Friday, November 30, 2007

Standing up

I sent the kids in to brush their teeth last night.  You'd think I'd learn by now to send them in one at a time, or suffer the consequences of listening to them bicker and argue their way through who stole the toothpaste.

I heard Ben telling Audrey, "Sit DOWN on the toilet!" and I sighed, because I figured she was doing her usual "oh, look at me" admiring gaze while she stood there.  I should just mount a full length mirror in the house for her, because if she's not standing on the toilet, she's standing on my bed to look at herself in the mirror on the dresser.

A couple of seconds later, Ben walks into my bedroom, looking grave.  "Mom,"  he said, "you really need to have a talk with Audrey about sitting on the toilet when she pees.  She was standing in front of it, aiming,"  he pauses, imitating her, horrified.

I'm opening my mouth to reply when, not skipping a beat, Nolan says:  "Geez, Ben, she's more manly than you are."

Ben leapt at Nolan, and I had to peel them apart, reminding Ben that Nolan weighs less than he does at the moment, and I didn't want him to snap any of his twiggy limbs.

First of all, I'm surprised that she was going to use the bathroom with all the kids in there, but I guess if you gotta go, you gotta go. 

Secondly, I've been yelling at the wrong kids, apparently, for missing their mark.  I wonder how many times it was the girl, and not the boys?  Eww.

Thirdly, I can't help but laugh.  Who among us women hasn't wanted to take aim at one point or another?

I had a little chat with her about acting like a lady and using the restroom alone.

Sitting down.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Sharp edges

Monday afternoon, I walked into my room to tell Mr W I was heading out and who was coming with me.  It helps us both to do an occasional head count.

"Ben and Ryan are coming along, and I'm running by Costco first, Ben's wants a hot dog--he's wasting away."  I added.

"Tell Ben to shut up,"  Nolan said, "this..." he pulls down his waistband, exposing a jutting hip bone "..is wasting away."   Mr W and I cracked up, and exchanged a little look of relief, that the boy must be feeling more like himself if he can crack jokes.

Later that evening, I heard the three boys laughing as they came down the hall.  Ben says to me, "Mom, I'm gonna play my trombone and Nolan's gonna play his bass clarinet," he said, pausing for a giggle, "and in the middle of it, Nolan will pull up his shirt and play a xylophone solo," he gestured, pretend mallets playing his ribs.

You can always count on your family.....

It is difficult to see Nolan laying around the house like an emaciated stray cat.  I've started taking him out on little jaunts, mainly to get him to walk around a bit and hopefully, stimulate his appetite some.

He does get tired, but not in the "I'm sleepy" sense, more like the "I just ran a marathon" sense.  We wandered around in Barnes and Noble yesterday so he could get a book for school, and met his Dad for lunch; after that, we had to come home.  I figure I'll take him out a little each day, because he is understandably stir crazy and needs the exercise. 

He shuffles like an old man, but we manage. 

I get nervous that he's walking behind me, and he tries not to roll his eyes at my hovering. 

He's eaten more today than he has all week, and I find that reassuring.  I think he's feeling better.

Which means I feel better, too.

In the spirit

The first Christmas we had in our house, lo those many years ago, Nolan was not quite two, and I was pregnant with Ben.

Mr W was craaaazy that year, giant tree, loads of lights, he was practically bursting with good cheer.  I remember being a little overwhelmed with his zeal, but it was so cute I couldn't rein him in.

Over the years, he continued to put up the lights, but his enthusiasm has waned recently, much in the way my enthusiasm for all things pizza-parlor-birthday-party-stop-those-screaming-kids has waned.  I gently remind him two weeks before Christmas that maybe he should put some lights up, he does it, and we just ooh and ahh over whatever he puts up.

I wasn't sure why he'd gotten so 'eh' about his displays when he'd been so Griswold all those years ago.  Last year he finally let on that he is tired of doing it all by himself and wanted us to help.

Granted, this was not an unreasonable request.  However...he's a little...he can be...kinda  militant about ordering us all around.  I was out there playing peacemaker amidst all the cords.

He even went so far as to let Ben get up on the ladder.  I told Mr W that if an ER trip came out of that, he was going to take it, and I held my breath.  Ben did a great job, and he was so proud of himself that I stopped praying and patted him on the back.

And here we are again, it's the light time of year.

I prepped Mr W right before Thanksgiving:  "Lights.  I want my lights, and I want a lot of them.  No haphazard, will-this-stay-on-through-Christmas strings, will-this-one-short-out-and-burn-the-bush ones, either.  I want...I want you to be just as enthused about it as you were our first Christmas here."  Without me prompting them, the kids started in on him too.

We have awakened the sleeping beast. 

Mr W, who will not set foot in Target without a substantial bribe, especially this time of year, went and looked at lights.  I think he started looking into them when I sent him out for some stuff for Nolan last week.

