This is what I did on no sleep

So you know that really really bad stomach thing my four year old had?  Well, we realized he caught it from the hotbed of germs known as the kids play area at the mall during the busiest shopping season of the year.  In the future we will have to consider exposing them to really shitty illness as a drawback to getting the kids out of the house and away from the TV.

Our son is doing much better now, thank god, and being his regular self again.  But guess who caught it from him?

*Raising hand slowly*

And not just me.  The rest of our little family, meaning my husband and my seven year old, were also not safe from its predatory ways.

This year’s strain of the stomach flu is not the stomach flu you are familiar with.  No, not at all.  This feels more like it should be called Ebola, Jr.  I kid you not.

It leaves you feeling hot and cold at the same time.  It sends its minions to gnaw on the inside of your abdomen.  The best way I can describe the feeling is hot little dull knives poking at your innards.  The pain was what kept us awake the most.  I don’t remember dealing with so much of it during past stomach issues.  It made my not so very religiously inclined seven year old ask if it was time to pray so that Allah could take away the hurt.

You don’t know whether to shit or to barf first, they’re both so overwhelmingly compelling.  There’s an eye of the storm moment after every mad dash to the bathroom, where you think okay, that was the last one, I feel much better, until around 30-45 minutes later, when you’re doing it all over again and you realize the effing remote’s crapped out (no pun intended) and the repeat button is stuck.

The one and only good point about mutant stomach bug, version 2014 is that it moves fast.  The little slut.  The three of us caught it late Wednesday afternoon, and by early Thursday morning, we were able to give the hallway bathroom a break and get some rest.  By Thursday afternoon, I was able to get up, walk around for a few minutes, and attempt to take care of my pretty much back to normal four year old.  Yay for primary caretakers!  Where being sick means you get to do all the stuff you normally do with the addition of being sick.

Protect yourself from this year’s strain of stomach flu as well as you can, internet peoples.  You don’t want to catch this thing, believe me.  Compared to it, the stomach bug you have dealt with in the past is the common household cockroach.  This, my friends, is Godzilla.

If you think you can handle hours of shitting out all your body fluids, caressing your garbage can like it was your breastfeeding newborn, and having your ass make love to the toilet seat, then go ahead and give it a call.  You’ll find its number scrawled on the walls of dirty public bathrooms everywhere.

Ha ha.  That’s a funny one.  Get it?  Walls?  Stomach bug?  Dirty bathrooms?

You suck. 😐

It is now Friday afternoon and we are all on our way back to normal.  Lingering side effects have been a constant state of mild nausea, a heightened sensitivity to smell, and an overall feeling of having a bad hangover.  My nose is telling me there’s an open jar of sewer water somewhere in our house, but my husband is saying just stop complaining, will you? and that I’m overreacting.  Okay, then.

This is what I did on 2.5 hours of sleep

My four year old caught an extreme form of the stomach flu.  At least I hope that’s what it is.  I have no reason to suspect something else, but I’m a mother.  I hope for the best and worry about the worst.

We had to go to the emergency room and my little one was hooked up to an IV that gave him fluids and medication.  It was an unpleasant, deja vu type of experience.

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Yes, I know you can’t see his face, but for now, that’s how my husband and I prefer it.  He’s still too young for fan clubs.  I’m afraid we’ll have to wait for him to be able to spell his name before he can start giving out autographs.

He’ll be on strong anti nausea medicine for the next two days at least.  I don’t like the idea, especially since those meds often come with side effects worse than the symptoms they are supposed to treat.  But it’s better than the other option of having him puke to the point of dehydration.

One good thing about yesterday was that I got to see the sun after what seems like ages.  It’s winter in Chicago, after all.  It was heartening to see the sky go from inky black to light gray to light blue, with fat white clouds and dapples of pale, weak sunlight.

Here’s the view of the morning through the window of our living room.image[1]

Winter is fugly, but the rising dawn and early morning of any season are beautiful.  Almost makes me wish I was a morning person.

Plans for the a winter vacation have been cancelled and replaced with stay at home and keep an eye on sick child, along with pray older child doesn’t catch it.  Yay us.

