly as it began, everything was done and I was on my way.
A few weeks later I get a call from my doctor's office. The calm voice on the voice mail told me not to panic, but to call the office immediately to set-up a follow-up appointment in regards to my "yearly" exam. Okay, now I KNOW she said NOT to panic...but HELLO?!?! Against the receptionist's advice, I started to panic...thoughts of every single thing that could be going wrong with me began running through my head. Finally, I called the office back to see what the fuss was all about. A nice lady picked up the phone and started rattling off days I could come in to get my results. "Can't someone just tell me over the phone," I asked. Wouldn't that be the easy solution?? Instead of telling me not to panic, just give me the darn results over the phone. Then, if I need to make another appointment we can deal with things at the point - not a minute before. "I'm sorry, but you have to come into the office for your test results." My first question was why...didn't you bleed me (read - my insurance company) enough during my pregnancy? Is the extra $350 really going to make THAT big of a difference on your earnings statement for this fiscal year?? Instead of ignoring the good doctor - and against my better judgment - I made an appointment.
Note: Sometimes I feel as though doctors force their patients to make appointments just so they can break up their days and chat with someone - and get paid big bucks for it! The. End.
Fast forward a week later (for those of you playing at home, we are in October at this point) and you will find me in the waiting room at my OB/GYN's office...again...shelling out $20 for an appointment...again. The only reason I am having to pay the $20 co-pay is because the OB/GYN is considered a "specialty" doctor - give me a break! Okay, so the nurse finally calls my name and, like a child who just found out her parent lied and said the doctor's office is code for pet store, I walk back to the pre-appointment room. The pre-appointment room is like a holding cell where they take you and force you to get on a scale, pee in a cup, put up with the blood pressure cuff and ask you the most intimate details of your sex life. I don't even sit down before I look at the unnervingly perky/peppy nurse and say, "I'm only here for results and that is what I want. Now." She tried to get me to give her the dirty details, but I was having none of it. Obviously frustrated by my lack of compliance, she opted to take me to the exam room instead of fighting about my weight and whether or not my husband and I use condoms (she should already know the answer to that...idiot).
I waited another few minutes before the doctor finally decided to come into the exam room. She shook my hand, sat in her little rolly chair and looked at me. She explained that the test results from my yearly exam were "abnormal" and other tests had to be conducted. There wasn't much said on why the results were abnormal, though I started to think the worst. I asked if it was some sort of genetic disease or even worse - cancer!! I was assured that there was no reason to be alarmed, but I couldn't help but contemplate the "what-if" scenarios that I am SO good at coming up with in my head!! I was told to make an appointment to come back in 2 weeks for the follow-up tests. While it wasn't a dire emergency, it shouldn't be ignored either. By the time I left the office I was convinced I was going to die and only had a few months to live.
I just got back from my follow-up-to-the-results-from-the-first-test-exam (we are in November - 2 months after the original appointment - for those still keeping up at home). I paid ANOTHER $20 and was stretched, poked, prodded, scraped, cut to only be sent on my way in the end. No questions were answered and no results were revealed. I was forced to make yet another appointment to get my test results. While I am giddy with excitement to return and pay ANOTHER $20 just to hear them tell me I'm dying, I am going to wait until December to get the news. I figure the doctor can wait an extra 2 weeks to get her damn $20 from me!!
Wednesday, November 11
Lesson #11 - The Doctor Isn't Always Right
Today is a federal holiday (read: a day that my boss was kind of legally obliged to let me out of my cage called an office). What a great holiday it was too - Veterans' Day. My father was in the Navy and retired after more than 2 decades. I respect those who serve in the military for our Great Country.
Not only is today a much needed mental holiday, but also the babe's 4-month well baby appointment. For all of you non-parents out in the blogosphere, this is one of many appointments when a psycho nurse gets an obscene amount of pleasure from the pan of your child's cries as s/he is poked with a number of needles. I definitely think that I end up crying more than the babe at these dreaded appointments.
Moving on...so we get to the appointment, check in and proceed to sit in the waiting area. Finally our number is up and we get called back to the exam room. I jump up with glee as the man tries his best to keep up with my excitement. I'm not quite sure why I was so excited, but I think it was because I wanted to tell the babe's doctor about her advanced behavior! I wanted to tell the doc that she was now holding her head up without that wobbling-oh-my-god-is-my-head-going-to-the-left-or-the-right? She started holding her very heavy, 8 ounce glass bottle on her own or with a slight bit of help from one of her stuffed toys. Much to the man's dismay she has now figured out how to turn herself over in the middle of the night while still sleeping and wakes up much earlier than she really should. All of these exciting things were happening and I wanted to play Show-and-Tell.