I tried to explain to him that Costco has better deals on them at lunch yesterday, but he was steadfast, told me to go into Target, what aisle I needed, and to check them out.  Fine.  "Look at the ornaments, too,"  he said.  "Why?"  "Well, I thought that maybe you might want to try something new."  "But ours are fine, and I have all the ones the kids make every year."  I am horrible when it comes to change--they're not broke.  Why fix it?

Last night I dragged him to Costco and showed him my side of the story.   Then he drove me to Target anyway, and showed me his.  "Hey, you were right,"  he said, as he looked at the light boxes and mentally compared the two. 

We started planning right there.  Right as we were leaving, I remembered.

"What was that about the ornaments?"

He took me to the aisle, and after we contemplated tree skirts (I use an old red tablecloth, usually, I'm breaking down, no cats in the house anymore, I want a tree skirt this year), I asked him to show me what he wanted.  "What is that you have in mind?  Are you wanting like, department store tree, or just new ornaments?"

That man surprises me sometimes, he really does.

He went and started pulling out a box.  "I like these."

They're rich red colors, magenta, ruby, darker; with gold on them.  Pretty.  We started matching up different sets to see what we liked, and I was impressed.

"Um, new ornaments?  New lights? I'm sensing a pattern here, next thing you know, you'll be wanting to replace me, it's a matter of time,"  I joked.

He screwed up his face in an expression I've never seen before.  I think it's a face I see on Audrey all the time--the little girl nose wrinkle/head shake, no small feat for a guy.

"Nooo, you're crazy,"  he said.  I know he would've swooped on me, but we were in public, and he is a gentleman...

We started heading out and suddenly he turned and started looking for something else.  I found myself in front of the extension cords and outlet extenders, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't start to worry.  Clark is baa-aack.

There was a man standing with a cart and his wife right in front of where Mr W needed to be.

"Excuse me, sir,"  he said.  They didn't move.  He said it again, a little more barky, but still, "Excuse me, sir."

The man looked at Mr W blankly, but it changed to irritation once the words sunk in.  I couldn't understand why, other than that the guy was right around the same age as Mr W, maybe he was offended by 'sir' the way some women are about 'ma'am', and I'd be lying if I said my heart didn't skip a beat, a little swoony with Mr W's manner.

On our way home, Mr W shook his head, "Did you see that guy look at me all irritated?"  he asked.  "I was surprised, considering that I wasn't trying to be rude." 

I mentally recontemplated the man, who spoke like his head was full of syrup, had horrible feet (if you're wearing flip-flops, for the love of god, take care of your toes) and was accompanied by a woman in a black bra.  How did I know this?  Because she had on a thin pink tshirt.  (A little bitchy there, Anna.) 

I was about to share this with him, but instead, I found myself blurting out:  "Honey.  "Excuse me, sir" is not something people really say all the time anymore. No one really says that, except you!  It's so Southern, so like your Dad!  I think it's adorable that you are so unfailingly polite, but not everyone appreciates that." 

I was grinning.

He might surprise me sometimes, but it's also nice that some things are constant.

Since last night, sugarplum ornaments dance through my head...maybe some change is good.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

My "Family"

I know my kids look out for each other.  There have been plenty of times where I come upon them or overhear conversations that are about how "we'll take care of that" or "Who?  Who said/did that to you?  Oh, I know that kid.  I'm gonna have a word with him/her."  Usually, it is Ben acting as protector, but they all do it.  Nolan's approach is as laid back as his father--"don't let it get to you, man."  Ryan's vacillates between both.  Audrey's is straight up 'I'm gonna get them!' (with requisite closed fist)

I am glad that they feel so strongly about maintaining each other's psyches, but I have to wonder if it's truly an altruistic maneuver or just along the lines of 'no-one-else-can-tease/beat-you-except-me'.

Yesterday afternoon, the kids had running club.  Ryan was upset when they got home, even though he'd gone another lap since last time, because one of the his classmates "said I was fat."

Admittedly, Ryan is on the portly end of things right now, the summer spread really got him this year, but we are watching him.  We've been encouraging him to be more active and not letting him eat so much crap.  I know he'll stretch up soon and things should even out, if we can keep his weight constant.  It's not been a huge issue, because lord knows I don't want to start him down that path, the weight shame spiral that carries over from childhood and hangs over your head forever. 

Besides, I know the kid who made the comment, and he's a little round, too. Ryan said he said it to him when he took a break to catch his breath and couldn't run just then.  (Running club is funny that way.  There are kids who pace themselves, and kids who run full bore the first few laps, have nothing left, then walk.  I figure they're moving, it's all good.)

It must've bothered him more than I thought, despite my assurances and encouragement to let it go and keep it up with running club.  I didn't realize it until we were on our way home from school today and we made the turn towards our house.

"Hey, that's where 'Billy' lives!"  he exclaimed.

"I thought you knew that,"  I replied.

"He better not say anything to me next time,"  he mumbled under his breath, "because now I know where he lives."

I stifled a giggle, as Ben asked, "What?  Why is that important, Ryan?"