Me zero, facebook still counting

I’m mad at Facebook.  Hmph.  Imagine an angry Winnie the Pooh with his arms crossed and you’ve got my current look.  I’ve been told I resemble the honey junkie.  I don’t see it, but I take it as a compliment.  I’d rather share similarities with him than that wuss Piglet or emo Eyore.

One upon a time Facebook used to be a good way to keep in touch with your far away friends and relatives.  Slowly, though, it’s turned into just a platform for showcasing who has the best what.  It was inevitable.  That’s what happens when people interact.  Our internal wiring is fixed to compare and compete.  It’s an ingrained human trait which social media has taken to a whole different playing field.  We now have the power to be jealous and petty electronically.  Yay to ‘one giant leap for mankind’!

What’s the worst thing about Facebook?  The Facebookers of course!  What’s the most annoying type of Facebooker?  That’s easy.

That honor goes to the lives on and through social media type.  You know, the one who takes up half your news feed?  Every movement is a status update?

I just shat!  Five minutes later.  Now flushing what I shat.  Two minutes later.  Need to wash my hands!  Two more minutes later. Done washing my hands!  One minute later.  Hmm, who thinks I might have diarrhea?  He he.  Well, I don’t know about the stuff coming out of your ass, but you are releasing a whole lotta shit via that keyboard.

Then we have the compulsive liar.  The one who leaves comments that make you think her job title must be professional ass kisser.  Wow, I’m so jealous! You look so beautiful in that picture!  No. No she doesn’t.  She looks like a bloated Effie Trinket crossed with John Travolta’s drag look from Hairspray.  Even she knows it.

The bullshitterMy career’s going great!  I’m in talks to be the first Indian James Bond!  Really?  That’s awesome.  Real step up from your last job as token brown guy in IHOP commercial.

The Selfie! queen.  Thinks she’s the next Victoria Secret angel when she looks more like the Taco Bell chihuahua with heavy makeup.

The ultra clingy wife/girlfriend.  One word.  BAE.  I don’t think there are any other three letters in the alphabet that when combined sound so. fucking. annoying.

The show off.  The lady who’s sole purpose on social media is to show us how great the version of her life inside her head is.  Because outside of it everyone can see it’s a total shit fest.

The Matriarch.  Pops out one kid every year in order for more Facebook posting material.  Numbers 1, 2, and 3 were cute.  Number 8 is making me wonder what birth control failed you so I can sue the company for abetting mental torture.

To be honest, I know I’ve been guilty of most of these at some point.  Not the show off one, though.  I can’t even drink myself to that point of delusion.  Not that I drink.  Or that I fancy delusions of a perfect life.  Who wants to be perfect when you can have fun being just you?

Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah!  My son is incredibly bored with his first day off from school so I told him to go draw clothes on the ladies of my Victoria Secret catalog.

You were meant to read this

Prayers for the innocent victims of the violence in Sydney and Peshawar and for their loved ones.  Posting one of my favorite poems in their honor and memory.  Poem written in 1932 by Mary Elizabeth Frye.

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

It’s been a sad week.  Disturbing images of death and grief have kept me from wanting to do anything but just sit and hate the world.  That doesn’t do anyone any good, especially not me.  Too much sitting negatively affects my slower than the turning rate of a dead gerbil’s spinning wheel metabolism.  I realized I needed to get off my ass and just do something, so I decided to blog, even though I have no idea what to blog about.  If this post make any sense, it’ll have the good fortune of being published.  If not, then why should you care. You don’t even know about it.

Now that you’ve read the last paragraph, you can see what the title is implying.

I’ve attempted to blog three times this week and all three times I fell asleep with the laptop warming my thighs and the light from the screen reflecting off my face.  Once I woke up from a nightmare where I was being fondled by a giant i-pad.  I kid you not.  That shit cray cray.  I think my laptop conned its electronic brethren into sending me a subliminal message.  Do this for me or I’ll tell Apple you’re sleeping with Motorola. 