Before I got to spill the goods, as usual, I had to strip the babe of all clothing and get her weighed and measured (I wonder if they would accept the reading from the grocery store weight machine next to the apple display as official). Off we went and I put the babe down on the cold, funny smelling baby scale. The nurse puts her arms up - to make it known that she isn't touching the babe or altering the weight reading in any way - and declares that the babe is now 11 pounds and 7 ounces. I was then asked to hold the babe's head against the top of the scale - in order to get an accurate height reading from a squirmy little pile of baby that doesn't want to sit still - and was told the babe is 23 inches. While I agree with the weight, the height leaves something to be desired.
We made our way back to the exam room and patiently waiting for the doctor to make her appearance. I was so excited to tell her all of the babe's new tricks and accomplishments that I couldn't BREATHE!! Finally she came into the room and shook our hands before pulling up the babe's medical records. She asked if the man or I had any questions and we didn't so she moved on to the exam part. The doctor checked her ears, eyes, nose and tummy. She made sure the babe didn't have a diaper rash that had been overlooked and checked her reflexes. Then she moved on to developmental milestone questions. The doctor had the babe hold onto her fingers to get her to sit up - which she did gracefully - and then put her back down. She asked how the babe was eating - THIS WAS MY MOMENT - so I responded that she was eating formula throughout the day and was getting oatmeal for breakfast and 1/3 a container of solid foods for dinner since the previous month. As I explained that the babe loved bananas, sweet potatoes and squash, I neglected to see the look of horror that was coming from the doctor.
Apparently it is not good to feed little ones solid food before 4 months old. Well, our babe is quite advanced and is doing just fine eating solid foods - THANKYOUVERYMUCH!! The the doctor pulls out weight-to-length charts and tries telling us that the babe is in the 5th percentile and isn't gaining enough weight for her size. The babe is petite - not very tall - as are my husband and I, so I wouldn't expect her to gain a ton of weight right away. The doctor also suggested having us come back for a 5-month follow-up to make sure the babe was gaining weight correctly.
I'm sorry, but NO! I am feeding my child PLENTY, she eats like a piglet when she is hungry and there is nothing you can do to make me force food down her throat. If she isn't hungry then she isn't going to eat. Apparently the doctor saw I was getting quite agitated and said the follow-up wouldn't be necessary. That is one major issue with Americans these days...they are so obsessed with weight that they neglect the health side of the argument. If the babe is small and healthy it shouldn't matter that she is 45% smaller than her "average" peers.
Not only is today a much needed mental holiday, but also the babe's 4-month well baby appointment. For all of you non-parents out in the blogosphere, this is one of many appointments when a psycho nurse gets an obscene amount of pleasure from the pan of your child's cries as s/he is poked with a number of needles. I definitely think that I end up crying more than the babe at these dreaded appointments.
Moving on...so we get to the appointment, check in and proceed to sit in the waiting area. Finally our number is up and we get called back to the exam room. I jump up with glee as the man tries his best to keep up with my excitement. I'm not quite sure why I was so excited, but I think it was because I wanted to tell the babe's doctor about her advanced behavior! I wanted to tell the doc that she was now holding her head up without that wobbling-oh-my-god-is-my-head-going-to-the-left-or-the-right? She started holding her very heavy, 8 ounce glass bottle on her own or with a slight bit of help from one of her stuffed toys. Much to the man's dismay she has now figured out how to turn herself over in the middle of the night while still sleeping and wakes up much earlier than she really should. All of these exciting things were happening and I wanted to play Show-and-Tell.
Before I got to spill the goods, as usual, I had to strip the babe of all clothing and get her weighed and measured (I wonder if they would accept the reading from the grocery store weight machine next to the apple display as official). Off we went and I put the babe down on the cold, funny smelling baby scale. The nurse puts her arms up - to make it known that she isn't touching the babe or altering the weight reading in any way - and declares that the babe is now 11 pounds and 7 ounces. I was then asked to hold the babe's head against the top of the scale - in order to get an accurate height reading from a squirmy little pile of baby that doesn't want to sit still - and was told the babe is 23 inches. While I agree with the weight, the height leaves something to be desired.
