Running With Scissors

So now, not only do I think I’m a Preschool Crack Whore (ok, I really don’t, but you have to admit, it does sound funny), but now I’m scheduled to have my gallbladder removed on February 7th.

I know, don’t you wish you were walking around in my size 6’s right now? C’mon, admit it. You know you do.

So during the search to find out what was hurting me down on my left front side (near the female parts), somehow they decided to turn the cameras upward towards my gallbladder and found several large and small stones. What possessed them to do this, I have no idea. Having not taken doctor’s training, I’ll explain it away to the “life’s greater mysteries” section on my scrapbook of life and move on. Suffice it to say they took this to be an important sign, and sent me on my merry way to the General Surgeon for further instruction. All I needed to complete the moment was cool sunglasses that have LCD maps on the inside lenses and an exploding message after 10 seconds.

Surgeon Master (as he will forever be referred as) says based on my age, and healing abilities, it would be best to just go ahead and remove the thing. Something was said about it not really being an important body part anyway. I then realize I’ve heard this conversation spoken to me once before, about 3 years ago when my OBGYN removed my left ovary (what we thought was originally causing me my pain in the first place). Wow, us wimmin folk seem to have a lot of body parts that aren’t very important or necessary, it would seem.

Yikes.

Is it just me, or have I met two doctors who may have trained at the Dr. Hannibal Lecter* School of Doctorhood? Or am I just special?

So, Surgeon Master says, after I explain that the pain originates on my left front side, not my right upper side, that while he’s putting a few incisions in my body, sticking some things in there to take out the gallbladder, AND putting a camera in there for filming and visual purposes (I’m somehow comforted to know that he needs to see where he’s going to take the gallbladder out of my body); when he’s done removing the offending gallbladder, he’ll just turn the camera around to have a look down there and see what could be causing the problem. If it’s a hernia, he’ll fix it. If it is girl parts issues, I’ll have to talk to my OBGYN (I have a new one since “The Great Ovary Caper”) about a second surgery, which can include, but is not limited to: removing my girl parts totally and sending me straight to menopause. (without passing GO or collecting $200. Actually they’ll be the ones collecting the money….and the body parts. Lucky moi.)

Will Buffalo Bill* be in the OR? ‘Cause I’m a thinkin’ he might have some interest in this.

As if I don’t have enough to worry about.

*If these references are making you scratch your head and wonder; “What planet is this chick on?” Please refer to the movie Silence of the Lambs; which can be found at your local movie rental establishment or on Netflix.

Insubordination Station

Nothing makes a parent feel more “parental” then when your child sidles up to your van and looks as if the apocalypse is upon him and says:

“Mom, you are going to kill me.”

In his defense, he’s probably right, and it warms my heart to know two things:

1. He knows I’m going to be mad about whatever he did; and
2. That what he did was so bad, he had to immediately come out and tell me as to avoid his immediate death.

By God, I’ve raised this kid right, I tell you. (I’m kidding. Once the teen years kick in, I’m in for a world of hurt, I’m well aware.)

So, back to the story:

Apparently, M had, what his teacher later told me was, “a bad day”. He hands me this yellow piece of paper that tells me my son has broken the “behavioral rules of the classroom”. I see in the margin that M was “yelling very loudly” at the teacher. M’s explanation starts to get loud too, thereby giving me a “peek inside” the volume and decibel levels that his teacher has to endure. I tell him to stay in the car while I go have a word with the teacher. She tells me that M was talking out of turn to the guest in the class, not raising his hand, and peppering the discussion with his own insight, sometimes on-topic, but mostly off-topic.

His take on this part: “I was helping the guest”.
The teacher’s (and guest’s) take: Being disruptive and rude.

After this came lunch, and then recess, which M hates. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he wanders the recess area, head down, tuning everything out, until it’s time to go in. Since his best (girl) friend moved away, he doesn’t really have anyone to play with (at least in his mind). The teacher tells me that he circled the line of kids when they lined up to go inside; but yet didn’t arrive with the class at the top of the stairs and in the classroom.

