The Medical Wonders

Being old really sucks. I think of things that happen all day and say, "I could totally write a whole blog post about that." And by the time I get to the computer I've completely forgotten about it. So it's not my fault I never post.

Peanut had an endoscopy yesterday. All went well, but when that kid came out of the anesthesia, boy was he P.I.S.T.-MAD. He glared at everybody for a good hour. This, coming from my happiest kid with the perpetual smile on his face. He was most concerned about the needle stuck in his hand, which he kept trying to cover up. He also refused to use that hand for hours afterwards, like it was broken or something. Weird kid.

Right before the procedure he took part in a medical study for allergies and eosinophilic esophagitis (which they think he has--again). So for participating in the study he got an awesome Fisher Price dump truck. The one toy this kid doesn't have, too. What were the odds? And we got free parking. Woohoo! Good times all around.

So after the procedure while Peanut was scowling at everyone, the GI doctor came out and started talking to me about what went on and asked for his history and blah blah blah. He stopped me about halfway in and asked me if I was a nurse. I, not being one, did not lie. He said, "Wow, you really sound like one. You know a lot about this stuff." I've heard on more than one occasion that when you kid has a condition, you have to make yourself an instant expert on it. Just further proof that I'm an excellent mother. I don't care what CPS says.

Speaking of mothering, remember when Peawhistle scared the crap out of me and the drama of the ambulance ride, ER visit, etc.? Guess what? SHE FRICKING DID IT AGAIN. No, not the trip to the hospital, but she did pass out again (sort of). This time I managed to catch her on the way down, so no career-ending Steve Young-esque concussions for her. So last week she had a really loose tooth. I'm always scared she'll swallow the darn things in her sleep so I told her I was going to take it out before bed since the gross thing could bend at a 90 degree angle in her mouth. I popped it out, she whined, she started fussing about, "Ew, the blood! I don't like the blood in my mouth!" so I told her to wash her mouth out with some cold water and come back to bed. She did so, came back, and promptly fell limp. And freakier than that, she never closed her eyes, she just lay there, completely stiff, teeth gritted, shaking like crazy. And then she stopped, I asked her if she was OK, and I stuffed her in bed while I conferred with The Husband. She was feeling back to normal after a half hour or so, so we decided against any ER visit and I decided to tell her doctor on Monday. Dr. Guilt Trip was supremely interested in this turn of events, especially after I informed her that prior to the first episode, she had lost her second tooth not 5-10 minutes before she collapsed in the parking lot. Two collapsing episodes following two tooth losses? Surely more than a coincidence (take that new, younger, creepier Sherlock!). Her doctor thinks that because the stiff/shaking episodes were so brief (probably only 5-10 seconds at most) that they weren't seizure related, but rather post -something-something-effect (darned if I can remember what she said) related to fear of blood, almost as if she's locked in fear rather than just passing out. We have to call the doctor if she does it again and it's NOT related to teeth loss or blood of course.

I don't get this. This is my blood 'n' guts girl. She is scared of nothing gross or icky. I was convinced she could have been an EMT with her talk of body parts, bones, blood, guts, etc. She falls down or hurts herself and she merely brushes it off and continues to play. The girl laughs at the very thought of zombies, monsters, and witches (I've tried to encourage that frame of mind actually). And here she is, freaking out over two drops of her own blood in her mouth?? To the point of passing out on me? And she's only lost three teeth so far. My gosh have we got a long way to go. She better hope I'm around when she loses another one or we're going for another trip in an ambulance I fear.

The Age-old Question

If there's one thing you know I am, it's a follower! So the fact that everyone else is making resolutions this week, despite the fact that resolutions repel me, I will indeed jump on the bandwagon.

I have but one resolution: to remember how old I am.

Sounds easy, right? For you, yes. For idiots like me, not so much. For the past five years or so (something like that anyway--years confuse me) I have not been able to produce my age when asked. When I do blurt out an age, it's always off by a year or two, hence why I usually just avoid that pothole.

Questioner: And how old are you ma'am?

Me: [blank stare]

Q: Your age?

Me: Uh...lemme think a minute.

Q: [incredulous glare]

Me: JUST GIMME A MINUTE. [fruitless pause] Do you have a calculator?

I usually wind up throwing out my birth year and making them do the math on their own. And then they usually tell me my age as a kindness.

Remember when you were a kid and your age was everything? You weren't just 7, you were 7 5/8. You were 9 in 34 days and two hours and 15 minutes. Now I couldn't tell you how many months/days until my birthday if you paid me. I don't even remember my birthday's approaching half the time. Fun fact: my brother and I share a birthday. I remember either his birthday or mine, but never at the same time. My friend, Misty, has to email me a week in advance every year (which she does, the dear) to remind me my brother's birthday is coming up. What I'm saying is, it's all very sad.