We made our way back to the exam room and patiently waiting for the doctor to make her appearance. I was so excited to tell her all of the babe's new tricks and accomplishments that I couldn't BREATHE!! Finally she came into the room and shook our hands before pulling up the babe's medical records. She asked if the man or I had any questions and we didn't so she moved on to the exam part. The doctor checked her ears, eyes, nose and tummy. She made sure the babe didn't have a diaper rash that had been overlooked and checked her reflexes. Then she moved on to developmental milestone questions. The doctor had the babe hold onto her fingers to get her to sit up - which she did gracefully - and then put her back down. She asked how the babe was eating - THIS WAS MY MOMENT - so I responded that she was eating formula throughout the day and was getting oatmeal for breakfast and 1/3 a container of solid foods for dinner since the previous month. As I explained that the babe loved bananas, sweet potatoes and squash, I neglected to see the look of horror that was coming from the doctor.
Apparently it is not good to feed little ones solid food before 4 months old. Well, our babe is quite advanced and is doing just fine eating solid foods - THANKYOUVERYMUCH!! The the doctor pulls out weight-to-length charts and tries telling us that the babe is in the 5th percentile and isn't gaining enough weight for her size. The babe is petite - not very tall - as are my husband and I, so I wouldn't expect her to gain a ton of weight right away. The doctor also suggested having us come back for a 5-month follow-up to make sure the babe was gaining weight correctly.
I'm sorry, but NO! I am feeding my child PLENTY, she eats like a piglet when she is hungry and there is nothing you can do to make me force food down her throat. If she isn't hungry then she isn't going to eat. Apparently the doctor saw I was getting quite agitated and said the follow-up wouldn't be necessary. That is one major issue with Americans these days...they are so obsessed with weight that they neglect the health side of the argument. If the babe is small and healthy it shouldn't matter that she is 45% smaller than her "average" peers.
Tuesday, November 10
Lesson #10 - Hope For The Best...Plan For The Worst
There comes a time in everyone's life where they wake up on day and the chain of events which occurs throughout the day makes them say, "You have GOT to f@#king be kidding me!" For the man and I - today was one of those days.
Let us all - for a moment - turn the clock back to my high school days. I always told myself that it would not be wise to date - or marry, for that matter - any man who chose o be a firefighter, police officer, astronaut, king crab fisherman, pilot or was in any branch of the military (yes, even the Coast Guard).
It is now safe to jump forward - but not too forward - to October of last year. The man and I had been together for only a short while, but my mind would always think about the above mentioned what-if scenarios. My thoughts regarding the perfect husband were selfish, I admit. Who isn't selfish once in a while, I ask?! Anyways, my heart would speed up considerably when I considered how I would handle "the call." You know the...there s a voice on the other end that says, "I'm in the hospital, BUT DON'T WORRY...I'M OKAY." Really?!?! Why couldn't you start off with something a little better and ease me into the situation?! Something like, "I saved some child from being kidnapped (this should be replaced with the actual situation which transpired). I may be in the hospital, but you should see the other guy!" Okay, I don't know how much better that would really be, but anything i better than starting a sentence with "I'm in the hospital."
Well, in October of 2008 I got “the call” from the man. He proceeded to explain that while he was in the hospital, the fight was for a justified cause and the other guy really was in worse shape. I later found out that he was speaking the truth, but at the time I couldn’t care less! I was freaking out and sick with worry. Hours later he finally got home with a missing lens to his sunglasses, bruised ribs, a ripped shirt and a dirty face. Apparently he was involved in a little (read: huge) scuffle and, I'm told, the other guy looked much worse. There was no real damage/injury, so I got over it.
Only a short 13 months later, I got "the call" again. Though, this time it was me making the call. I was on my way home from work and decided to call the man at work to see how he was doing. The man answered his phone sounding a bit agitated. I asked how work was going and if he was okay. What came next was completely unexpected. "I am at the hospital. I hurt myself at work and had to take myself to the ER. Gotta go now, the doctor is about to put my cast on," he says.
You can imagine my reaction went something like, "Wait. What? Hospital? Why didn't you CALL me??"
"I am calling you now, but I have to go so the doctor can deal with the cast."