I explained, "'Billy' said Ryan was fat yesterday at running club, and it upset Ryan."

"Oooh.  I'll come with you, Ryan.  We'll get <video game weapon> and take care of him."

"Cool it, you guys.  There's no need for that." 

I thought for a minute and then told them that while I knew they were kidding, they weren't allowed to say anything like that at school, or they'd get in trouble because the schools have to take them seriously, no matter what.  (Which really made me sigh, inwardly, that I had to add that warning at all, the world being what it is these days that something like that could get them in trouble.)

As Ben carried his trombone into the house, I was amused.

I couldn't help but think of him as my mini-mafioso, with Audrey as his tiny henchman, standing guard over Ryan at running club.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Things that go bump in the night

About a month ago, as we sat in the ENT's office and he went over all the scenarios that were possible for Nolan's procedure and recovery, I nodded as I took it all in, thinking that it was good to know all this stuff, but, really, as the worst-case scenarios were rare, I shouldn't focus on them.

Nolan, on the other hand, giggled as he said to me, "Mom, watch.  I'm gonna be in that one percent."  I told him to knock it off.  He was joking with me because he has this funky skin condition on his palms that I'd finally gotten him to a dermatologist to see--and while it is treatable, it is rare, and exceedingly rare in boys.  We have been teasing him about being a freakshow, and he decided to head me off at the pass, I guess.

Or tempt fate.

Friday night, well I guess, Saturday morning, Nolan shook me awake at 4 am.  I felt bad, as I did the Vulcan death reach at him, something new in my wake-up repertoire that makes even Mr W take a step back after he starts trying to wake me up, but as he said "Mom!"  I opened my eyes and saw him.

I thought that maybe he needed some pain medicine (we'd been cutting back and not sure if he'd make it through the night).  There was just enough light from the hallway bathroom coming into my room for me to notice he looked scared, and a little pale.  "Mom, I threw up blood,"  he said.  I sat straight up, weighing the possibilities, my mind still a little fuzzy.  "A lot or a little?  Into your washcloth or in the bathroom?"

"A lot.  In the bathroom."

I reached next to me, to wake up Mr W, only to find Audrey there and Mr W gone.  I got up and patted Nolan on the back, and went to the bathroom to investigate.  He was breathing rapidly, and wide-eyed, I made him sit down as I comforted him and tried to assess the situation.

"Hang on,"  I told him, as I went in search of Mr W, who I was sure vacated the bed once our little hockey player came into it.  She pretty much pummels him when she comes in, so I winced as I realized he was probably in the recliner.   I filled him in, and he followed me back down the hall to Nolan.

We'd been in there for maybe a minute when Nolan started throwing up again.  Bright red blood.  I patted his back as soothingly has I could as all the alarms in my head went off.  I looked at Mr W, who mouthed "I don't like this" over Nolan's back and I traded him places so I could go out and get our post-op instruction sheet.

I read it as I pointed out the relevant section to Mr W.  I was about to get the phone to call the on call doc when common sense took over and we both said at the same time, "He needs the hospital."

Hurriedly, I dressed myself, while Mr W got Nolan cleaned up a bit and explained to him what we were about to do.  Good god, I thought, it's 4:15.  Mr W would have to stay behind for the other kids.  I steeled myself to keep it together and grabbed a plastic shopping bag and a book as we headed to the van.  

I weighed in my head the quickest way to the ER even as I autopiloted to the freeway.   I broke a few traffic laws along the way, but I figured if anyone stopped me, I'd have a good excuse.  As I got closer to the hospital, I felt Nolan fighting the urge, so I sped up as I explained to him that holding it in was not going to work.  When you have blood going down like that, I explained to him, it's gonna come back up because your stomach doesn't want it, so use the bag.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I grabbed the first spot I could find, and before I was out of the car, Nolan had his head in the bag and he proceeded to just let it go.  He was on his third wave as I opened his door, trying to get the seatbelt off of him and get him out; my mind racing as he asked me "Mommy, why is it so hot?  Why is it so hot?"

"It's blood, baby."   I half dragged him out of the van, and tried to hurry him along when I realized this wouldn't work.  We were too far from the door.  He was in no shape to go anywhere fast and while I didn't want to leave him, we needed help.  Of course, there was no one outside to yell at...  "Can you prop yourself on this car?  I'll run in and get a wheelchair and some help.  I'll be right back,"  I said, almost losing my resolve as he slumped across the trunk of the car we stood next to. 

I never knew I could run that fast.  Adrenaline does that to you, I guess.  I sprinted through the doors and ran up to the desk.  I was clear in what I said, but the girl there looked at me, and to me, was moving in slow motion.  I repeated myself, threw my stuff on the counter, ran back out, grabbed the first wheelchair I could, sprinted to Nolan, "Get in,"  I ordered, and was back inside the doors before anyone had their gloves on. 

As he sat there, bag of blood on his lap, the receptionist asked me a few questions, while the nurse next to her assessed him.  We were back in a room in a couple of minutes, and he was throwing up again by the time they got his vitals.  