I tried to think how old I am just now and I failed by a year. Resolution success already!

"Let Them Frost Something Else!"

Peawhistle is watching SpongeBob, per usual. She's singing the opening theme song as "SpongeBob HotPants." Now THAT I'd like to see.

Speaking of SpongeBob.... Cakes! Yes, cakes. Now, if I had to guess, my most popular post to date is the Dora Cake post. (Don't agree? Send those disagreements to abbysspamfolder@gmail.com.) Anyway, if everyone learned anything from that post, it's that I suck.

This is a redemption post. For years I forced my mother to make my kids' birthday cakes so those kids wouldn't require therapy when they saw photos of them years from now. But when Peawhistle turned five, I decided to finally decorate a cake of my own. Now, if you recall I'm also sucky when it comes to drawing/artisty in general. However, over the years I've become much better about at least copying characters onto paper, or at least good enough so that PW thinks I'm awesome at it. So given her love affair with WALL-E (and seriously, who doesn't have a love affair with that guy?), I decided to make her a WALL-E cake. I drew it free-hand while looking at the DVD cover art. Trust me, the leaf looked better in person; the angle is making it look like mildew right there. Also, forgive the fact that I forgot to make his treads 3-D and just pay attention to the fact that you can at least tell what it was supposed to be over all.

Meh, it did the trick anyway. Motivated by my quasi-success, I decided to do Peanut's cake this year as well. And there is nothing in this world that Peanut loves more than SpongeBob. I chose to do a mixture of frosting and fondant, despite my utmost hatred for that crap. It was my first time working with fondant and if I had it to do all over again (yeah, I can really see that happening), I would have ignored their advice to roll it 1/4" thick and gone much, much thinner. And I wouldn't have hosed up the fricking eyelashes so much. But by and large, I think it turned out fairly well.

As Peawhistle pointed out repeatedly, he has no holes. Honestly, I'm pretty sure that would have hosed up the entire thing, so I'm glad I didn't. I also should have put the eyes closer together, but oh well. As for what is fondant, his eyes, teeth, nose, shirt, sleeves, arms, pant legs, legs, socks, and shoes. The shoes I had to paint using black frosting, which sucked for lightyears, but they turned out well. What sucked more was frosting the pant legs. I'm fairly certain now fondant wasn't ever meant to be frosted. That crap is slicker than snot.

Given this, I'm perplexed by the Dora Fiasco. It was clearly not the fault of Stephanie, but I must have some frosting ability somewhere, right? Apparently neither of us was ever meant to work in tandem. But I'll go ahead and blame her for it anyway.

So for all of you named Vann who laughed at the very IDEA of me frosting something other than a complete disaster, I DEMAND THAT YOU APOLOGIZE IMMEDIATELY. In cookies.

We Are Good Friends Now

If you recall (and by you, I mean none of you, apparently), I love me some catalogs! I still get enough catalogs to choke a horse, and I still read through all of them. Boy howdy, am I glad I do! Let me refer you to one catalog in particular. "Toys to Grow On" is full of toys that supposedly make your kid a genius. (Honestly parents, toys aren't going to keep your kid from being an idiot. I know this for a fact.) Anyway, the last time I got a catalog from these jerks I flipped through it, only to end up thoroughly delighted at what I'd found. There is a roll of paper called a "Create-A-Story Paper Center." Your budding author draws pictures on the top half of the roll of paper and writes his genius on the lower half. Fine idea (in some cases anyway). They have an example written and drawn of just what your little future MENSA offspring mayhaps could create. The story they've written goes like so: "A rabbit stole a carrot out of our garden, so I took a piano out of the rabbit's house. We are good friends now." No, I am most certainly NOT kidding. Where to start, where to start? First of all, props to the jerks who drew the accompanying picture of a rabbit holding a carrot while a kid barrels across a meadow hauling a piano. Good show.

Now, to the text. So, so many questions. I'll narrow them down to the most pressing: what the hell have you been teaching your children? Exaggerated retribution is the key to achieving lifelong friendship? OK, fine. Two can play at this.

"The next-door neighbor scratched the paint on my car, so I filled his house with scorpions. We're vacationing together next spring."

"A hobo begged for spare change, so I set him on fire. We're running together in the next election."

"Our dog peed in my shoe, so I chopped off his leg. We love each other so much."

"My teacher gave me a C on my last paper, so I turned her into the FBI for domestic terrorism. I'm testifying on her behalf tomorrow."

