It’s a Lengthy One. You Can Trudge Through It!

The last time we met, I had my panties in a bunch over a note my son’s teacher had sent me about Doodicus and an upcoming field trip and how we could make it a more enjoyable trip for all. On my blog, I tried to present her in a neutral light, but I admit on Facebook I was an indignant and defensive attention whore and threw her under the school bus.

As instructed, all correspondence between me and the teachers when it comes to Dood’s behavior is to be copied to Dr. Rita. Of course, I forwarded the note from the teacher to him and by the next morning I had this response:

· Very clear, concise, specific expectations (for instance, [Dood] need to keep hands to himself, stay within arm’s length of the teacher, etc).

· Frequent feedback on those expectations (“[Dood], you are doing a great job staying with the group”, “Remember to keep hands to self”).

· Clear and specific consequences that can be applied on the field trip (“[Dood], if you touch things you are not supposed to touch, you will have to hold the teacher’s hand for 15 minutes”).

· On the bus, set [Dood] up for success. Assign him to sit next to a peer he will do well with, and have that assigned seat close to the teacher who can provide regular feedback when [Dood] is doing well meeting expectations.

· Give him incentives to look forward to on the trip. It sounds like this event lasts all day. When he does well on the bus on the way there, he gets to be the first one off the bus. When he does well staying with the group during the tour, he gets to be the first one to have lunch/decide where he or the group sits, that kind of thing. There are lots of small, cost-free ways to reinforce behavior. And the more the behavior is reinforced, the more likely it is you will see it.

Please let me know if these suggestions make sense. Also, if there is a specific concern they have, please let me know and I will do my best to provide additional suggestions.

It wasn’t until the note from the teacher did I actually have any concerns about how Doodicus was going to be on the trip. Since students were given the OK to bring something to occupy themselves on the bus (two-hour trip! One way!), I knew that his nose would be buried in a game and quite an easy traveler. But now I was stressing.

Between the scheduled field trip and exchange of notes above, we had an appointment with Dr. Rita, the psychologist as well as our first appointment with the psychiatrist to discuss possible med changes. I remembered to bring a notebook this time because when Sparring Partner asks me about the appointment, I find it difficult to summarize a 90 minute appointment in a five to ten minute discussion. Bullet points, it is! This has proven to be especially helpful when two weeks later, SP is doing something that the doctor has advised us not to do (or conversely, NOT doing something we should be), and SP defends himself with, “You never told me that!” “Oh, but I did, dear husband. Right here.” And hand over the notebook.

Our appointment with Dr. Hairy, the psychiatrist was enlightening, if not endlessly, …well…ENDLESS. Bedside manner is not his forte, but he asked dozens and dozens of questions. I would try to let Dood answer the questions and only interjected when necessary (how was the pregnancy? Birth? Baby diet, etc., etc.). In conclusion, the medication Dood had been taking (the Daytrana Patch at 20mg/day) was not doing its job effectively. It may have been sufficient at one time, but it’s possible to build up “immunity”. The new medication is Vyvanse and it’s been a nightmare getting it approved through my insurance company (Coventry). To complicate matters, our employer has switched back to BCBS on May 1st. To date (May 3rd), Coventry has not approved the prescription and I now have to get it approved with BCBS, too. As for out of pocket, the Vyvanse is less expensive than the Daytrana; however, when you are going from $275 to $230/month, it’s not significant.

On the first day of the Vyvanse, which was the day before the field trip, he complained of sharp stomach pains and nausea in the morning. In the days following (it’s now been one full week), he’s mentioned some nausea these past couple of evenings and that his arms hurt. The nausea thing could be one of his stalling tactics, since he usually feels just fine up until five minutes AFTER we’ve told him to get ready for bed. The aches might be growing pains? A valid suspicion if I was to factor in the recent appearance of pimples on his forehead. PIMPLES. ON MY TEN YEAR OLD. AAAARRRGGGGHH!!

Behavior-wise? He is a whole new child, according to his teacher. She actually described him as almost somber during the field trip, but that was before he confessed to discovering he had lost the $20 bill we had given him to spend (which was found by another teacher!). While I’m excited over the initial results, his behavior before the medication and at the end of the day are, simply worded, explosive and unpredictable. What’s most remarkable about these unfortunate events is that he feels remorse over them later. THAT has never happened in the past.