I thought that once we got there, and the IV was in, he might slow down, that it might stop. 

Wrong.

I spent my time answering questions, alternately holding his puke bag, his hand, and wiping his face while I tried to maintain calm for him.  This was no small feat, because when your kid is puking that much blood, and the staff is doing the best they can and it's still not good enough, all you want to do is yell at someone.  This coupled with an ER doctor who not only failed to let me know he was the doctor and freaked me out as he examined Nolan with nails that brought Nosferatu to mind was making me anxious. 

Nolan was terrified at this point, and I knew the only thing that would make us both feel better was reinforcement in the form of Mr W.  "Would you feel better if your Dad was here?"  I asked him, as this was the only thing I could offer at this point.  (*Although, joking with him in Urgent Care earlier in the week, I'd offered a car, a cell phone, a new video game...just to crack him up.)  He nodded yes.  Then no.  I knew he was hesitating because he knew the kids needed someone at home.  "Son, this is an urgent situation.  I can call Remo, I can call Jane, we can get someone to the house for the kids.  Do you want your Dad?"  He nodded yes, eyes full of tears. 

I called Mr W and told him my plan.  "I'll see if I can get Remo to come for a little while,"  --knowing that he'd worked the night before and probably had not been asleep for long, and that Mr W would only agree to this if I had relief coming soon--"until Jane can get there; that way you can come right away."  I called Jane first, and while she is an early riser, I woke her, and filled her in, trying to remember to breathe, willing myself not to start bawling at the sound of her voice.  She said she'd come, and it would be about forty minutes.  Then I called Remo, and while I knew I might not get him on the first ring, I knew he'd answer, as it was the wee hours of the morning...and no one calls at that time for just a chat.  I stammered out what I needed to with him, but again, I had to will myself not to cry, and just speak.  I mean, really, it would have alarmed both of them more if I was a wreck, and as hard as it was, I managed it, my voice cracking just as I finished talking to him.

And here is the beautiful part.  I didn't worry about the kids at home anymore.  I knew they would be in good hands.  I wiped my eyes, before I turned around, and I just concentrated on Nolan while I waited for Mr W to come.

Once he arrived, I brought him up-to-date.  I was mainly concerned with keeping Nolan from freaking out because he would not stop puking.  I have never seen anything like it, over, and over, bright red, sometimes clotty, he'd jerk upright and we'd comfort him through another bout.  The thing is, I was so focused on him, I didn't realize we hadn't had an update at all other than the nurses coming in to draw his blood for typing.  Instinctively, I knew that his bleeding wasn't stopping on it's own; I knew that he was probably headed for surgery, but it was like that was in a separate thought bubble from the task at hand.  Wipe face-new bag-comfort him-throw washcloth out.  I looked up at Mr W, spotting him shooting a murderous glance into the hallway at the nurses' station.  I caught his eye, as I knew what he was thinking.  Ipounced on the first person to come into our room next.  "What's going on?  Where are we (with this)?" I asked, as politely as I could without shaking her silly.

"We're waiting on the labs from the blood we drew."  I saw Mr W stifle a snort.  He was not impressed with how that went at all, and I know was about to take the guy trying by his scrubs and throw him out into the hall had the other nurse in the room not intervened before he could.

Shortly thereafter, Nosferatu returned and looked in Nolan's throat, "I need to see if he is still bleeding."  Are you kidding me?  I pointed to the bags in the trash and the one in Nolan's hand, "I think he is."  I figured he must've concurred, as he turned and left the room without saying anything.

A bit later, a well-dressed man, my god, I thought, noticing the crispness of his clothes, it's not even 6:30 am and he's so polished; came in.  "I'm Dr. G,"  he said, "covering for Dr M." He gestured towards Nolan. "Has he stopped at all?  What's been going on?"  Mr W told him that he had not stopped, that he'd been at it since 4 am, and it was now after six; Dr G told us they were planning on taking him up to the OR once anesthesia got there, and he'd go in and see what was up and hopefully get it stopped. 

The room was a flurry of activity as they readied Nolan for his trip upstairs.  It was hard to do, as he kept puking.  On his way up, Mr W walked right beside him, and even the transport guy was amazed when he had to stop a couple of times so Nolan could hurl. 

We finally made it to preop, and it was more prep, and questions, but they were really wonderful about reassuring us and explaining everything.  Of all the indignities he suffered that morning, the one that bothered him the most was when the nurse said he had to take his sleeping pants and his underwear off.  He shook his head, pleading with his eyes, "no".   "Sweetie," said, "it's okay.  It's just a requirement when you are having surgery at the hospital, it's not like at the surgicenter.  We'll keep you covered up, no one will see anything."  Is there anything like the modesty of an adolescent?  The nurse furthered his perceived shame when she handed him the pitcher-urinal.  "We need you to pee, honey, if you can.  I don't want you to have to get up, so do you think you can go in this?"  I looked at Mr W.  "You're up,"  I said, as I bowed out of the curtain surrounding his bed.