If it could talk I’m sure my laptop would say either fucking write something or get the eff off of me.  Being upset really messes with your blogging mojo.  I don’t write very well in dramatic.  When I try to, my stories come out sounding less like The Fault in Our Stars and more like the script of a bad episode of Keeping Up With the Kardashians.  That’s not really narrowing it down, though, since they’re all pretty shitty.  Pick one of your choice.  There.  That’s how bad my drama is.

And please don’t say it.  Don’t.  Believe me, it’s scripted.  All that botox can’t emote on its own.

Sarcastic smart ass is more my dialect.  But there was nothing to be sarcastic or smart ass about within the past week.  There was only sadness.  So I stayed away.

What’s on my mind right now is that a whole group of people will be judged for the actions of the few or the one.  While things have been bad in the past, they’ve never been this bad.  We’ve had to change what we wear.  Alter our plans for the weekend.  Take well lit and more populated roads home at night.  That’s right, folks.  That’s right.  There’s a long, hard road ahead for us Bears fans.

Wait, what?  What did you think I was talking about?

Oh, that.  Pshaw.  I have a cousin in Sydney whose husband is a police officer.  When they visited us a few summers ago, he would go on and on about how everything’s better in Australia, from the food to the weather.  Even the pots and pans.  And we’d get irritated, because while Australia is awesome, you know everything in the US is the bestest.  Including the people.

With the weekend just around the corner, this suck ass week will come to an end, thank god.  This weekend means watching the football game where Jay Interception Cutler will be warming his ass on the bench it’ll be perched on.  Nice to see that he’s working hard for the salary that Chicago will have to, I don’t know, sell the fucking Willis Tower for? 

I don’t want to pick on the guy.  He’s not the only player on the team that sucks ass.  But when you’re being paid one of the highest salaries in the NFL, if not the highest, it’d be nice if you did something other than help the other team win.

Tried to throwback thursday that too was interceptedI’m not a big football fan.  I only got into it because my husband likes it.  I understand precisely half the game and less than that of the terminology, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what it means when you throw the ball and a player from the other team catches it.  You can always count on me to get excited for the local team,  but not this season.  No.  Not this season.  *Shudders*

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Now for some The View Through The Window household news.  That’s the “diamond” my son got me as a present from his school’s holiday gift shop.  He was excited when he handed it to me but said I can always take it back! when I punished him for being naughty later on in the day.  I tried to explain to him that gifts should come from the heart and aren’t conditional, to which he made a quacking duck sort of movement with his right hand and replied blah blah blah.

This is the same child who answered eat more salad when he overheard me asking my husband what my husband would tell me if he could be completely honest.  It’s a measure of how much I love the kid that the remark only got him a time out.  More than being a gift, the fake giant diamond is proof that he has a softer side to him somewhere in his utterly spoiled and sarcastically rude self.  He does love me, I just know it.

Last week we accidentally left the front door to our house wide open on our way out to run some errands around town.  So basically for over an hour our house’s welcome mat stood for my owners are sleep deprived idiots, please come rob them.  When we got back and saw what we had (or hadn’t) done, the accusations went flying even faster than the ones racking up against Bill Cosby.  I blamed my husband, he blamed me, and we both blamed the kids even though we didn’t say it.  Some shit had gone down in the van where they had dropped water on the seats and in the ensuing confusion, I guess we forgot to lock up.

I might have been sleep deprived before, but that night I was a freaking insomniac.  Even with the alarm system on I couldn’t close my eyes for more than a split second.  Behind every corner I thought I saw an axe murderer with a passion for hacking off people’s heads while they slumbered.  Luckily nothing happened, except that the next night I was so tired that I dozed off while putting my son to bed and instead of telling him a bedtime story, I started sleep talking the plot line to While You Were Sleeping

I kid you not.  You can’t make this stuff up.  This shit cray cray.

Poem retrieved from http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/do-not-stand-by-my-grave-and-weep.  Throwback Thursday pic from everywhere you look, because woah, Chicago is pissed.