There’s less than two weeks to go in school. We will have to make a decision soon about where his education will continue next fall, but quite frankly, I have all but formally announced to Doodicus and to his parochial school that he will not return in the fifth grade, and that we will instead enroll him in the public school system.

I had been procrastinating the writing of this post because there just seemed like there was so much (TOO much) to write about, but I have to get this out there. The little details flit from my memory like moths out of a blanket getting snapped in the air. Which reminds me! I had requested Dood’s office notes from his visits with his therapist from 2008. The first time I had left a phone message with both the doctor and the therapist, I was ignored. My second voice mail messages I left were not so gentle, but were returned. I was informed that Dood’s mental health records could not be released to me, but only to a treating physician. I confirmed this information on-line (no thanks to Nebraska Health and Human Services (NHHS) endless links to more links and even MORE links) before actually reading that mental health providers and their patients’ notes cannot be released to the patient nor their guardian. Just an FYI.

As for the empathy displayed towards my teacher, I still feel a bit raw about it. As a parent, even to a child who I know can test the patience of a saint, I expect everyone else to think he’s perfect. Said with a certain level of wryness. Before you go too soft for the teacher, here are some excerpts from more recent emails (this first one is pre-new medication):

While [Dood]\’s day yesterday was \"better,\" this morning started out on the not-so-good side! The first full hour was a struggle for both of us. He was incredibly fidgety, inattentive, disruptive, noisy (actually humming nervous tunes and noises), uncooperative (didn\’t get Math book or practice book out when directed to do so…neither with the class nor when personally asked to do so), couldn\’t find Math homework (refused help to find it, saying it was \"at home\"), even a little argumentative. The afternoon is going a little better!

I have his assignments in order for being gone tomorrow and he has taken his Spelling test…got an 84%.

Perhaps you have an appointment set, but I\’d recommend a haircut soon. He\’s starting to play with his hair, dragging his fingers through it, and the bangs are in his eyes more often than not.

Here’s the response to our (mine and Dr. Rita’s) request to have a behavior-tracking-with-points form completed each day (emphasis is ALL mine):

I have given the charts to [Dood] and we’ll see how it goes! I think it might be tedious, but we’ll give it our best shot! I’m going to give him a certain folder (on MY desk) to hand his work in as it’s finished.

And then this:

Please clarify for me again…am I expected to chart this information? Would it not be as easy for him to do it? Also, I wanted to let you know his day seems to be going very smoothly! I’m anxious to see what a whole week looks like for him!

And finally:

Okay, Mrs. C. and I will do our best, but surely you understand that we have many other students and things to keep our minds occupied. This is a particularly challenging group of students, many issues, etc. However, as I said, we will make every effort to complete this task daily. I’ll keep the charts in a folder at my desk and there will be no need for concern by anyone else.

Aaaaaand, discuss (said with a waved flourish of my hand)!

 

504 Plans and Punishment

Doodicus had his second therapy session almost two weeks ago. During our appointment, Dr. Rita scribbled some notes on a sheet of paper and handed them to me when we were done. It was a list of accommodations we would send to the school. The beginning of our 504 Plan.

Now in my head, the 504 Plan was this formal outline that not only required a notary, but the signatures from no less than a dozen physicians, and the stamp of a unicorn’s ass to make it official. Apparently not. In our case, it just needs to be a neatly formed letter describing the disability (ADHD) and how it can affect the child’s learning and then basically a list of bulleted statements of accommodations the school (or even the family) will take from that point forward.

After years of "pleading" with teachers to just take a few extra moments, if you don’t mind, I know you’re busy and all, but would you double-check his assignment book to make sure he’s filled it out before coming home, it’s now just as simple as this example:

"The teacher will review and sign off on Dood’s assignment book every day, which is then to be double-checked by the parents."

As you can tell, it’s not really a request. Just like you don’t ask your kids, "Will you please eat all your peas?" I have to realize that this is not a favor I am asking, but that just like eating your peas, it’s simply an expectation of what is best is the given situation.