"Tommy teased me at recess today, so I heinously murdered his family and framed him for it. We're marrying right before he's hanged for it."

You get the gist. Essentially, these people think kids are certifiably insane. Now, some are, don't get me wrong. I've met more than my share I think. But all? And advertising those crazy children's innermost thoughts about the strange and complicated workings of society's norms? Eh. No.

I've Got a Lot of Collecting to Do!

So apparently Barbie.com will be allowing commoners to vote for which career Barbie should have next. Barbie has been many a thing in her many years--most of them slutty. But I have a few items I'd like to see covered when voting time comes around. This means I expect you to submit them.

1) Civil War Re-enactor Barbie

2) GED Barbie

3) White Supremacist Barbie (with Skinhead Ken)

4) Homeless Barbie

5) Stalker Barbie

6) Dungeons and Dragons Player Barbie

7) "Ho's 'n' Bitches" Barbie (with Pimp Daddy Ken)

8) Tourette Syndrome Barbie

9) Meth Barbie

10) Telemarketer Barbie

11) Polygamist Sect Barbie

12) Glenn Beck Barbie

Get on that.

A Peanut Won't Eat

I know you've been losing sleep, wondering how Peanut is doing, so here we go (yet again). You knew that he couldn't chew food, right? I told you that, yes? I'm sure I did. So anyway, since the boy is over two and is still eating baby food out of jars, several doctors decided he needed intervention (not that kind; the alcoholic intervention will come later). So after months and months of hating on the insurance company, he got approved to go to Mt. Washington Pediatric Hospital. This is a fairly well-known hospital in Baltimore that was started in 1922 with the sole purpose of treating children with severe medical disorders. They have a feeding clinic as part of it for kids just like Peanut. Most of the kids in the feeding clinic are kids who have been on a feeding tube their whole lives and are just now figuring out solid foods for the first time. A few are like Peanut, who have food phobias due to various factors, usually severe food allergies like he has. Six doctors observed Peanut in various rooms/environments and/or a live-feed video. They finally concluded that he likely has all the tools he needs, he just doesn't choose to use them. Great. Maybe now when I tell people that he is so fricking stubborn he would rather starve himself to death than eat something he doesn't want to, they'll believe me. He literally will starve himself. And when I say literally, I mean it the right way, not the way stupid people use it.

So the good news is that they think over the course of several months they'll be able to coax him into chewing something. He'll have to go once a week every week for possibly up to a year or more, but they're fairly confident it'll happen. The bad news is that the doctor in charge of this whole feeding clinic team of folks says that Peanut has the most severe food allergies he's ever seen in his career. Mind you, this is a doctor who works in a hospital designed to treat seriously medically-hosed up kids. SO COMFORTING. So given that he's on that end of the spectrum, who knows how long it'll take to get him to eat. He still gets most of his calories from the hypoallergenic formula they put him on after his hospital stay when he was six months old. They've tried to switch him to other things designed for kids his age (because they need more calories than the formula has to offer) and he refuses to switch. Refuses to the point of simply stopping eating until we switch him back. He's skin and bones already so they said no more trying to force a change for now.

I mean, can you believe the sheer STUBBORNNESS of this child?? What the frick is with my kids anyway?

So, you know, if you'd like to pray for little Peanut or just send good thoughts his way, they'd all be greatly appreciated. Fricking kid....

Because You Want It....

Yeah.

Ode to a Brat*

I'm sick as a dog. Someone please shoot me in the face. (I'd make a Dick Cheney joke here, but it's so passé. And if there's one thing you know I am, it's totally up to date on that crap.)

SO. I have this blog. But see, here's the thing:

1) I never have time to write on it.

2) That's a total lie. I have lots of time. What I don't have is hands-free time. And I really hate typing one-handed. Hence why I just stare at your blog for hours at a time waiting for you to update it.

3) My mind is a blank. And I don't just mean I have writer's block or something like that, I mean I have a completely empty skull, wind whistling through it Homer Simpson-style and everything, 24 hours a day. I don't think anything at all. Ever. Even now I'm staring at these words wondering what the hell I'm writing. I'm sure you and I have that in common at least. It's nice to have friends.

4) Cheese and crackers.

So I have nothing of worth to tell you, but I almost started to feel guilty the other day for not writing anything in nearly a month so I figured I'd better get rid of that feeling right-quick. Wouldn't want the ol' emotions to get in gear after all this time or anything.