I stood outside and the staff talked to me, as we were the only people there at that time of day.  I snuck away and gave Jane an update, again managing to not lose it.  Barely.  Mr W said to me, "Geez, Anna, you didn't ask her about the other kids."  "I don't have to,"  I replied.  "They're fine.  Besides, they're probably sleeping,"  I added.

It seemed like the longest 30 minutes of my life, sitting in the waiting room.  Finally, Dr G came out and told us that he'd patched the boy up.  He'd had an arterial bleed on one side, probably brought on by the scabs in his throat  falling off.  He assured us that it wasn't due to anything we did or didn't do, that about 2 percent of tonsils bleed. Nolan was right, when he was joking around with me about his ability to be the freakshow patient.  (I'll have to ask him to pick some lottery numbers.)  

We sat with him in recovery as soon as they let us in.  Once we were comfortable with the situation, Mr W went out to move the van from the ER to closer to where we would make our exit; naturally, Nolan started coming around.  He looked confused, so I held his hand and told him where he was and reminded him what happened.  "Where's Dad?"  he asked.  "Moving the van," I explained.  "Just a second,"  I said, as I called Mr W.  "He's asking for you,"  I relayed.

All in all, we were on our way back home by 10:45 am or so.  We made it into the house and Nolan headed straight for our room.  I squeezed Jane immediately, I was so relieved that we were home; so relieved to see her, that this part was over.  The kids were all milling about, Ryan enthralled with Guitar Hero, it was like I'd just stepped out to the store or something.

Like I said, they were in good hands.  I decided to wait to fill them in at Casa de Remo, as I limit my wake up calls to once a day.

Nolan is pretty weak, the doc says he's anemic for the time being, but he is on the mend.  It hasn't been as bad as it was right after his initial surgery, but he does have some more recovering to do before I will feel okay about sending him back to school.  He's lost ten pounds, he gets tired easier, and he's a little too frail-looking for my taste, but he's talking and acting like himself, and I definately will take that.

Maybe this week will be our week of ice cream and Halo.

But if not, hugs and naps are okay too.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

'kay, I'll shut up after this

Last night, when I got home from Urgent Care, I was changing my clothes (back to pjs, hurrah, the day might end) and I looked in the mirror.

I didn't really care, not much, but Nolan, bless his heart, has some really foul breath right now (normal) and he'd been breathing it on me as I cradled him (no pillow) on the hard exam table.  I felt like I might look like his breath, so to speak, as crazy as that seems. 

I was about to take out my ponytail when I saw it.  Or I should say, them.  Winking, more than I've noticed in a while.

Grays.  Bastards!

I lamented to Mr W.  I was amazed that he was so unsympathetic.  "Why do they bother you so much?"  he asked.  "Why don't they bother you?"  I asked him.

"It's not a big deal to me."  I bit back "Because you don't have any hair" and instead asked, "Why not?"

"We're getting older.  We get gray hair.  Big deal."

"Hmphf,"  I huffed at him.  "Gray hair.  Once you get 'em, that just lessens your chances of ever being the hot girl," I moaned. (The elusive title.  Why does it matter?)

I'd be more offended at him had he not had this conversation with me earlier in the week...

I had on a relatively new top.  And I pointed out to him that he had not commented on it, I was being a little flirty and obnoxious, and I said to him, "You haven't noticed.  Aren't I cute?"  as I did the Vanna up-down-look-at-this hand motion with a pause at boob level, of course.  He rolled his eyes, and sighed the sigh of a man, a husband who knows.

"You look good, hon.  You always do."  He says it with such sincerity, I start to giggle.  "Doesn't she, boys?" he looks over at Ben and Ryan, and they chime in "Yeah, Mom, you always look nice,"  as Mr W goes on, "Even first thing when she gets up in the morning,she looks good, right, boys?"  he turns back to me.

"Why are you blushing, Anna?"  he points out.  I giggle some more.

"Thanks, just....thanks."  I continue to feel my face get hotter, and I can't have him look at me anymore, I walk into the kitchen, giggling, shaking my head.

Not what I expected.  It sounds cheesy, but he really was sincere.  To spoil it with the usual "you're full of shit" song-and-dance would cheapen the moment and not make it likely that he would compliment me ever again. 

I guess now that I think about it, if he is cool with what I look like early in the morning, then a few gray hairs are probably not going to dampen his enthusiasm, any more than the lack of hair on his part would dampen mine.

And that's hot.

Guaranteed to get me a speeding ticket

About two weeks ago, I was on my way home from work, on my way to the school to pick up the kids when my phone rang.

I looked at the number and recognized it as being the school, so I picked up, curious.  The children have been getting smart, realizing that if they go to the nurse, and they are sick, that I will come get them.  I take this with a grain of salt, and I think the nurse does too.

"Anna?  I have Ryan here in my office.  At recess..."

I'm expecting the next sentence to be "He fell and broke his arm" as it seems to be the third grade injury of the year thus far.

