Interlude

Ever have the kind of experience that makes your head spin in so many ways you can't distinguish which direction is up?

That's the best description I can give for the past few days. We attempted a nice four day beach vacation to my hometown. It was absolutely, hands down, without a doubt anything but nice. So much not niceness happened I can not delve into it in this post. My head is still swimming, literally...from what the doctor described as a rip-roaring inner ear infection. I need to take a day or two, try to process the illnesses that proved insurmountable, the doctor and pharmacy visits, the insistent refusal to consume medicines, the power struggle between grandparent and parent, the hurt feelings, and mostly, the disappointment. If I were to write now, I would blubber on in a whiney, sobbing fashion surely telling the wrong story in entirely the wrong way.

I will take a deep breath, sleep on it and...in the word's of my husband, "revisit it when cooler heads prevail." Trust me, with all the fever up in here we could certainly use cooler heads.

Baking Bread

Alice has an ouchie vagina, yeast infection to be proper.

Side Note: I'm afraid to say, I think today's post is one that will come back to bite me in the ass when Alice is old enough to peruse the Internet. I'm quite confident she will not like me talking openly with everyone about her nether region, but then again, I didn't exactly like how she treated mine 4 years ago. Maybe now we'll be even. Come to think of it, 21 hours of later, 4 hours of pushing...not even close to even yet.

It started over the weekend, the complaint of an ouchie vagina. I love that my daughter uses the word vagina. I know some parents elect to name genitals silly nicknames or just refer to them as privates, not me. Years ago I taughter her, her leg was called a leg, her elbow was called an elbow, and her vagina was called a vagina. It was a simple parenting decision for me.

Back to the ouchie va-jay-jay...I had her lie down so I could inspect the situation, see what was really going on. You know what I determined as a card carrying member of the vagina club myself? I had no clue what the inside of a 4 year old vagina was supposed to look like. It was a weird predicament to be in. I'd diapered her for 2 years and bathed her every other day, ahem, every fourth day, and yet I had no clue what her healthy, um, inside was supposed to look like. I knew that hers, on Sunday, didn't look exactly like I thought it probably should. I know the anatomy. There are 3 holes down there, and one of hers looked a little out of sorts. And it was oozing a bit, I think discharge is the appropriate term. Still though, I wasn't sure. Maybe that's just what it looked like? I called in back up, my eldest sister. Alice was completely comfortable. Freely holding her own legs up in the air for all to inspect what's supposed to be the most private of parts. No modesty what so ever. After further inspection, it was confirmed...her vag didn't look right.

Upon further complaints Monday, I spent the better part of the evening researching all the possible causes of my poor girls pain and hoping to find research to convince me I did not need to spend Tuesday morning sitting in the germ infested pediatric office.

Tuesday morning I found myself in said office, holding my breath hoping my daugher for once would not be the kid screaming as soon as she set foot on the premises. Until Tuesday, June 12, Alice had screamed and cried every single mothafokking time she had visited the doctor. I don't just mean a little whimper. I mean, regardless of shots or no shots, she cried from the moment we walked back towards the office until we walked down the hall to leave the building. Until Tuesday, my pediatrician had never heard Alice speak a word except "Mama! Mama!" And she's been talking since 9 months old. I think they hate us there.

Anyway, the good doctor confirmed, yeast. Apparently, little kids are unhygienic filthy beings. And their dirtiness can cause bad things like pink eye and yeast infection. Maybe if Alice would heed my constant advice, "Front to back, for the love of God, FRONT TO BACK!!" she wouldn't be dealing with a funky, painful crotch, now would she!? From the words of Mother Gothel, "Mother...knows best!"

Yesterday Was My Day

I know what the problem was, yesterday was the best day I'd had in awhile. Not sure what it was, maybe the stars were aligned properly and the cosmos was working in my favor. It set the bar entirely too high for today. Silly me, woke with brilliant optimism, thinking today could be another yesterday. Ha!

I should have known better, right from the start, when Alice broke her 8 night record and woke me up at 6am with pee soaked sheets and pajamas. Hind sight. Instead, I got out of bed with a spring in my step. Opening the windows, breathing the crisp, morning air, the day held the promise of possibilities.

I'm not sure when it started to deteriorate. Maybe when Hatta called and told me he had been pulled over on his way to work for the very same expired tags he received a ticket for a week ago. Or possibly when I knocked a snack cup of Goldfish on the floor. Perhaps when I over watered 2 house plants and the water poured over the radiator down to the floor. Maybe it was when I, yet again, spilled water all over the floor in an attempt to water the front garden. Perchance it happened when Alice, jumping on the dog bed, smacked her head into the wall leaving a lump. On her head, not the wall.

No. It wasn't that. At that point I was still naively thinking today could be a close second to yesterday. I hadn't given up, as my tweet said, "I'm trying really hard." I had every intention of rocking it at the mom job. I wasnt defeated. I took Alice to a playground near the airport. We usually have a picnic and watch the planes fly in to land.