"You didn't call me...I called you. Do I have to go and pick you up?
"No. I can make it home by myself. I'm fine. Really."
When the man finally did get home, he changed and got into bed. He was so tired and so was I to be honest. I didn't get hurt or sit in a waiting room or even drive back and forth to get the man from the hospital. I did, however, spend a hour longer in traffic to get home and a few hours with a screaming baby as soon as I walked in the door from work. As we laid in bed trying to talk about our activities that day, the man stops and look at me.
"Well, I tried not to get myself checked into the ER again. If I were you, I'd be prepared to get another call next December. That is only if I keep up with this pattern, though."
Oh joy! The countdown to "the call" has begun.
Let us all - for a moment - turn the clock back to my high school days. I always told myself that it would not be wise to date - or marry, for that matter - any man who chose o be a firefighter, police officer, astronaut, king crab fisherman, pilot or was in any branch of the military (yes, even the Coast Guard).
It is now safe to jump forward - but not too forward - to October of last year. The man and I had been together for only a short while, but my mind would always think about the above mentioned what-if scenarios. My thoughts regarding the perfect husband were selfish, I admit. Who isn't selfish once in a while, I ask?! Anyways, my heart would speed up considerably when I considered how I would handle "the call." You know the...there s a voice on the other end that says, "I'm in the hospital, BUT DON'T WORRY...I'M OKAY." Really?!?! Why couldn't you start off with something a little better and ease me into the situation?! Something like, "I saved some child from being kidnapped (this should be replaced with the actual situation which transpired). I may be in the hospital, but you should see the other guy!" Okay, I don't know how much better that would really be, but anything i better than starting a sentence with "I'm in the hospital."
Well, in October of 2008 I got “the call” from the man. He proceeded to explain that while he was in the hospital, the fight was for a justified cause and the other guy really was in worse shape. I later found out that he was speaking the truth, but at the time I couldn’t care less! I was freaking out and sick with worry. Hours later he finally got home with a missing lens to his sunglasses, bruised ribs, a ripped shirt and a dirty face. Apparently he was involved in a little (read: huge) scuffle and, I'm told, the other guy looked much worse. There was no real damage/injury, so I got over it.
Only a short 13 months later, I got "the call" again. Though, this time it was me making the call. I was on my way home from work and decided to call the man at work to see how he was doing. The man answered his phone sounding a bit agitated. I asked how work was going and if he was okay. What came next was completely unexpected. "I am at the hospital. I hurt myself at work and had to take myself to the ER. Gotta go now, the doctor is about to put my cast on," he says.
You can imagine my reaction went something like, "Wait. What? Hospital? Why didn't you CALL me??"
"I am calling you now, but I have to go so the doctor can deal with the cast."
"You didn't call me...I called you. Do I have to go and pick you up?
"No. I can make it home by myself. I'm fine. Really."
When the man finally did get home, he changed and got into bed. He was so tired and so was I to be honest. I didn't get hurt or sit in a waiting room or even drive back and forth to get the man from the hospital. I did, however, spend a hour longer in traffic to get home and a few hours with a screaming baby as soon as I walked in the door from work. As we laid in bed trying to talk about our activities that day, the man stops and look at me.
"Well, I tried not to get myself checked into the ER again. If I were you, I'd be prepared to get another call next December. That is only if I keep up with this pattern, though."
Oh joy! The countdown to "the call" has begun.
Sunday, November 1
Lesson #9 - Always Know Where A Hospital Is
I was sitting in the house reminiscing the other day when I remember this hysterical event that occurred when I was younger (and if you happen to be my father, you should stop reading now).
So one day my family decides to go to the mall...which was a big deal when I was a kid because the closest mall was about an hour away (I know, feel bad for me...very bad). We all had a great time during this family outing. Before leaving the mall, my mom (what a wise woman) asked if I had to use the "little girls' room." When mom asks about the bathroom it usually means that she has to go and I get to tag along whether I liked it or not. Of course I thought to myself that I didn't have to go, but really I did and I realized this fact once we finally reached the cleanest women's restroom in the mall - at Nordstrom.
Note: Isn't it funny how parents always try to make the bathroom seem like a secret club by calling it the "little girls' room" or "little boys' room"?? It always baffled me as a child and, when I could ask on my own, I would say bathroom or restroom. Now, as a mother, I catch myself asking the customer service representative at any given store for the "little girls' room"...I just can't explain it.