Not to worry she says, there are other teachers who’s recess time is longer and the ESE teacher is there, so she knew M would not be unattended.

(SAY WHAT?!?!?!?)

…Let’s pause for a moment so I can quietly freak out. This teacher knows that M needs to have reminders, needs visual and verbal cues, and can’t be expected to “assume” to know what the next step is going to be. Yet nowhere in her telling is there any words about telling M directly (that is really important) that it was time to line up and recess was ending. Holy freaking s*it!!!

So just as the teacher gets the rest of the class settled in the room and begins a lesson, she sends a classmate to go find my son. Even before he can get to the door, in walks M. By now the lesson is underway, and about 10 minutes has elapsed since she last saw my son. M, who apologizes for being late, is told that because he was 10 minutes late getting back to the class, he now has been docked the 10 minutes from tomorrow’s recess time. Now, please go take your seat.

(Can you see what’s coming next? I saw it coming a mile away.)

Immediately M begins to explain it was an accident, he didn’t mean to and it’s not fair. I’m fairly sure it was in that order. It’s the order he uses quite a bit at home when he gets in trouble. However, in this case, the teacher doesn’t have time to explain the niceties, and needs to get back to her lesson. I understand that, I really do. She also wants him to “own his mistake” and not blame other people or things when he gets in trouble.

He’s a boy, and they’re wired that way automatically, so I can see a problem here when you compound that with Asperger’s Syndrome. Not a pretty picture.

M, now upset and stressed out he has lost any time for doing something he doesn’t see as his fault; begins to “state his case” (read: argue) with the teacher. Loudly. Then drops to his knees in front of the whole class and pound his fists on either side of his head. These are typical AS behaviors, and the teacher is aware of that; just like she is aware of the reasons why M was late getting back to class. She’s ready to forgive him for that, but just wants him to understand that because he got 10 extra minutes that the other students did not, he has to make up that time tomorrow.

However, she doesn’t explain this to him in that moment, she tells him he’s going to miss 10 minutes of recess tomorrow, and he needs to get in his seat and get to work.

He gets louder in his explanation, feeling that decibel level will change her mind and all will be understood.

Sadly for him, it is not. In the meantime, she has lost him emotionally and mentally. He’s shutting down in front of his classmates, which is never pretty, and if he didn’t have such an understanding teacher and classmates, could be ammo for being picked on mercilessly.

Apparently she had to stop the lesson, calm him down, and gave him the letter to give to me, which sent him off again on a tangent where he repeatedly told her that “my mom is going to kill me.”

She tells me all of this, and lets me know that had this been any other student, he would have gone to the Principal’s Office on a referral. I understand that, and I appreciate her candor. What bothers me though is that I warned her to expect things like this right after the holidays, and that we adjusted his medication, so old behaviors might resurface. She tells me that he came to her last week and said he was hearing voices. That might have been nice to know last week, when I could have asked him about it while it was fresh in his mind instead of a week later when it was nonexistent. I also understand the reasoning that he needs to “own” his mistakes. But without cues and reminders; M doesn’t always remember. Just when you think he’s got it down, he regresses. Or forgets. If he’s stressed out about something, plan on reminding him a lot.

My point (and I do have one), is that bless her heart, but she should have known this.

It would be different if I wasn’t accessible, and she could never chat with me. But I’m at the school all the time. I’m not kidding. Today, I was up there 3 times. Once to drop off the kids, once to drop off juice for R’s classroom snack, and finally to pick them up at school. My cell phone is on at all times. I’m not hard to find. Honest. And yet, after my son’s “bad day”, I now need to know everything? Wouldn’t some of this have helped to know about last week?

Don’t get me wrong. I love M’s teacher. She is (besides me) my strongest advocate in his school. But sometimes I have to pause and wonder what she’s thinking. Or not thinking.

Guess it’s time once again to call another meeting.

I love meetings. (use lots of sarcasm when reading that last sentence. I did.)

I’m Either A Preschool Crack Whore…

…Or a pin cushion; I haven’t decided.