So I am figuring this out (slowly), but there is still so much gray area to cover. For example, we are also supposed to come up with punishments for repeated infractions. The punishment must be immediate and straight-forward. It’s simple to exact punishment at home: no TV, no video game, quiet time in room, etc., but what kind of punishment is acceptable by the teacher in front of 20 other kids in a classroom? The infractions that we are trying to eliminate may seem rather…petty…but they are part of helping Doodicus understand what responsibility means. Here are a few behaviors and if you have any suggestions on how to motivate Dood to not repeat them, please shout it out:

1) Not hanging up coat/throwing coat on the floor. It’s causing a tripping hazard to other kids and a distraction to Dood.

2) Late assignments. I have taken reduced recess out of the equation.

3) Carrying on with neighbor-student (talking, joking, horse-play) during the lesson. BTW, I believe it’s this type of activity that ends up getting Doodicus excluded from planned group activities. No one wants the trouble-maker on their team….

4) Using his pencil as a sword or light saber during study hall. He’s playing by himself, but he’s not only distracting everyone around him, he’s not getting his work done. Obviously, you can’t take away the pencil.

All thoughts and opinions are helpful. There’s no such thing as "assvice" around here.

P.S. I plan on posting more about the 504 Plan because it’s taken me almost three years to actually understand what I needed to do. I had a gist, but Dr. Rita has been invaluable in helping me appreciate how very simple it is.

 

I Remember the Stove

This stove sits in the dining room of the house I grew up in. When we would lose electricity, which of course only happened when the nastiest of blizzards would be blowing through, this was our only source of heat. We wtould hang quilts to separate this room from the others, to keep the heat concentrated during extended outages. I loved, and still do, leaning onto this stove, my backside quickly warming up so I would have to arch forward for a few seconds losing contact
and then returning my  cooled butt to its comforting and familiar heat. After chores, mittens of all sizes would cover the top to dry away the snow and cold. There was nothing like that moment slipping the gloves back on, hot and crustily dried, before going out for the evening chores when it was 20 degrees below windchill. Mom would also keep an old teapot filled with water to humidify the room. The kettle had so much mineral build-up from decades of evaporation, the spout was blocked shut. It burns oil, not wood, and if it wasn’t venting properly, the smell would choke me and sting my eyes. My dad, with his 100 lb frame and aging bones, keeps the stove running at least 300 days a year, easily. I’ve walked into the house on balmy summer days and have felt heat from its surface. I’m so accustomed to its warm presence that when it is off , the cold iron feels foreign and awkward. I imagine its like trying to hug a corpse of someone you loved dearly.

 

The Alzheimer’s Threat

Since Doodicus was a baby, his grandma, my mom, has spent one day of the week watching the kids. It’s been a wonderful opportunity for all of us. As you know, my mother’s declining mental health has made many day-to-day tasks challenging. Initially diagnosed with early dementia, she is now in the early, but moderate, stages of Alzheimer’s and on several different medications.

These were prescribed with the intent to slow the affects of the disease, but they only work when they are taken consistently. How do you get someone who cannot remember what day or time it is to take their Monday morning dose? My brother who lives within a couple minutes from the farm, stops in almost daily to see if she’s taken her medicines, but he’s reported there are times he hasn’t been over for two or three days to discover she’s not taken anything.

When I talk to her on the phone, I can tell when she’s been taking her medicine as prescribed. She happy, content, talkative and rarely repeats herself. Without, she’s brusque, bitchy and can’t remember what the topic was from the five minutes before, if she even stays on the phone that long without hanging up without so much as a "good-bye" or "Love you". A couple weeks ago, I had asked if she could come to watch Aitch on Tuesdays instead of Mondays because I have Tuesday afternoons off. I can keep a better eye on her and let her go home earlier as she’s so exhausted by noon. She remembered and I was relieved. Tuesday passed without a hitch except she left her glasses behind. Two days later, as we were eating breakfast, she rang the bell and I went to the door puzzled by her unexpected visit (mind you, it’s a 25 mile drive). I thought it was because she had forgotten her glasses and she had some kind of appointment in town and was stopping by to pick them up. I asked if she wanted to spend the day with Aitch since she was in town. She said, "Well, that’s why I’m here. Your dad said I was suppose to come up." I hadn’t talked to my dad in a couple of weeks and certainly had not told him that mom was to be at our house that day.