"...he got kicked in the shoulder, and it left a red mark.  I'm just letting you know so you aren't alarmed when you see it.  He's okay, and the principal is handling it--the other child is being dealt with."

I felt my foot push down on the accelerator, Mama-bear rising.  I look at the speedometer, and back off a little.

"Can I talk to him?"  I ask.  She puts him on.  "Sugar?  What happened?"

"Well. I was at recess, and this girl just started kicking me in the shoulder real hard.  I couldn't even get up.  And I didn't want to get up and kick her back and get in trouble..."  I interrupt.  "What do you mean?  Why were you on the ground during recess to begin with?"

"I wasn't on the ground.  I was in the slide tube, and waiting my turn and she just started kicking me."  I feel my foot get leady again.  This time, I'm not backing off.

"Are you okay?"  "I'm okay.  But the principal is here and I have to go talk to her..."  "Fine, baby.  Give the phone to the nurse."  I tell her I will be there in a few minutes.

I feel my ire rise, and as Ryan is a pretty sweet kid, I feel my eyes cloud at the thought of anyone hurting him, for any reason, especially one as ridiculous as impatience for the slide.  I realize I need to talk to someone.  I consider my calming prospects at the time, and choose Mr W. 

Because he is at work.  Because truly, in my deepest heart of hearts, he is the protector, job notwithstanding, I'm a little girly when it comes to that.  Not that I won't stand up for myself or the kids, it just helps to have backup.  And honestly?  Selfishly, and unfair advantagely?

I want him in the office, in his uniform, because I hope the sight of him will scare the holy bejesus shit out of the girl who kicked Ryan.

When I call him, he is far away.  He's busy.  I know if I ask, he will drop everything and come, but I haven't assessed the situation yet.  So I let him know what's happening.  And he gives me the lowdown he knows from work, and tells me to stay calm.  Fine, I agree, taking a deep breath.  And in the next, I wonder, for a second, if Remo is busy....if only to get some more 'chill, Anna' advice.   I settle for replaying Mr W's voice in my head, as retelling the story will only work up my Mama-bear instinct again.

I arrive at the school and make a  beeline for the office, stern face (for the girl) at the ready.

Ryan isn't there, but the principal takes me into her office and tells me what happened.

Indeed, Ryan was in the slide tube, and the girl got impatient and started kicking him.  "When they were here  in my office, Ryan was very assertive with her, I was really impressed.  He told her that she really hurt him, and she didn't apologize and that wasn't right.  He really stood up for himself, you should be proud."   I think to myself I'd feel prouder if he'd pulled an aikido move and put the hurt back on the girl, but understand his reaction.  I'd heard the 'it's a girl' note in his voice.  He was being a little chivalrous in spite of it all, and I can't fault him for that, for keeping his composure.

Then she tells me that he actually bears the mark of this girl's shoe sole on his shoulder.  I think, hmm, that's a far cry, an imprint of a shoe, from "a red mark."  I feel it coming on...

"Who is the little girl?"  I manage, barely avoiding gritting my teeth.

"Oh."  The principal gets a pained expression on her face. "I can't tell you.  We're not allowed..."  As she goes on to explain some privacy policy, I swallow hard and pipe up, somewhat edgily, that Ryan will tell me anyway.

I hear Mr W's voice in my head.  "If you feel yourself getting irritated, before you burn the place down, get Ryan and leave the office." 

I cut the conversation as shortly and politely as I can; she has duty so it goes smoothly and we part ways.

I find Ryan as the bell rings.  I ask him to show me his shoulder.  He pulls his shirt back, and I see circles and tread marks; indeed the near-perfect imprint of the sole. 

I intake a sharp breath at the sight of it, but I am cool.  I am collected.  I want someone's ass on a plate, but I gather up him, and Ben, and Audrey, and take them home without incident.  Once inside, he elaborates, and I tell him he reacted appropriately, but in the future, he has our permission to defend himself, even if it means getting in trouble at school, he won't be in trouble at home if it's justified.  (His Dad repeated this to him later.)

On our way to pick up Nolan at school, Ryan is telling me something.  He sits way in the back of the van, so sometimes, I am ashamed to admit, I am smiling and nodding and not hearing everything he says.  This time, the word "secret" and "Mrs. X" gets my attention.  Mrs. X is not his teacher.  Why is she telling him a secret?  I prompt him to start over.

"Mrs. X told me a secret.  She said that this little girl, she used to live with her Mom and Dad, but the Dad left her; and it was just her and her Mom, but then her Mom left her too, and she went to live with her grandmother.  Then her Dad came back around, and she doesn't really know him, and now she might have to go live with him, too, and she doesn't want to.  And she's very, very angry about that."

WTF?  Why is he hearing this story, one that might be told on Jerry Springer?  I'm perplexed.  Then the light goes off in my head.

"Was she talking about the girl who kicked you?"  I ask.  "Yeah.  She's angry...."  I cut him off.  "We'll talk about this at home," I tell him, "because I can't do it and drive right now,"  I explain.