Hey, speaking of food, I have a random story to tell you. So back in the church congregation the Husband and I attended when we first got married I was one of the folks in charge of making sure all the kids saw the light and got religion. I remember one of the kids that moved into the ward's boundaries was named Rusty. Rusty was maybe five or six, was very active, and had never been to any church before in his life. The concept of sitting still, without inflicting damage or harm, was completely foreign to him. Speaking of foreign, this kid was German, too. He was born in America and all, but his parents were flat-out German, accents and all (this is important, trust me). He was a big, sturdy, solid, German kid.

So anyway, little Rusty was a handful. The Sunday School class he was in had to have two teachers, despite the class's small number of students: one teacher taught the class, and the other teacher held Rusty down until he got learnded good. Or I'm assuming that's what happened; all I know is it took two of them. And frequently they needed more than that because Rusty was quite often brought to his mother rather than cause any further medical or emotional distress. So one Sunday a group of us gathered outside of Rusty's classroom door, waiting for him to be shoved out by his handler at any moment. He had already been talked to once that day and had been given his last warning, and wouldn't you know it, he didn't seem as if he was going to heed that warning any century soon. So it started with me (one of the counselors) and Bryn (the other counselor), and eventually grew to include, I believe, the secretary (who knows what her name was), and the entire bishopric. Normally, the only member of the bishopric who should have been there was [Kirk], but Rusty usually attracted a crowd and we got all of them. All of us standing in the hall, not two feet from his door, waiting for him to be shoved out, and all swapping Rusty stories in the mean time. [Kirk] told a great tale that day in the hallway. He said one day Rusty was acting up (of course) so he personally took him to the foyer and sat him down on the couch, sat next to him, and they sat there for the remainder of church together. He said their conversation soon turned to Rusty's very solid, German-like frame:

Rusty: I'm hungry.

Kirk: Sorry to hear that.

Rusty: I'm really hungry!

Kirk: No, Rusty.

Rusty: But I'm REALLY HUNGRY.

Kirk: Well, you can't eat right now. You'll just have to wait.

Rusty: But I wanna talk about sausages!

Kirk said it was all he could do to not crack up laughing. It wasn't even that Rusty wanted to EAT sausages, he just wanted to TALK about them.

Kirk, thinking to himself: Geez, kid, how German can you get?

I'm fairly certain that Bryn and I said, "But I wanna talk about sausages!" to each other for months afterwards, busting up laughing each and every time. I still laugh just thinking about it. See, now you're in on the joke, too.

So there you have it. My Rusty story for the day. I'm pretty sure either he'll wind up on America's Most Wanted or wind up speaking to us at General Conference. Either way, I wouldn't be surprised in the least.

*Get it? Brat? 'Cause "brat" is short for bratwurst? Man, I'm brilliant even on my stupidest day.

Hairy Care-y

Couple things. It finally occurred to me this morning that I must not care anymore. I wander out of the house without showering constantly. I run errands first, then come home and shower, not the other way around. I remember a time when I would have rather cut my hands off than leave the home unbathed. And yet, today I didn't even attempt to do my hair before running off to Toys R Us for a birthday party gift. And of course, today's the day the Marine Corps is hanging around at the exit looking for donations for Toys For Tots. Gotta love impressing the Marines with scraggly hair and frumpy clothes. And get this, on Monday I told Greta I was going to the commissary. An hour later I pull into a parking spot, look at the car next to me, and see Greta sitting there looking back at me (she's stalking me; I'm flattered). And of course I hadn't showered yet then, either, because honestly who am I going to see at the commissary? Have I reached some magic point in my life when everything else takes priority over how I look to strangers? That I only shower every day so my husband won't have to see me in my PJs when he comes home at night? What's next, public, drunken nudity?

So Greta. This lovely woman. She claims to be baby hungry so she can steal your baby and babysit her, but really she's just trying to be nice or some such crap. Anyway, I took her up on her babysitting offer the other day. How great of her was that? And she even took pictures of her so I wouldn't have to be a parent and do it instead. Fantastic! Here's one she didn't put up on her blog but still let me have:

Cute, ain't she? No, her hair isn't really that dark, she just needs a shampoo. And lest you think I've been ignoring her hygiene, her hair looks like that about six hours after washing it. It oils up FAST. And to add to that joy, she has dandruff like crazy. And it's not just a little flake here and there, her entire fricking head is peeling. You lift up any section of hair and you see the entire top layer of skin in sections waiting to peel off. It's down-right creepy I tells ya. Other than that, she's adorable. Honest.

It Hurts When I Think

Hey, have you ever taken an item out of its packaging, and then accidentally thrown the item away and held onto the wrapper? And when you look at what's in your hand and realize what you've just done you have to get another item out? And then you do the exact same thing again?

I just wanted you to know what kind of a person you're dealing with here.

Answer: complete moron