Nice pic, huh? Except, I didn't take that today. No. See, today, the planes were not landing for our viewing pleasure. Instead, they were departing, over top of our heads, at the rate of 1 plane every 15 minutes. Not nearly the impressive impact on a 3 year old as the usual, 1 plane landing every, I dunno, 3 minutes. My outing was a bust. Alice was bored and tired. I was finally defeated.

Ready to concede, I told Alice it was time to go home. She burst out sceaming "NO!" repeatedly and as loudly as possible. Everyone was watching, I'm sure. Whatever. I was so done, I wasn't even embarrassed as I climbed the playground to drag her naughty behind out of there, crying the whole way. You know what? She cried the entire 25 minutes home, too. Icing on the cake.

Today, Friday, May 18th, you win. Today was not my day. I was its bitch. And sadly, I still have many hours left before I can pull the covers over my head and wishfully hope tomorrow is better.

In Case I Die

Alice loves fruit...sort of. If you give her a bowl of blueberries and strawberries, she won't eat them. But if you take that same bowl of fruit, add other fruits, tofu, and yogurt, throw it all in the food processor, she'll eat it. I make smoothies and popsicles daily. I'm a good mom. It occurred to me over the weekend that my husband has never made Alice a smoothie. Because I was short on time and had other things to do in the kitchen, I had to verbally walk my husband through the process. And I said to him, "now if I die, at least you know how to make a smoothie."

Tomorrow morning, I will be having my wisdom teeth removed. I've read that things that can go wrong. I could have permanent nerve damage, never being able to move my tongue again, or worse, death. Even though I have been reassured that the odds are in my my favor I will not die of anesthesia and many people endure this rite of passage and come out unscathed, I find it better to err on the side of pessimism caution.

I present to you my list of things someone needs to know in case I, um, well...just in case.

• The sewing kit is on the second shelf in the hutch.
• Water my plants. If my ficus tree or the orchid in the bathroom dies, I'll haunt you.
• Library books are due Friday. Late fees suck.
• Ramen noodles rock. I expect someone to teach Alice the fine art of making an oodles of noodles sandwich.
• White vinegar and baking soda will clean just about anything.
• When making aforementioned smoothies, don't add raspberries or blackberries. She hates the seeds.
• A little MSG will not kill you. Moderation is the spice of life.
• I have hand-me-downs organized in the basement up to size 6. After that, you're on your own.
• Pine shats are the best type of mulch.
• I wish to be cremated. Do not spend money on a fancy urn to hold my ashes. A cardboard box is a sufficient container to transport me. Please spread my ashes in my grandmothers cottage garden and in the ocean.
• Speaking of ashes, the remains of my childhood dog is in my basement. Please spread him in the garden with me and also in the pond behind my mother's old house.
• Wear sunscreen. Alice, like myself, is fair skinned. Don't let her burn.
• When life is shitty, there's nothing wrong with getting ice cream or cake to try and cheer yourself up.
• On Valentine's day, send Alice balloons to school...every year.
• You can never spoil a child by buying too many books.
• I'll save you the time looking. I do not have a 9x13 baking pan.
• The upholstery attachment for the vacuum is under the kitchen sink.
• Don't wash the black cloth napkins with anything else. No matter how much I wash them, they still bleed.
• Continue to remind my daughter that she is brilliant and beautiful and unique.

I suppose that will do for now. Besides, I'm sure I'll be just fine tomorrow. Nothing to worry about. Piece of cake.

Everyone Heals Differently

I've been playing this game for awhile, maybe you've heard of it? It's called "How Long Can I Avoid Having My Wisdom Teeth Removed?" It's similar to another game I like called "How Long Can I Avoid a Tetanus Shot?" I rock at that game. I'm the reigning champion. I think the last time I was forced to get a tetanus shot was middle school. College was a close call with it being mandatory for admittance and all. I dodged it as long as I could. Just as I was about to be forced to forfeit, luck turned up on my side by way of a vaccination shortage.

You might ask why one would choose to play these games. Let me enlighten thee. It's rather simple. Either a.) You're afraid of needles, b.) You're afraid of hospitals and doctors offices, c.) You're afraid of pain or d.) All of the above. I can attest, avoidance is always easier.

Anyway, back to the original game I've been playing for quite some time. It seems, sadly, my time playing was all for nothing. I must graciously bow out, admit defeat. All four of my wisdom teeth will be forcefully sliced and ripped from my mouth a week from Thursday. Nevermind the months I patiently suffered while my wisdom teeth tore every filament of my gums just so they could break the surface and join the rest of my teeth. Forget about the extra minutes I was forced to spend every week brushing and flossing four extra teeth. All for naught, I tell you. All for naught.