Getting our interfaith dialoguing on

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The Christmas tree our son wanted is now up in our living room!  It’s a cute little addition.  We know nothing about tree selection and yes, this is the one you saw on sale in your Big Lots catalog.  It gets the job done.  My kids are giddy with excitement and the little one wants to check the chimney to make sure Santa isn’t stuck up there.  The man has to be the only celebrated fat person on the planet.

Yesterday we went to see some lovely Christmas lights at a park near my husband’s office.  The only bad thing that happened was that we got honked at for a full two minutes by some jerk who apparently was going to shit his pants or have a reindeer crash land into his car.  I felt guilty about giving him the finger, in light of the holiday season and all, but come on mofo, get into the Christmas spirit.  Take the candy cane outta your ass.

Here’s to some more peace and harmony in the world.  And much less snow.  I know people like a white Christmas and all but I really really hate the stuff.  You can’t blame me because I live in Chicago, a beautiful city where a white Fourth of July is within the realm of possibility.  I’ll wrap it up here with a little joke about how Chicago has two seasons, winter and construction.  Thanks to the effects of global inequality we have now added corruption and violence.  You know what they say.  Come to Chicago for the fun and stay because you got shot.  I don’t know who says that but it’s pretty funny.  I love you, my frozen little icecap of a hometown.

I only just sort of don’t like you

It’s that time of year again.  When you get a little note in the mail from your doctor’s office telling you to pop in for your pap in.  Pap smear, that is.  I don’t know anyone that gets excited over doctor visits.  Just the thought of one gives me a low level panic attack.

I am a classic case of white coat paranoia.  I smell death everywhere in the exam room and see the grim reaper himself in a lab coat.  Okay, so I have a Chicken Little type of irrationality, but what do you see when you walk into a gynecologist’s office?  Needles and probes and some sort of steely aluminum shit in the corner that looks like an effed up version of Wall-e.  My first thought when I saw that machine was god damn, where the hell is he going to stick that?  I don’t think I have any hole in me big enough. 

But then again, doctors know more about your body than you do.  They also have their own unique way of relating the news to you. I ask my cardiologist what’s up with my heart and he’ll say well, you have paroxysmal supra ventricular tachycardia and/or quite possibly idiopathic ventricular tachycardia and I’ll open up my eyes big and wide, lie through my teeth, and say oh, yeah, of course! okay, that makes total sense now!, even more effing confused than before I asked the question and mentally ticking off the way I’d like things to be done at my funeral.  Dear Mr.John Hopkins, you need a crash course in how to explain non deadly afflictions in less deadly sounding terminology.

These cats look very much like I do during and after said scenario.

YyghrKHwhoop_de_doo_cat

As bad as it is, a cardiologist visit is nothing compared to an appointment with the gynecologist.  Having someone who looks like my grandfather tell me to lay back and spread my legs is disconcerting, to say the least.  They also seem very suspicious of my efforts at losing the baby weight over there.  It might have something to do with the fact that the baby starts kindergarten next year.

The question of so are you going to have more kids? is inevitable and I can’t answer Gee, I don’t even know when the next time I’m going to take a piss isI’m guessing it’ll be when you ask me to do it in a cup, but neither one of us knows for sure, right?  They of all people should know that kids don’t ask for an invite.  They just show up, as did my youngest, and leave you wondering where did you come from?!  I’ve had my uterus securely under lock, key, and alarm system since then.  Only god can hack that code.

Speaking of which, good god,  doctors love to judge you.  The way they ask how many partners have you had, with steely gaze fixed, makes you squirm and wonder if even that man who tried to feel you up in the crowded elevator counts, with the afterthought of damn, that was eight years, two kids, and some pounds ago.  If I gave him the offer today he would probably refuse.

The biggest bummer of all is that most medical professionals look more like Dr.Phil than Derek Shepherd.

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Then there’s the trust issue.  He’ll assure you he’s gentle when his speculum wielding leaves you requesting a fucking epidural, but if at the same time he tells you you have esophageal hepatitis type F aortic kidney disease with inflamed pulmonary hardening of the abdominal cavity, you’ll believe him.  I bet half the people reading this thought that shit was real.