So along with all the ailments, I have allergies. I know, yay me. My doctor took some blood and sent it off for testing awhile ago (March 2005), and it came back saying I was highly allergic to dust mites. M’kay. So this meant allergy medication and a weekly shot.

Have I mentioned how much I hate shots?

My kids take better shots than I do. Drawing blood is another one. Not a big fan, me. So now I’m signing on to weekly shots, plus many allergy medications. Yeah, I must be desperate.

Fast forward to early January. Back from Albany, I have a sinus infection (my third or fourth since starting allergy care) and vertigo, plus post-nasal drip that is making me nauseous and unable to eat. My brilliant doctor then tells me that “maybe you need to see an allergist, there seems to be more going on here.”

You think?

So yesterday I hoofed it into Orlando to see an allergist. Nice guy, funny, took all my info, and informs me that the test my doctor ran was not thorough enough, and I could be allergic to more than just dust mites. The one he’ll be running should help answer some questions.

All right…

So in comes this lovely nurse with this thing with 8 arms on it. Correction, many of those 8-armed things. With small needley things at the end. She clears this up by saying ” we’re just going to put these on your arms and see what happens. They won’t hurt a bit.

She was right, they didn’t. What they did to my skin within 15 minutes did.

It felt like red ants were camping on my arms. Plus, she added these purple dots up and down my arms to mark where she had put different 8-legged things with serum on them, to match her sheet.

I looked like I had track marks up and down my arm. It was quite a sight.

So, after that test concluded, there was even more torture in store for me.

Next came a nurse with a bowl of syringes with vials at the end. She comes in wielding the same purple marker and on my shoulders starts putting numbers that correspond to her vials. I then get injected in those areas with the numbers, and we sit back and wait.

More like she leaves the room and I start writhing in pain. But now, with the numbers on my shoulders and the track marks and dots from the tests on my arms, I’m feeling kinda preschool crack whore-ish.

But the pain!!!

My shoulders puffed up like Jackie Collins’ on Dynasty. They was lookin’ a bit lumpy.

So this test concluded, and the doctor reports that yes, in fact, I am allergic to more than just dust mites. I’m also allergic to:

Dander
Bayberry
Several Tree Pollens
Mold
Bahia Grass (which is what my lawn consists of)
Ragweed (which is what my lawn also consists of)
Cockroach dust (not to be confused with pixie dust that Tinkerbell leaves, but apparently you don’t have to have a roach problem to have this. You just have to live in an area that has cockroaches living there. That pretty much covers the who U.S. of A.)
…and Dust Mites.

So they give me a shot and tell me to come back next week for the new “cocktail” I’ll now be enjoying. I wonder if it comes shaken or stirred?

Now I have to go and tell my kids we have to get rid of our cat. Seeing as M forgets to feed her on a regular basis, and R is scared of her (for no reason); I see little difficulty in breaking the news.

My husband will be a different matter.

Sorry, honey.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

So, as I have typed in recent posts, the entire family has some ailment or another. Usually, we time it so well that only one of us has something ill-like going on, or just as one is finishing being sick, another one picks up the baton; kind of like a sickness relay race. I’m sure to the outsider, it’s poetry in motion; but to us, it’s a Dante’s Inferno kind of thing.

The past two weeks have been very much like the third circle of hell kind of weeks; and may we never have to go through that again anytime soon.

R kicked it off by bringing home the classroom “sickness du jour” of stomach flu. We had heard rumors of it going around, and my mom-in-law’s ballet school had their own strain of it going around. That had felled her over the holidays, but by the time she watched the kids for us to have that wild weekend in Albany she was fit as a fiddle.

Apparently flu germs have a shelf-life.

R kicked off Saturday morning by saying “I have to go cough in the toilet”.

Pretty astute for an almost 4 year old, I’d say.

He proceeded to spend pretty much all day “coughing in the toilet”.

Blissfully, he passed out early and Sunday he seemed better; although he wasn’t eating much.

Sunday was chill-out day, as I was still recuperating from vertigo. (Which I still have depending on how I move my head.)