We discovered she wasn’t taking her medication again. Sunday I called her, and since I was in a shit mood, having sat at the table with Doodicus for four hours trying to get him through his homework, I told her simply that if she didn’t take her medicine as prescribed, she couldn’t watch the kids anymore. I feared for her safety and I feared for the welfare of my kids. She’s incapable of using the cell-phone we leave at the house for emergencies. Against my repeated requests, she lets Aitch play in her car, which seems to always result in the key getting turned over or the lights turned on leaving her a dead car battery at the end of the day. (Yes, grandma stays with her, but what if mom collapses in the car and my daughter has the key or can’t open the door on a hot day…I go into a panic just thinking about it.)

Sparring Partner has had enough, too. He will drive home over lunch to make sure they are eating and almost always finds Aitch sitting in the living room in front of the TV with a glass of soda (which we don’t allow her to have, much less have in the living room, much, MUCH less in an open glass!) eating marshmallows out of the bag or he’s picking up a dozen tootsie roll wrappers littered across the house. It’s like grandma just doesn’t give a shit.

My mom use to talk with so much scorn about the people who would end up in the nursing home "batshit crazy and not knowing what day it is" and claiming she would never want to end up that way, and yet here she is, one step away, and it’s pissing me off. My mom and dad despise each other (another long story) so they only live in the same house, refusing to help each other. Dad’s not going to remind her to take her medicine; mom won’t ask dad to remind her to take her medicine. I’ve offered to buy my mom a pill dispenser that has an audio alarm, but she doesn’t want it. Won’t use it. And sure, I can threaten that she can’t come up and spend the day alone with the kids, but what good does that do when she doesn’t even remember the threat?

The thoughts I have about the situation are selfish and ugly. I am already feeling the crushing weight from what is going on with Doodicus, and frankly I just want someone else to just make it all go away.

 

I Remember Dialing the Phone

There was a wall-mounted, black rotary phone in our "den" when I was growing up. The den was a tiny room at the front of the house that was eight square feet, at the most. It contained the shotgun cabinet, a drop-front secretary desk, a door to the outside, an arched entrance into the dining room and that rotary phone. In fact, it still has all of those items in it. The only change that’s been made is it’s been painted a couple of times and new carpet. To make a phone call, you simple picked up the phone, listed to the handset to make sure the family you didn’t share it with (a "party" line) wasn’t already using it, and then you stuck your finger – or a pencil, if you were feeling fancy – into the hole with the corresponding number and rotated it clockwise until it hit the stopper. Then you lifted your finger out and went to the next number. Repeat six more times.

If I got in a hurry and put my finger in the 4 instead of the 3 and moved it even slightly, I had just fucked up everything. I have to start over. Waiting for the rotary to return from the stop was eternal. Especially if was a zero, which required a nearly 170 degree rotation. 1 was the closest to the dial and therefore the shortest to wait for. Our prefix was 337. Every number we ever dialed started with 337. After that, each phone in the community was numerically assigned. Apparently our family’s was the 865th phone number assigned.

When I needed a phone number of a friend, I could simply dial -0- and ask the live operator. If you picked up the handset and your party line was in use, we had three options: 1) listen in on their conversation until they were done; 2) hang up loud enough so they knew someone else wanted the line; or 3) ask them if you could use the phone quickly and then they could have it back.

I frequently have nightmares about being unable to use my phone or repeatedly dialing the wrong number. It might be a throw back to all those years using a rotary and knowing precious seconds could tick away if there was a fire or someone cut off their finger if I mis-dialed 9-1-1. Why they ever assigned emergency services 9-1-1- back in the days of rotary phones, I will never understand considering 9 is just next to the zero.

 

I Remember the Liver

My dad was cutting up the trunk and branches of a tree that had fallen and found a nest with four fledgling kestrels, all still alive. Yet unable to fly and likely abandoned, they would never live on their own. My dad did some reading and discovered the easiest food we could give them were bits of raw liver from chickens, which we raised and slaughtered over the summers.

We kept the birds in the former rabbit hutch and every day we would crawl in there with those little birds and hand-feed them slivers of livers that they happily gobbled it down. They quickly outgrew the hutch as their flight feathers came in. The chickens had all been slaughtered, so we moved them to the brooder house. We rigged up branches and perches and then we would startle them so they’d practice flying. I know there’s a picture of me as an awkward ‘tween with really badly permed hair stooping over in the brooder house with one of the kestrels perched on my back. I’m wearing a short-sleeved, red sweater. If I find it, I’ll make sure to share it for the laughs.

