I forgot the password

Both my kids are now in school full time, from 8 am to 3 pm.

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No, it’s more like

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I have recently started participating in activities that I had abstained from in the past due to the pursuit of such activities being an exercise in futility.

What are they?  Oh, you know, stuff like bathing regularly and being able to hear myself think.

I have been immersed in 24/7 child care for so long that seven hours on my own feel awfully strange.

I have to keep reminding myself about tiny details, like that it’s okay to sit down to a meal without having to worry if the boys have had theirs, and that I can now pee with the door completely closed.

And locked.

That last one is still taking some getting used to.

Summer vacation 2015 felt like the long weekend from hell.  Each day was so much like the other that I felt as if we were on constant rewind.

Even my boys were bored out of their minds with so much free time.  The other kids in our neighborhood were either at camp or on vacation.  Sure, we had swimming and karate classes twice a week, but what else is there to do to fill up the many, many hours of radiant sunshine that is summer?

That’s right.  Video games.

And don’t even get me started on the fights that these games caused.

Each morning I would wake up to the sounds of screams and shouts, some excited, some plaintive, some whiny, and some of them combined with tears.  I would stumble my way to the living room like a zombie, still half asleep, the effects of not having gotten enough rest clearly showing in my puffy face.

Blogging?  What blogging?

I am an avid reader/follower of many different, wonderful blogs, and I hate when they don’t get updated for extended periods of time.

Of course, I would never do that, I prided in myself.

Which just goes to prove that it’s easy to blame the chipmunk if the nut has fallen from the tree.

Didn’t get that?  I didn’t either.  I think it’s my summer brain still doing the talking.  Or should I say typing.

But you know what I mean.

Oh, the onslaught to the parental brain that is summer vacation.

And don’t forget its evil sibling, which is the transition from late nights and lazy days to early mornings, parent teacher conferences, PTA meetings, and homework.

Shudders.

No, it’s not that we don’t want to spend time with our kids.

What ever gave you that idea?

It’s just that summer kids are bored kids.  They’re bored kids with bored friends who are so bored that they start thinking up of devilish things to un bore themselves and then they end up not bored, but also not very happy.

Like my 5 year old, who thought it would be fun to go all George of the Jungle on the long living room curtains.

Watch out for that coffee table!

He flew right into it.  On TV, little birds go round and round your head when you crash into something, but in real life, you get a big hole in your chin, where, upon impact with the coffee table, your incisors chewed through your lower lip.

You get blood that looks like a chocolate fountain coming out of your mouth, 3 hours in the ER, and seven stitches.

And you get a momma with severe heart palpitations from the stress.

And that’s not even the worst part.  You want to know what the worst part was?

The worst part was that when they were all backpacked and ready to head out the front door that first day of school, I didn’t want to let my kids go.

That’s right.  Even after this crap fest of a summer, all I wanted that day was to have my sons stay home with me.

Figure that out if you can.

I wanted to diaper them, feed them mush from a jar, and have myself be their go to person for their boo boos, their stories, their meals and their play time.

I wanted them to be my babies forever.

Damn those onion cutting ninjas!

With precious little brains left, I had no time nor energy for creative wording, so I just gave up attempting  blog posts during the summer.

And because of that, I forgot the password to my WordPress account.

Late in August, when the reprieve, AKA the first day of school, was right around the corner, I attempted to log in and failed.

Five times.

And now that I’m here, that’s all I had to say.

Hope your kids are enjoying being back in school as much as mine are!

To 3 or not to 3

This is a picture of me as a baby.  The person holding me is my uncle.

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I don’t know why I look so angry.  My husband says I still make that sour face.  A lot.

Here’s another.

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I’m with my mom in this one.  Apparently I didn’t move a lot as a kid.  Some things never change.

Excuse the quality of the pics.  They’re pretty old.

No, I’m not old.  Just the pics are.

My neighbor from across the street recently had her fifth child.  She gets out of the house so infrequently that I found out she had been pregnant two weeks after she brought the baby home from the hospital.