Monday we went to a friend’s new home in a town called Celebration. This was originally the brainchild of Disney. Walt wanted to build a community geared toward families. In theory, they have achieved their goals. It’s a very nice, very clean, very safe place to live and work. I saw many kids in the Market Street section in groups without parents near. Everything is within walking or electric car distance; so it’s very much like a circa 1950’s town. We had a lovely day walking to the lake, eating pizza then feeding the ducks our pizza crusts (pictures to come in the flikr thing soon), then playing in one of the little parks near a community swimming pool. It was a great day. The house our friends have moved into is lovely, and it looks like they will be very happy there.

If I had a choice to live there? I’d have to seriously think about it.

It IS nice. The schools seem great. M would really like it there I think. (Heck, who am I kidding? He’d LOVE it there. The friend we went to see is his “girlfriend” of sorts.)

I just don’t know if I could do it. It looks very “Stepford”-like, and that makes me uncomfortable. Not that I’m going to put out a gaggle of pink flamingos on my lawn or anything, but there are definite things you can and cannot do there; and the can-nots outweigh the can-s pretty strongly.

But I digress…

So we get home from visiting our friends and I make pasta. We eat and get ready for bed and M tells me his “tummy feels funny”.

Uh-oh.

He gets into bed and within 10 minutes hurls everywhere. Yuck. Did I mention he sleeps on the top bunk of a bunk bed? Have you any idea how difficult it is to change the sheets on these things? It’s like a game of Twister with the board on an upper shelf.

Oh, yeah, M was sick. Back to that….

So his “coughing in the toilet” ensues. It turns into “coughing in a bowl”, and my favorite; “coughing on the nice pillows on the sofa”.

Me and the water company are real tight. I was their best customer that night.

He threw up EVERYWHERE!

I finally got him to bed and asleep at around 4am.

Needless to say, no one went to school the next day.

It didn’t take long, I got hit with it, with the hubby hot on my heels. By noon yesterday, hubby was in bed with the heating pad because he was so cold (in between vomiting spells in the bathroom), and I was on the sofa making sure the kids were being supervised while I dozed hoping to die quickly and with no more vomiting.

We traded spots at about 4pm, so he could watch the kids and I could rest.

We felt good enough later on to round out the evening watching American Idol before crawling into bed.

Today has been slow-going, trying to pace myself while cleaning up the mess my house has become. Sitting down is better than moving around, I have found.

Here’s hoping this doesn’t hit your house. It’s a doozy!
(Sorry to anyone we may have inadvertently given this to. really, REALLY sorry.)

Picture Pages, Picture Pages, Open Up Your Picture Pages….

…time to get your crayons and your pencils!

Oy, I’m so old!

Anyhoo, I put some photos up in here. Check out the right white bar under the heading “Snapshots of My Life”.

Enjoy!

(but not enough that you steal my photos and make my family yours. Not cool.)

Back to my own personal roller coaster ride, complete with nausea!

Yee Haw!

Sorry.

For not posting recently.

For the lack of photos.

For oh, so many things.

I’ll be back to my old self in a few days, once the vertigo goes away.

It was my gift from Albany.

Yay me.

Laters.

Emeril… be afraid, be VERY afraid…

My son M has got his eyes on your culinary throne.

Believe it.

Tonight was M’s first night cooking the family a meal. We were gifted (by Santa) with a cookbook by Rachael Ray called Cooking Rocks! 30 Minute Meals for Kids. I told M that it would be kind of cool if he picked out something in this book he’d like to try to cook this week.

A meal cooked by my kid, if you will. I’m down with that. Wouldn’t you be?

M has been my finickiest eater. It has been just recently (within the past year) that he has even attempted to try anything new to eat. Not to mention (but you know I will) that he is my most vocal opponent when it comes to meals. He’s one of those kids that has to have his food separated on his plate. Nothing can touch. Those partitioned plates were made for him, I swear. Everything has to be covered in BBQ sauce. It’s just how he is.