Soon they seemed to be ready to be released so we opened the door and shooed them out. They flew out and then immediately landed on the ground. The barn cats circled. We’d chase the cats away and try to get the kestrels to land higher, whether on the barn’s roof, electric lines or nearby trees. Eventually we knew it was survival of the fittest. We couldn’t keep the cats away from them forever.

In the days and weeks that followed, it was impossible to know if the kestrels we saw flying around were the ones we raised. But even now, 30 years later, I like to believe that some of their descendants still live on the farm I was raised.

 

It’s a Wrap: Disney Conclusion

Are you bored yet with my Disney updates? C’mon, you can be honest with me. *I* would be bored! It’s the equivalent of sitting through your aunt’s slideshow of the Sequoia National Park (or my sister’s. this, I know.). But trust me: one day YOU may decide to go and if you glean at least one little kernel of wisdom from these past few posts, my job is done.
It’s not a cheap vacation. It averaged out to $750/day which is figuring in a dining plan, plane tickets, resort and park tickets. Laying it out like that seems almost asinine, to be frank. On the other hand, our last vacation was over four years ago. We were due, we deserved it and we would do again. Not next year, mind you, but are already talking about in two years going again.
As for “the next time”, here’s a list of DOs and DON’Ts for me to refer back to in 24 months (Note: this list is specifically for us and not to be considered my suggestions for you if you travel to WDW, but heed my warnings!):
DON’T – rent a car. We put on a whopping 40 miles. That was the roundtrip from the airport. The Disney resort would have provided the transportation of not only ourselves but our luggage. Even BACK to the airport! We just checked our bags at the bell hop’s desk.
DON’T – get the dining plan. That alone was $180/day. We probably spent at least another $200/week out of pocket for food stuffs that were not part of the plan. At just one restaurant, our overages were $75 because we each wanted a salad, in addition to the shot of Bailey’s with my cappuccino. Plus, we felt like we spent too much time determining where to get our food next just so we could obligate some part of the plan. “Quick Serve Restaurant” is a misnomer. Aitch would have been happier with simple snacks, like a muffin, banana, milk and a hot dog every day. Doodicus hated the “weird” theme food at many of the places we ate. He just wanted a simple ham and turkey sandwich on white bread.
DON’T – use my credit card at the park. Use my resort key (which also acted as our park pass and dining plan card). We realized too late into the week that if we had just charged any extras to our room, we could have had a much more accurate tally of our expenses instead of me doling out 20 bucks here or 10 dollars there and a credit card over that. Yes, it works in gift shops and food kiosks alike.
DON’T – buy the autograph books. With that being said….FOR SALE: one blue and one pink Disney autograph books. Never opened. Three year old girl too shy to use hers; ten year old boy too cool to use his.
DO – make sure our connecting flight is in the south. I found flights from Omaha connecting in Houston, Chicago, and even Denver. DENVER!! There’s only three months of the entire year one doesn’t have to consider snow in Denver, and I won’t be traveling to the land of Humidity and Swamp in any of those months.
DO – rent a stroller from an outside company. They have them at the park, but they looked uncomfortable and were bulky. The park stroller would have also meant carrying Aitch from the bus stops to the parks and back again. I think that’s where we did our most walking. The stroller we rented was super clean, easy to fold and they even put her name on it.
DO – take an extra pair of flip-flops/shoes to the park. Even my trusty, over-priced Olukais were uncomfortable by the third hour. The Reefs were cheap and unbelievably comfortable for less than $20 and they easily fit in my bag.
DO – remember to wear my hat. I brought two along, but since most mornings were overcast and cool, I wouldn’t think of
it until about two hours later while at the park after the sun had burned away the haze. We went through onlyone can of sun-screen, which was used on lower arms and legs, the backs of necks and the tops of my feet. I got too much sun on my upper chest. I was very disappointed with my carelessness.
DO – take lots of pictures. LOTS and LOTS of pictures. Photo Pass was not worth it. PP is where a Disney photographer takes your picture with the landmarks or characters. To buy ONE digital download, it’s $15. And since we only had 24 photos through PP, most of them “meh”, it was not worth the $200 to buy the DVD.
Other little things I discovered on my trip? Castmembers call all girls “Princess”. I found this oddly disturbing. I don’t recall that
they addressed boys with anything so specific.
I bought a handpainted, silk, Chinese parasol on one of the sunny days I had forgotten a hat. It is beautiful. But it’s nearly impossible to take pictures, track your kid/stroller and hold a parasol. I actually preferred the parasol over the hat, because it didn’t mess up my hair and it let the breeze cool my brow.
The staff at Wetzel’s Pretzl at Downtown Disney was as rude as they get. I stood in line for SEVERAL minutes craving a soft pretzel only to be told, "We don’t accept Disney’s Dining Plan. Duh!" The "duh" was implied. No smile and apologize. Nothing. After several days of castmembers and employees smiling and cordial, I found this almost intolerable. Wetzel’s Pretzel? You can suck it.
Disney World is clean. I didn’t realize at first what was missing as we walked through the park the first day until I saw a castmember swoop out of the shadows with his broom and dustpan and discretely sweep up a couple of pieces of popcorn and glide ninja-like away. There were no straw wrappers, no errant napkins, no abandoned paper cups. Even the bathrooms were impeccable. As impeccable as a public bathroom that sees thousands of people’s butts every week. The counters were wiped dry. There was no soap dribbling into a nasty goo. There were no unflushed toilets. My first visit to the airport bathroom was almost a culture shock after all The Neatness.
Take some down-time. I was advised to, but didn’t. And I regret it. Even if it’s to spend a couple hours at the resort’s pool. Doodicus and Aitch begged us every day to go, but we didn’t. The swimsuits didn’t see the light of day. I just thought since we had these park tickets, then damnit we were going to the parks! A late afternoon sitting under a pool umbrella NOT walking while the kids played to exhaustion would have been a nice treat for everyone. I’ll confess, I have major regrets over that.
I’m glad we went. I’m glad to be home. I’ll be anticipating our next trip.