I'm pissed.  Why this teacher felt compelled to share the student's life story is highly inappropriate on many levels, I feel, the least of which is that Ryan is nine years old, and fortunately, he doesn't know a world like hers, other than his uncle being divorced, he doesn't know that kind of situation.  While I realize the world is full of situations like that, I don't think that at nine, he is equipped with the means to process that.  And he certainly should not feel that the other child's behavior is fine based on her home life.  Besides, I am certain the student in question wouldn't like her laundry being aired like that either.

Nine year old keeping a secret?  Please. 

Once we get  home, Ryan and I chat.   I commend him all the way round for a cool head and a warm heart.  I tell him that while "Sally"s situation makes her angry, it's still not okay for her to kick him--or anyone.

Of course, I still wanted to go to school have a few words with Mrs. X, but I decide that face-to-face with her would probably not be a good idea for me; and it was the Friday before a long weekend, so the school would be empty.

But that Tuesday when we went back, I sought out our student affairs lady (counselor) and ran it by her.  I told her I wasn't out to be snitchy, but I didn't approve of the "secret" telling.  While I understood the teacher's motive, I just wanted her to know that maybe they should address the sharing of information during a staff meeting or something.  She came up with a plan I agreed was a good one.

Sure, it was passive-aggressive, but I didn't want it to come back to me, and/or Ryan.  Besides, I knew that it would be best to just let it fade along with the mark on Ryan's shoulder.  He was fine, in the end; making a huge stink about it was not necessary. 

Sometimes, Mama-bear has to be content watching from the wings.

And believe me, she's watching.

Misconceptions are the worst wakeup call

When my friends contemplate to me about how they will handle children, stating that they aren't sure if they have it in them to be parents, the comment I usually make is that no one is truly ready.  Parenting is on-the-job training, whether you have one kid or six kids; no two snowflakes are alike, no two raising-the-kid experiences are alike.

Similar, but not the same.

As always, my on-the-job training is always challenged by my oldest.  I've mentioned before, every time is the first time with him, so if I am going to fall on my face, usually it's because his foot is the one that tripped me.

I imagined this week to be an easy one, that we would coast through this little procedure and he'd be eating popsicles, drinking milkshakes, and bouncing back.  We'd hang out, I could maybe run a few errands and work on some projects around the house, and by this time, he'd be well on his way to feeling better.

I noticed yesterday morning, my mind started the nag-nag-nag of woman, something was just not right; that Nolan was way too lethargic for just pain meds.  I started to mentally add up his sips and realized that he'd not been drinking much, only when I gave him his medicine, the nasty tasting but effective liquid codeine he got during the day.  Hmm.  "Son, when did you pee last?"  garnered something I didn't bargain for:  he held up his fingers in a O.  Not at all.  Not all morning.  "What about yesterday?"  To my horror, he held up two fingers.

I called the doctor's office, but didn't hear back right away.  I called again in a few hours, as the day had grown longer and I worried about the office closing and not getting back to me in time.

I spoke with the nurse, and she told me to do what I was already doing.   Nolan seemed compliant, so I figured it was worth a shot.

Although I doubted that he was suddenly going to succumb to my onslaught of daily "here, drink this *shake, water, gatorade, juice* eat this *ice chips, pudding, popsicles, broth*"  (Nothing is more frustrating to me, who likes feeding people, to see someone struggle so hard at just swallowing.)  I was comfortable trying, with a little altered approach, but was a little pissed that the nurse suggested I threaten him with the prospect of an IV, like that would scare him into drinking, like that was the only reason he was being stubborn about it. 

I also got a call from the nurse practitioner, and we covered the same ground.  I'm not afraid to be Dr. Mom, Nurse Ratched, whatever.  But right now, Nolan just wanted Mom.  It has been really hard for me all the way around, knowing I'd have to be both. 

This week, of bonding and relaxation?  I've spent it pacing, squirting meds into his mouth, and holding him, patting his head, holding his hand as much as I can. 

In the middle of all of this yesterday, the kids had running club, Ben had a band concert, and we also got progress reports from school.

Ben's sucked.  Ryan's sucked.  They are usually good students, so I was surprised.  And pissed.

And who did I blame?

Me.  I've been busy trying to balance working more and four kids in school; along with the volunteering thing I do for the school as well.  I realize I haven't been as attentive as I usually am, and granted, the kids are bigger, this should be a piece of cake.  Theoretically. It always looks better on paper.

So I had my first meltdown of the day, and as I told Mr W I blamed myself, and he stewed about Ben's really crap report, I told him maybe I could work my hours in a way that weighted the bulk of them to the weekend so I could be more available to the kids during the week.  Mr W proceeded to let me know exactly what he felt was necessary on my end, annoyance in his voice, on his face, the least of which included him letting me know exactly how he feels about my volunteer thing...and it ended with my feeling upset.  Then irritated.