Don’t let this post take away from all the good doctors do, though.  Don’t think that.  You know what I’m talking about.  That sneaky little thought that if a doctor did any real work, he’d be called a nurse.  That kind of thinking is not nice.  Sure, he might only pop in for five minutes, but those five minutes are enough for someone with years of medical experience and if he was any better at what he did, he’d fix whatever was wrong with you with a twitch of his mouth and only the halo over his head as a light source.  Unless he graduated from shadymedschool.com, in which case I’d fly my ass right outta there.  Doctors do 95 percent of the good in this world, if you don’t count the one that performed Dick Cheney’s heart transplant.  That mofo should’ve known better.

Coming up next, The Doctor’s Version : A Rebuttal.  Spoiler ahead : Includes pissed off as hell MD’s who claim they are unfairly blamed for all medical problems of every fucking patient we come across.  Might also include diagnosis of put down the Fritos and get on treadmill for smart ass female patient

Disclaimer : That was a joke and I don’t promise any future posts on a doctor’s version of the shit he has to endure at the hands of whiny patients when he just tells them stuff for their own effing good.  I mean, where would I find someone like that?

Cat pics courtesy of https://catmacros.wordpress.com/tag/biting-sarcasm/.   McDreamy pic courtesy of my dreams.  Dr.Phil pic courtesy of just pick any effing place, he’s all over the internet anyway.

Motherhood. 24 hour service.

All mothers, or all parents rather, know that the time gap between one oh, shit! moment and the next is small.  There’s that golden five minutes when everything is right in your world and the rock of now freaking what?! hasn’t shattered the glass of homework is done, dinner is ready, house is habitable, and the kids are mostly clean.  Yes, when you’re a mother to two little boys, one of them prone to fits of extreme hyperactivity, that is your utopia.  It’s a step up from the game of limbo I was playing when both my boys were under the age of three and how low can you go was anyone’s guess.  That point was crossed when the washing machine crapped out at the same time as my breast pump.  Begging God to grant you just one effing onesie that’s clean, just one! while you rummage through the pile of baby clothes like a homeless bag lady with her udders full to bursting wouldn’t rank very high on anyone’s Nielsen box.

The past week has been a mad rush of trying to get all my school work done and handed in on time.  The feeling of thank everything that’s holy, the semester’s over had barely registered when I saw my first grader get off the bus and walk towards home.  He paused to fiddle with something the neighbor across the street had put up in his yard and that’s when we both heard it.  The extremely loud, nasal voice of our neighbor, demanding that my son keep his hands off whatever it was he was fiddling with for fear of it breaking and him hurting himself.  The man was shouting so obnoxiously, at the top of his lungs, that I and the other kids walking home from the bus stop could clearly hear every word.

My son stared in the direction of the voice for a minute, stunned.  Then he turned and slowly walked towards me, shock, hurt, and humiliation written all over his face.  I felt those emotions myself, along with guilt.  Not the kind of guilt you feel when you’re perusing Wikipedia articles while ignoring their please donate requests, but the kind of guilt you feel when you know you’ve failed someone.

My seven year old is a sweet little guy with an over the top zest for the funner things in life and an inability to keep his hands to himself.  He’s the typical boy, just extremely overactive.  He’s fried chicken, cooked extra spicy. If something in his vicinity is just standing there, minding its own business, he has to get his Facebook on and poke it.  Often that something is his little brother.

He’s a curly haired cutie that neither listens to nor fears anyone.  Being the first occupant of my womb entitled him to certain freebies in the minds of his grandchild starved grandparents, both maternal and paternal.  Before we knew it, he was spoiled to the point of no return.  He’s got an attention span of a full sixty seconds and a proclivity for bouncing off walls, sometimes literally, and getting himself into trouble, usually of the type that requires bandaging.  He is the road runner to my coyote in the  Sisyphus like trials that are the mothering of a child with a mind of his own.112699-15951

That’s not to say he’s mean or hurtful.  Far from it.  He’s the Macaulay Culkin of Home Alone, not the Macaulay Culkin of The Good Son.  If he knew what he was doing would bother our neighbor, he would never have done it.  He’s well aware that he’s only allowed to make his parents miserable.