She’s a little on the religious side.  She likes to tell me that children are a blessing, birth control is a no no, and that we should have as many kids as God decides to give us.

Okay, Michelle Duggar.  You do that.  I’m going to hop on the first train back to the real world, where we have  something called a condom.

As my boys get older, the question of So are you going to have any more? becomes inevitable.  I’ve heard it quite a few times already.  Everyone seems to think that we need a daughter.

My sister once asked me Wouldn’t you love to have a girl? to which I replied Not as much as I’d love to have a life.

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If you listen closely, I’ll tell you a secret.  Ready?  Okay, here we go.

Kids.  Are.  A LOT.  Of work.

Above is the picture of my eldest at around three months old.  Isn’t he such a doll?

But behind those chubby cheeks and fat wrists lies a natural inclination to be hyper.  And naughty.

Here is Child 2 at 1.5 months of age.

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His story is the most famous post on this blog.

He’s the opposite of his brother.  He loves to eat and to sleep.  He also did this thing as a newborn where he would pull a fistful of his own hair and then scream at the top of his lungs.  That was cute but I really hoped it didn’t reflect on his level of intelligence.

When you put the two of them together, you get 4 ounces of getting along, 3 ounces of fighting, and 1 ounce of He’s so stupid and annoying and I wish he was like Mini!

Mini is my brother’s deceased pet cat.  He was also my kids’ first experience with the concepts of death and dying.  I was hoping for some maturity and understanding from them when we mentioned Mini’s passing, but all they got out of it was that he had gone away and was never coming back and hey, that’s a good idea, let’s send my annoying brother there, too.

My kids are my world.  They might drive me crazy, but they also make me laugh.

Like when my four year old comes up to me, points to my breasts, and asks Which one makes ice cream?

I’m guessing that’s some sort of reference to breast milk but I was laughing too hard to inquire.

As much as I love my kids, I’m not crazy about the idea of giving them more siblings.  My experience with raising infants hasn’t been the greatest.  It was challenging, to say the least.

While all the other new parents sailed smoothly, we hit iceberg after iceberg.

Smash.  Acid reflux.

Crash.  Inability to nurse.

Wham.  Being blessed with the one baby in the world that didn’t seem to require any sleep whatsoever.  His idea of nap time was an extra long blink.

The biggest problem of them all was my kids’ inability to put on weight.  They would gain ounces, not pounds.   Both were big babies at birth and in utero, thanks to my doing a really good job at the eating for two part, but my husband was a rail thin child and genetics eventually took over in full force.

Difficulty in gaining weight is a problem I never had.  I can look at food and gain weight.  Even embryonic me must’ve been on the heavier side.

Not my boys.  They both eat like crazy and not one bit of it turns into baby fat.  They have the metabolism of an Olympic gold medalist.

While it’s great for them as kids, as babies it was a nightmare.  Infancy is the one and only time where fat equals cute.  Kid one was diagnosed with failure to thrive and kid two with the audacity to completely fall of the charts.

I know now that children of Indian descent are naturally more petite.  But as a new parent, any minor deviation from normal was the end of the world.  And that’s what it felt like.

It’s tough to look back at their baby pictures and not remember a time when I felt like a total failure at the whole mothering thing.

An especially low point was when a cold ass bitch commented So are you feeding your kids at all or are you eating their food as well?

Apparently she meant it as a joke.  I meant it as a joke, too, when I told her her husband’s tits were bigger than hers.

I’m in no hurry to flunk the test for the third time and neither is my husband.  Sure, number 3 might be the charm, but higher powers seem to be agreeing with us on two being the magic number.  Meaning my ob-gyn and my cardiologist.  The only way I will be allowed to deliver any future child is through cesarean surgery and the pills I pop for my tachycardia are harmful to a growing fetus.

Let’s see.  Stop taking potentially life saving medicine and be carved up like a Christmas turkey, or shut down the baby making factory and be a good mom to the kids I already have?

If anything I’d say God was telling me to keep my uterus to myself.  Okay, God, I get your message.  Sheesh. Now stop sending me those nightmares where I’m giving birth to the Antichrist.

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.

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.

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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.

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.