So back to His Vocalness. Before a morsel of food touches his lips, he generally has a lot to say about what I’m cooking for dinner. LOUDLY and FREQUENTLY. It starts with “What’s that smell? It smells funny, mom.” and ends with some of the funniest barf faces he can make (which is many) at the table. There have been many nights that I think hubby and I, while being completely grossed out and pissed off at M for his dinner table antics; are secretly supressing a laugh that would rock the house if we would only let it out. It’s never a dull moment, and in the process, he manages to freak out his younger brother so much that now R is copping attitude when it comes to dinner. I tell you, if he could, R would subsist only on Cheetos if given the green light. Say, maybe I should warn Britney Spears about him…. nah… She’s probably got him beat.

Still…

So tonight was M’s turn to cook. He chose a relatively easy dish that should be acceptable to everyone (anything would be acceptable to me that didn’t say Lunchable on it, M’s original dinner request). Pasta with Trees. Pasta, Broccoli, Olive Oil, Butter and Parmesean Cheese. No lie, those are the ingredients. There is like maybe five steps to cooking this, and boiling water is one of them.

M was a little hesitant about being near the oven; I suppose he really did pay attention when I yelled for him to stay out of the kitchen so he didn’t get burned by the oven. I didn’t think that lesson had really stuck. Wow… Anyway, I digress. He carefully measured things out, and with my small assistance put it together. He wasn’t thrilled when the broccoli mixed with the cheese and then the pasta, but he promised me he’d try it anyway.

I was so proud of him for that. That was huge.

I spooned some into a bowl for R, and brought it out to the “baby table” (read: our coffee table in front of the big screen TV. This is the impetus for another post, trust me. It’s coming.). R took one look at it, and immediately refused to eat it. Then he started to do the yuck faces his brother taught him.

I suppressed a laugh that would have shaken your house.

From the kitchen, I could hear M say “He’d better eat it, I made it, and he’s not being very nice.”

Of course, being a mom, I had to “enlighten” my son on the irony of this moment, and that this is exactly what he does to me many nights when I make dinner.

You know what he said?

“Mom, I won’t do that again. It’s not nice and it hurts my feelings.”

I could almost see the light bulb click on above his head.

Almost.

We’ll see what happens next time I’m cooking. Which should be soon.

P.S. About M’s dinner. It was really good! He was so proud of himself, and I kept telling him how delicious it was and how proud I was that he had cooked his family a meal. We even have leftovers for Daddy when he comes back from his business trip in Albany. He’s excited to do this next week.

(M cooking another meal. Daddy doesn’t know about the leftovers yet… okay maybe now he does.)

I’m excited for M too. He’s gonna be making 5 course meals in no time!

He’s on his way, Emeril. Watch out!

Did You Feel That Tremor????

It wasn’t an earthquake… it was ME!!!!

Doing my happy-me mommy dance, of course!

Today the kids went back to school for a full day.

Yay me.

I’M FREE…. I’M FREE… I’M…. What’s that?

I have to come back and GET them?

Oh.

(sigh) okay… I’ll be back at 3.

__________

I’ve decided not to stress about the outfit for the party in Albany. Chances are, they don’t even remember what it looks like anyway, and I’ll jazz it up with a scarf they have never seen just to make me feel better. It’ll be just fine.

While I may have relapsed on resolution #1, I’m putting into effect #10. Hah!

___________

Ran errands, filled prescriptions (never ending in this house), got a basketball net, and coffee for the swell guy who’s driving me to the airport tomorrow so I can rendezvous with the hubby in that romantic city, Albany, New York. You didn’t know it was the secret romantic spot on the planet? Me neither, to tell the truth. But anywhere these two things come in to play can be the makings of romance:

1. No kids.

2. Sexy hubby with a hotel room.

Paris, eat your heart out!

Just In Case You Were Keeping Score…

I’ve already blown to hell resolution #1.

Yup, that didn’t take long. At all.

I have some serious junk in my “trunk”. And in the chassis.

I’m doing so much to help it by sitting here and telling you all about it, I’m sure.