While standing at our door watching him walk over to me, I remembered another shouting my son had received from the same man, earlier on in the month, for not stopping to look right and left before crossing the street.  I had let that pass at the time due to it seemingly coming from a genuine concern for my son’s well being, but in light of the most recent screamathon, I felt like the world’s biggest dumb fuck of a mom for doing so.  If I hadn’t let the man think it was okay for him to raise his voice at my son the first time, he wouldn’t have dared to do it for the second.

Along with the guilt came the confusion of what exactly to do about the situation.  My mama bear instincts were raring to go ape shit on the guy, but were held in check by the fact that on both occasions, my kid was being careless.  And even though the man was loud and vile, the end result was that my son was safer due to his actions .  It was a tough few minutes of mental and emotional wrangling, but in the end I decided that, even it was for his safety, no one could talk to my child in a way that made him feel and look the way he did when he slowly walked towards me from the driveway across the street.  No kid’s safety should have to come at the expense of his self esteem.

I dialed the number for the neighbor and spoke to his extremely polite and really mature for his age eight year old, who rides the same bus and was witness to what had happened.  He calmly explained to me that his dad was too harsh and that when his dad shouts like that, it scares him, too, which made me think the man’s fuse seemed to be only slightly longer than that of the incredible Hulk’s.  The boy said not to worry and that he would send his father over to talk to me as soon as he returned home.

I hate confrontation.  I’m a five foot zero inch shorty, but my brain forgets that little detail when it’s trying to put out the fire in my she’s pissed off as hell quadrant.  I can’t say I wasn’t scared of meeting the man.   I was actually hoping he would show up after six o’clock and then he’d be my husband’s problem.  But I remembered the way I felt earlier, when I saw my son’s reaction, and that decided it for me. I had had enough of feeling like I had failed him.  Whether I wanted to or not, I would don my warrior mom, she bear out to protect her cub, this bitch means child protective business outfit and confront that bastard.  Which I did.  I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I got the point across, with double the prize money awarded because I did it without…wait for it…raising my voice.

This whole ordeal, and some of the other dear god, what the eff scenarios I’ve been through in the seven years I’ve been a parent, have taught me that being a mom or a dad is challenging.  Very challenging.  It’s the test of your life, without the option of open book or open notes. You’re expected to have all the answers when half the time you don’t even know what the fuck the question is.  Your job comes with the requirement that mommy will make it all better, even on occasions when mommy’s ready to shit her pants.  But it’s worth it in the end, when your children go off to college and become the state’s problem.  Just kidding.  It’s really all worth it just to hear those sweet little guys call you their momma.

What’s so terroristic about that?

*The why do I even bother, you know I swear too much, three out of six blog posts come with a warning disclaimer : why do I even bother, you know I swear too much, three out of six blog posts come with a warning.

I’ve been kind of bummed lately.  Not only am I facing a week filled with homework and finals, since the end of the semester is right around the corner, but my blog’s spam catcher tells me someone has used my Santa post on their site as anti Muslim propaganda.  Which totally confuses me.  If anything I thought Muslims would be offended by that post.  I can’t say I wasn’t expecting some ignorant shit, though, ever since ISI won’t even fucking finish that took the religion and mutated it to the point where even Professor X’s bald ass can’t help it much.  The painstakingly slow face lift of the Islamic faith was underway when these douches from where the eff did they come from, exactly? showed up and the patient flat lined on the operating table.

It’s the reason why I never wanted to put the fact out there.  I never wanted to mention that I was a Muslim (albeit not a very good one). I didn’t want to go through my blogging life donning a scarlet comment bubble.  I swear, I only looked at that guy twice and only one of those times was I thinking something dirty.  But it’s a part of who I am and I didn’t want to hide that either.