Granted, the volunteer thing I do is a big thing I dofor the school, no one knows more than I what a pain it can be.  But I like it. I am realizing that in my current situation, I need to delegate more, and I am getting there.  I like my job, too, and to work more hours has been rewarding to me, even if it means more juggling at home.  

For him to attack it like he did yesterday really hurt me--because I hate it that I am the one who always (it seems to me) has to give up something I like for the greater good of our whole.  It was particularly uncharacteristic of Mr W to be so resentful, and having him get a little loud about it was too much for me when I was already mentally flagellating myself.

We worked it out.  (I think.)

Anyway.

Mr W stayed home with Nolan, and I hit the band concert for Ben (they were good, I love the little band geeks, I love watching their moving lips as they count the music to themselves), when I came home Mr W and I went to run a couple of quick errands, taking the newspapers to be recycled and picking up some food for the kids...when my phone rang as we returned, we were turning on our street, Ben telling me that Nolan was asking for me. 

I got into the house and he motioned to me that he was nauseous.  So nauseous he didn't mind that I had to give him the lovely anti-nausea, um, suppository.  I told him to just let the medicine work, and went into the kitchen to let Mr W know what was going on.  And I started to cry.  Really, I just had had enough of watching the boy suffer, as had Mr W, and I lost my game face.  He stood between me and the other kids--reminding me if I was upset, they would be, too-- and talked to me, calming me down.  He didn't bat an eyelash when I asked if he could stay home again with us today; then we went back to check on Nolan, and he seemed settled.

But fifteen, maybe thirty minutes later, he came into the kitchen to tell me it was time for his medicine, and alarm crossed his face.  I knew that look in an instant and turned him immediately over the sink while calling for his Dad.

Thank goodness he didn't throw up any blood.  But I was ready to throw an IV into him myself at this point, and I called the on call dr who agreed/told me to take him in.

Luckily, I got him to Urgent Care within fifteen minutes of them closing, and they took really good care of him.  Two liters of fluids, some anti-nausea meds, and *lordy* 4 mg of morphine later, and my boy was looking better.  Sleeping, but clearly, his body was much more relaxed than I'd seen it all day, and in retrospect, in a couple of days (in spite of what I was administering at home).

And who did mentally kick, thinking that I should have listened to my instincts and cart him in at 10 am and not 10 pm?

We got home around midnight.  I had Mr W help me get  him outside, and after I put everything down, I walked down the hall, and heard the best sound I'd heard all day.

The boy was peeing like a racehorse.

My challenge today is to get him to stay hydrated, as well as keep him more comfortable.  I'd been leaning towards the lower end of his dosage scale because he wasn't letting me know it wasn't quite cutting it.  I told him it was better to be a little less conservative if it meant he would be more willing to drink. 

When I woke him up, for the morning dose, he seemed much different this morning.  His color is better, he is actually looking more like himself.  I told him I'd get him up in a couple of hours for a pedialyte popsicle.

Hopefully today will be a better day.  Cuz if it's not, and I wind up in Urgent Care again...

I'll be requesting a happy IV for me, too.

Sunday, November 18, 2007

I always knew I liked chemistry

Nolan has always had problems with his throat.  We finally made it to the ENT, who said the words I'd been longing to hear all this time:

"We can take his tonsils out."

I let out a mental whoop, complete with happy-happy-joy-joy dance, and I responsibly nodded my head and said "Great."

Last Thursday was the big day, and we prepared Nolan as best we could, knowing that until he experienced the wonder of anesthesia for himself, he wouldn't totally understand.

The procedure went well, and I have spent the weekend with my life revolving around his pain medicine schedule.

Because on Thursday night, I didn't wake him up; and on Friday morning, he was in a LOT of pain.

Oh, the mommy guilt.

Anyway, he's hanging in there.

Glassy eyed and a little out of it, but quite the trouper.

My hat is off, and I bow down to the power of high quality pharmaceuticals.

But I have to admit, as I grind pills to add to his pudding, I feel a little like a drug dealer.

Don't think we'd see Bill Cosby hawking this type of Jello... 

Not for the faint of heart

I'm going to preface this entry with remember, I live with primarily boys, boys who don't always consider the finer sensibilities of others when they decide to comment on whatever is in their heads at the moment.

That being said, we had this conversation in my van last week--

(a little background:  I'd been working a lot, my workweek shifting to accomodate the time I am currently taking off for Nolan, who just had a tonsillectomy on Thursday, and Ben had been "sick" at school, so I'd picked him up, on Tuesday, throwing off my hours-mojo...)

"Ben, you're going to school tomorrow.  I don't really think you are all that sick, and unless you are projectile vomiting or have massive diarrhea, you're going to school."

And Nolan decides to pipe up:  "Yeah, Ben.  She's not talking about a little wet one either."

I nearly drove off the road.  What?  Did I just hear that? 

Not to be outdone, Ben quips: "No wonder girls don't like you."

I have to admit I laughed.  Alot.

At the time, it beat being grossed out.