Today, I found myself in the oral surgeons office, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, filling out pages 1,2,3, and 7 where I'm sure I agreed not to sue them if they cause me pain and suffering by accidentally removing the wrong teeth. I was trying to complete the paperwork with my legs shaking the clipboard (see letters a, b, c, and d from above,) when up to the counter walks this small, dark haired college girl. I guess she was about 19. I listen to her conversation with the office assistant and instantly, I'm sucked in like a moth to a flame. I could have given up rights to my second child in the paperwork for all I know.

She's trying to make an appointment to have her wisdom teeth out.

"I have an 8, a 9:45, and a 10:30."

"Don't you have anything later, I have class in the morning."

"No, I'm sorry we only do them in the mornings. Blah blah blah dehydration. Blah blah blah. And you know you have to have somebody here to drive you home after surgery," the assistant tells her with a tone in her voice.

"Oh, okay. I guess my mom could bring me and my friend could pick me up."

"No, no that's not going to work. Someone has to be here in the office the entire time of the surgery and then drive you home." This time she's a touch rude with the meek girl.

"Um, okay. I'll be able to go back to school after the surgery cause I have class, right?"

"No, no. You're going to have to stay home the rest of the day,"

"But the next day, I'll be able to go to class the next morning, though."

"It all depends, everyone heals differently," she says. And I have to applaud her for not laughing aloud in the poor, foolish girls face.

Has this dewey-eyed girl never known anyone who's had their wisdom teeth removed? I nursed a boyfriend during college through his recovery, I still shudder at the blood and the pain. I was friends with my husband when he had his removed. I watched him eat mashed potatoes and jell-o for days. This little girl has clearly not been playing the game. She's one of those that never even knew the game existed. I feel for her. On Wednesday, at 8:00am, she will experience what my mother referred to as worse than childbirth. She delivered three babies, naturally, without drugs. Wisdom teeth extraction worse than that. And this girl hasn't got a clue. Had she, she would've been playing the game right alongside me.

The Worst Thing Ever

My daughter has a strong passion for drama and the worst thing ever happened to her Tuesday at dinner. She scraped the top of a toe. My reenactment of the episode will surely not do it justice.

"Oh Mama! Look what happened!" Alice whines to me as she holds her foot up in the air.

I glance quickly. I see a scrape the size of a pencil eraser on the top of her middle toe, not even as big as a lima bean, more like a green pea.

"Put it in my lap, let me look at it. It looks like its bleeding."

"Noo Mama! Dont touch it! You can't clean it. Oh no!"

"Alice, just put it up here now. I'm not touching it. We'll clean it when we go upstairs to brush your teeth."

"I don't want Papa to come home. He can't hold me down! Hurry let's go to bed before Papa gets home."

"Well, if you just let me clean it a little, then no one has to hold you down," I try reasoning with her.

Alice stews over this injury for the rest of dinner. She is visibly stressed and anxious about the impending doom. As she goes potty and brushes her teeth, it sounds like this.

"You can't clean it Maamaa! Please don't. Oh Mama, it hurts. This is sooo awful. I don't know how I'm going to brush my teeth with this ouchie on my foot. This is sooo bad!"

Now she's in and out of tears, sad and pathetic and I can't help laughing, though I try to hide it.

"I don't ever want that to happen again, Mama. It's the worst thing ever. I don't want to get a splinter again either." She had her first splinter two days prior. "What am I gonna do, Mama? This is so bad. I don't want you to clean it. Pleeeease, Mama don't clean it. It's fine. I don't want a band aid. Oh it's gonna hurt. Please, no band aid."

My child is the only child I know that hates band aids. They are so feared that she would rather just sit and hold a tissue on the wound until it stops bleeding. Dora couldn't even persuade her. Without saying anything to her, because I'm laughing aloud now, I get a cotton ball and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, shut the door so she can't escape, and make my way towards her.

"Mama NOOOO!! Please Mama, no. Oh this is the worst thing ever! It's gonna hurt. Oh it's...oh, please no Mama."

"Alice, you're fine. Just sit on the stool and be still."

"Oh it's so ouchie! It's ouchie! It stings. How am I gonna sleep tonight? This ouchie is so terrible! I'm not even going to be able to sleep. It's so bad! I don't want to get blood on my pajamas. I can't wear pajamas to bed or a pull up! Don't EVER let this happen again, Mama! I don't EVER want to get another ouchie AGAIN! This is just so terrible!"

It continues like this the entire time she gets dressed for bed and off and on during book reading. It's the last thing she whines about before I kiss her goodnight and walk out of the room. And don't you know, the first thing she tells me when she wanders into my room the next morning is..

"Mama, I don't like ouchies. They are the worst thing ever. I don't ever want to get one again. Splinters are terrible, too. But Mama, you know what I do like? Ladybugs. Except they don't think we're cool and they fly away."

God forbid, she ever truly gets hurt and needs real medical attention, we are all in trouble. She will be the child strapped down and sedated and yet still putting on an Oscar worthy performance.