The mere mention of the M word makes me and the majority of the other billion followers automatically guilty by association of various types of crimes that not only would we never perpetrate, but recoil in horror from. Apparently anything I do, say, write, pick or fart is now considered suspect.  Even my gas might be poisonous.  The spammer has proven that by linking a simple, humorous Santa story to how Muslims like to invite abandoned little children into their gingerbread homes and eat them once they’re nice and fat.  Not literally, but I’m sure he could and some people wouldn’t even bat an eye lid.  I’m not that practicing, but even if I were a Muslim’s long lost uncle’s fifth cousin eight times removed to the negative tenth power times the square root of 9, I’d still be considered an enemy and a threat.

If it makes the spammer happy, there’s a good chance that I am going to hell.  Too.  You won’t find me in the I hated people based on their religion section because that’s just not how I roll, but more likely in the I slept through Fajr, watched TV during Zuhr, another episode was on during Asr, at Maghrib I ate dinner and for why I missed Isha, please refer to why I missed Fajr section.  Those are the five daily Muslim prayers, for those wondering what the eff ?   I might also be transferred to the I vomited after my first attempt at a 15 hour fast so I used it as an excuse and never fasted again area.  And let’s not forget that I can’t seem to form a sentence without sticking a four letter word in there somewhere, to the point where if I go to a job interview and the guy asks me So why are you here today?  I’m afraid I’ll answer because I want the money, mofo, and to be able to say ‘I earned this’, or else I’d still be sitting at home watching my ass grow while wearing a shirt that reads ‘I leech off my husband’ .

Great, now I’ve raised the ire of the hard cores.  A moderately liberal Muslim just can’t win these days.  We’re playing Red Rover with the ultra religious wacky and the go back to your country, towel head crowds and no one wants us to come over. 😦

Seriously, though, none of us has come off the assembly line with our factory settings firmly set to convert or kill.  Hand some ignorant dumb ass the chance to do something divinely grand with his life, while also setting up a fat 401k for the afterlife, cherry pick some religious verses on how this is what God wants you to do, really he does and you’ve got yourself Tom Cruise telling women thinking happy thoughts will make the postpartum depression go away. 

Dealing with ignorance is like talking to your senile great aunt while she’s eating creamed corn out of  a can and her dentures are falling out.  It’s a disease that starts by attacking and shutting off the parts of the human brain that control free thought and compassion.  I’d never be so arrogant enough to think that I know all there is to know about, well, pretty much anything, really, and I don’t understand how other people can.  Over a billion followers and you think those dumb fucks out in the sand dunes of where the eff did they come from exactly represent us?  Please.  Our PR department might be bad, but it’s not that bad.

I am a graduate of the school of humanity, with a concentration on a certain damn, they’ve messed it up beyond the point of recognition Abrahamic faith.  I can totally respect that there are a few billion people in the world and some of them believe the world will end in fire and some in ice, a la Robert Frost, and some think it’ll be when the Cubs win the world series again.  I personally believe that hell is actually Chicago traffic during rush hour, with a polar vortex style background, after the Bears have had their asses handed to them by the Packers and Cutler’s out for the season again.

The good doctors and the bad doctor

Note : Some sensitive material of a medical nature and some swearing involved.

We almost lost my youngest back in 2011, when he was around sixteen months of age.  Most people don’t know anything about it because updating my Facebook status isn’t the first thing on my mind when frantically pacing the hallways of the intensive care unit.  It’s not something I like to talk about anyway, but will in order to make the point I intend to make with this blog post.

For Halloween 2014, my son wanted to be Elsa.  As in the snow queen.  He wanted the boots, the cape, the hairdo, and to be belting out Let it Go instead of trick or treat at the top of his lungs.  He practiced everyday, with my scarf tucked into the back of his shirt as a cape.  This, of course, causes me and my husband some concern.

If you’re wondering why, you obviously haven’t been through the hellish rites of passage known as elementary and high school or you’ve stoned yourself enough to have forgotten.  I can just picture the scenario where some smart ass, ignorant fuck of a child, with parents who share similar attributes, introduces the word fag to my sweet little boy.  And this will start the cycle of self doubt and insecurity in him, he who just wants to sing Let it Go and be Elsa the snow queen for Halloween, darn it.