As we walked out of the "little girls' room" my mom asked my dad if he had used the "little boys' room." He made a stink about being old enough to know when he did and did not have "to go" and the conversation ended there. Just like that.
The family piled into the car and we made our way back home. As I did - and still do - on car trips, I fell asleep in the back seat. There is just something about being a passenger in a car that makes me fall into a deep sleep - something I wish the babe would appreciate as much as I do. I digress.
I was abruptly awoken, a mere 10 minutes away from our home, when the car began whipping through what looked like a hospital parking lot. Immediately I asked if everything was okay, was someone hurt, why we were heading towards the emergency room entrance and if there was anything I could do. My mom hushed me and dad screeched to a halt in the closest spot to the ER Door. I have never seen a man jump out of a car so quickly in my life...I swear he broke the sound barrier with the way he ran towards the door. I stayed back in the car with my mom and we sat there for what seemed like FOREVER (though it was probably only a minute) before I asked what was wrong.
"Your father had to go to the bathroom. VERY badly. He couldn't wait until we got home and the hospital was the closest place to stop." It all made sense, I guess. If he would have gone when mom asked then he wouldn't have the issue he is faced with now. Time seemed to move like molasses, but dad finally emerged from the ER doors. He had a combination of looks on his face - victorious and embarrassed were the two that stood out. Being who I am, I just couldn't keep my mouth shut when he got back into the car. "Feeling better Old Bird," I asked, laughing (hysterically)!! Of course my dad muttered a few choice expletives under his breath...while I was almost peeing myself I was laughing so hard.
From then on, not only did I heed Mother Hen's advice about using the facilities, but I always made sure to make doubly sure I didn't have to go every time I passed a big blue "H" on the highway.
So one day my family decides to go to the mall...which was a big deal when I was a kid because the closest mall was about an hour away (I know, feel bad for me...very bad). We all had a great time during this family outing. Before leaving the mall, my mom (what a wise woman) asked if I had to use the "little girls' room." When mom asks about the bathroom it usually means that she has to go and I get to tag along whether I liked it or not. Of course I thought to myself that I didn't have to go, but really I did and I realized this fact once we finally reached the cleanest women's restroom in the mall - at Nordstrom.
Note: Isn't it funny how parents always try to make the bathroom seem like a secret club by calling it the "little girls' room" or "little boys' room"?? It always baffled me as a child and, when I could ask on my own, I would say bathroom or restroom. Now, as a mother, I catch myself asking the customer service representative at any given store for the "little girls' room"...I just can't explain it.
As we walked out of the "little girls' room" my mom asked my dad if he had used the "little boys' room." He made a stink about being old enough to know when he did and did not have "to go" and the conversation ended there. Just like that.
The family piled into the car and we made our way back home. As I did - and still do - on car trips, I fell asleep in the back seat. There is just something about being a passenger in a car that makes me fall into a deep sleep - something I wish the babe would appreciate as much as I do. I digress.
I was abruptly awoken, a mere 10 minutes away from our home, when the car began whipping through what looked like a hospital parking lot. Immediately I asked if everything was okay, was someone hurt, why we were heading towards the emergency room entrance and if there was anything I could do. My mom hushed me and dad screeched to a halt in the closest spot to the ER Door. I have never seen a man jump out of a car so quickly in my life...I swear he broke the sound barrier with the way he ran towards the door. I stayed back in the car with my mom and we sat there for what seemed like FOREVER (though it was probably only a minute) before I asked what was wrong.
"Your father had to go to the bathroom. VERY badly. He couldn't wait until we got home and the hospital was the closest place to stop." It all made sense, I guess. If he would have gone when mom asked then he wouldn't have the issue he is faced with now. Time seemed to move like molasses, but dad finally emerged from the ER doors. He had a combination of looks on his face - victorious and embarrassed were the two that stood out. Being who I am, I just couldn't keep my mouth shut when he got back into the car. "Feeling better Old Bird," I asked, laughing (hysterically)!! Of course my dad muttered a few choice expletives under his breath...while I was almost peeing myself I was laughing so hard.
From then on, not only did I heed Mother Hen's advice about using the facilities, but I always made sure to make doubly sure I didn't have to go every time I passed a big blue "H" on the highway.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