But, see, I have to go to Albany this Friday to my husband’s company’s Christmas Party. And I have to look good. No, make that great. I only see these people about once a year, and I have to be the eye candy my husband secretly wants me to be. (Right, honey?) Okay…so it’s not really for him, it’s for me. I have to look good for me. There, I said it. Happy?

Here’s the problem. I live in Florida. Did you catch that? I. Live. In. Florida. The high today was 72 degrees. I’m in a tank top and shorts as I type this. Albany, however, is not 72 degrees. It hasn’t seen degrees in the 70’s since summer. Is my problem becoming clearer for you? I will help you by telling you that I gave away or sold most of my winter clothes before departing Connecticut 5 years ago. (There might have been some cheering and yee-hawing as our car left the New England states, I’m fuzzy on the details. Knowing me, I’m sure there probably was.)

I have one outfit that is suitable for cold weather. One. And I wore it last year. And I think the year before that too. It’s a lovely, grey wool long skirt set that is comfortable, (but hot right now as I try it on here in FLA) and it goes great with boots. Oh, it travels well too. The perfect outfit, wouldn’t you say?

Yes…

…but I wore it last year. I can’t wear it again. I’ll be known as the “wife with one outfit.”

This won’t do.

Now, the other side of my delimma is that well, I live in a warm weather state. There’s not really a call for cold weather fabrics in large quantities. So trying to find another outfit that will hold up in a cold weather locale is the equivalent of finding a needle in a haystack. And trying to find one that doesn’t need to be altered to fit me is like searching for the Holy Grail. Many have tried, but so far, no such luck.

Oh, and I did this today while beign reminded by mom nature that I’m female; which, I have to say, is the BEST time to go clothes shopping. (cough* SARCASM * cough) I highly recommend it. While you’re out there, stop by the dentist for that root canal.

Good times.

Hey, can someone explain this one to me? Why are men’s ties so damned expensive? Do they price them using the same pricing key as women’s underwear? My husband’s ties I got for him today each cost more than the shirts I bought him. Pathetic.

At least women wear their underwear more than men wear their ties.

The ties do look great though. He’s gonna look awesome at the party.

I’ll be the one rockin’ it in the burlap sack in the corner.

Cheers!

You Say You Want Some Resolutions…

sorry, couldn’t resist.

Hee.

Taking a tip from another one of the blogs I read compulsively, here, in no particular order, are some “helpful hints” I hope to implement this year:

1. Stop obessing about my body and just love myself for who I am and what I have become. I have birthed two babies, and will never see a size zero unless I have liposuction and starve myself; both of which I’m not willing to do. So there is more of me to love than there was in 1986. There actually should be, right?

2. Cut back on the reality show madness that has infected my TiVo. Okay, so that’s a “wishful thinking” one. Sorry.
3. Wake up my husband more often with sex. This might work if the kids didn’t wake me up first, which is a HUGE mood killer. Those reading this with kids, know what I speak of.
4. Play more video games with my kids. Just because I can.
5. Play lots of Lazer Tag as a family. If you haven’t discovered this awesome way to bond as a family, well, you need to. Nothing says “I Love You” more than rounding the corner and shooting all the health points of your husband and kids. Brings families closer together running around the house after each other, I tell you. Good times.
6. Ride more roller coasters. Definitely helps take the edge off the fear of heights I have. Helps when I have my hubby by my side.
7. Get the trash and recycled stuff to the curb on time so I don’t miss the pickup. I HATE missing the pickup.
8. Expand my culinary skills. While I’m at it, expand my kid’s dietary menus so I’m not stuck with choices of pizza, hot dogs, spaghettios, and chicken nuggets several times a week. THAT would be nice. With that in mind…
9. Teach M to cook. Preferably without me losing my mind, which is unlikely. I now understand the reason why my mom didn’t really want me to learn how to cook; or more importantly, she really didn’t want to be the one to teach me. Mom, I get it now. Boy, do I get it.
10. Laugh more, live more, and let less stress me out. See #2 and file this one under “wishful thinking”. More like “hopeful thinking”.

That should make 2006 a great year. Bring it on!