While he walks around the house clutching his Thomas and Friends trains to his chest , I wonder what will become of my baby.  That’s what he is, after all.  My youngest and most likely my last.  It’s something I wondered around three years ago, too, when he lay in my arms, only half conscious, while we drove him to the local hospital’s emergency room from his pediatrician’s office.  He had fallen in and out of consciousness that day, pooped a diaper full of blood, and had spent the whole week clinging to me, not wanting anyone else and not willing to let go.  I felt like a mother kangaroo.  It had gotten so bad that at one point, I walked out of the house as soon as my husband walked in after work.  I told him I was going out and to not call me.  I drove to the nearest park, turned the car off, and cried.

Two doctor visits with the same doctor at our son’s pediatricians office earlier on in the week had resulted in a diagnosis of allergies.  Twice.  But the third time we took him in, right before being sent to the emergency room, a different doctor took one look at him, saw the potential for a lawsuit due to her colleague’s inability to recognize a child near death when she saw one, and sent us on our way to the local hospital, where they hypothesized about what exactly could be wrong with my son until a test for his hemoglobin levels returned at a level of 2.2.  Normal for a child his age is around 14.

A blood transfusion and an ambulance to shift us to the larger Children’s Memorial Hospital in Chicago were ordered.  They loaded my son into the ambulance with the blood transfusion and an oxygen machine going side by side.  The nice paramedic tried not to make it obvious that he had to keep adjusting the oxygen levels because my son was having difficulty breathing.  We arrived at the emergency room of Children’s Memorial.  Surgeons, nurses, emergency room doctors, and the nice paramedic all crowded around us.  I’ll never forget the feeling of being cared about that I got from that crowd.  It was in stark contrast to the vibe I got earlier at the other hospital.  One smiling, calm face after another introduced his or her self to us and asked that we tell them exactly what was going on, in detail.  Their demeanor made me think that med school must have taught a course on keeping your shit together in the face of doctor doctor please please please fix my kid.

My son was diagnosed with iron deficiency anemia, caused by too much milk in his diet, which we were giving him too much of because he had been refusing his food while sick.  Have you ever heard of death by cow boob juice?  Me neither.  Apparently the dumb fuck of a pediatrician who diagnosed him with allergies couldn’t connect the dots when I had told her he had been on just milk for days and that he had swelling all over his body.  Swelling is a classic symptom of iron deficiency anemia.  I’m guessing she pulled the degree from Rush out of her ass.

After spending three days and two nights in the hospital, one of which was in the ICU, we got to take our son home, which isn’t something every parent gets to experience when leaving a children’s hospital.  I realize we were the lucky ones.  I will forever be grateful to the doctors and nurses at Children’s Memorial.  How they manage to keep their smiles and their sanity intact with the kind of work they do is a mystery to me.  I know I would’ve gone bat shit manic depressive a long time ago.

It’s been over three years since then and the road to raising two young boys has been only slightly bumpy.  Until this one big bump of my son sometimes wanting to be a girl.  Eighty percent of the time he’s fine with being a boy, watching Thomas and attempting to beat up his big brother.  Then there are those moments when he wants me to buy him a purse with his favorite princess character on it.  Confused much?

I’ve thought about it, and really, the only thing I’ve wanted from my sons ever since they were born is for them to stick my husband and I in the same old folks’ home when we get to the diapering and spoon feeding part of old age, so that we can crap our pants at the same time, eventually croak together, and I can graduate from the school of life with full nagging honors.  Oh, yeah, and for them to be happy.  Super happy.  When you’re a parent, all that matters to you is that your child exists.  Parenting is a one way street.  You give and don’t expect anything in return, although there’s a very good chance you’ll get a lot back. I don’t see how it’s possible to add fine print to the contract that was to love my kids forever.

So no, I don’t care if my son wants to be a queen, either now or twenty years from now.  I don’t care who my boys marry or don’t marry or if they go live with cows on some ranch in Montana.  I just hope that once in a while they’ll leave their bovine pasture and come see us, especially when my husband’s telling the nurses he’s fine with being donated to science as long as it gets him away from me.