 

It’s That Time of the Year

I wish I was referring to the holidays.

Tomorrow there will be a meeting at 7:30 a.m. at the school. Sparring Partner and myself will be there. The fourth grade teachers will be there. The principal will be there. The school district’s psychologist will be there. And Doodicus will be there.

I should have wrote sooner, but honestly? I don’t know what to write anymore.

 

Mini-Frankenstein

My nine year old had his first ride in an ambulance last week complete with the city firemen collaring him and then strapping him to a backboard.

He was being a typical boy, showing off for his friends at daycare. They were sitting on a truck-shaped structure made up of welded iron bars. Doodicus was sitting on one of the rungs and decided he could defy both gravity and his utter lack of physical prowess and threw his body back in a failed attempt at a backflip. In doing so, he cracked the back of his head on a lower rung and fell to the ground. When he put his hands to where he hit, he discovered he was bleeding. A lot.

His screaming brought the immediate attention of the staff member and director who were supervising the playground. Once Staff Member saw the damage, she had Director call 9-1-1. Director also called Sparring Partner who was just finishing up at work (this all happened shortly before 5:00 p.m.). Sparring Partner arrived minutes later in time to watch the emergency responders strap my son into the ambulance, which he followed to the hospital.

About that same time, I actually was heading home from work to relieve Grandma from Aitch’s clutches. I sat and talked to her and about 5:15 I remembered my phone was on vibrate and went to turn in up as S.P. always calls on his way home wondering what’s for supper or to ask if I need anything while he’s still in town. I saw that I had already missed his call and there was a message, but I didn’t bother listening. I just called him back. That’s when he told me he was in the ER with Doodicus because he had hit his head.

Of course my mother agreed to stay and watch Aitch while I sped back into town to the hospital, my car flashers on and hitting 90mph. Foolish really, because how would getting there three minutes sooner make anything better?

I found him in one of the ER’s trauma rooms, still strapped to the backboard with a band across his forehead and one across the neck brace. S.P. looked to be holding one of his hands, but he was actually cleaning the blood from his fingers. Doodicus was calm, but upon seeing me walk through the door, began crying again, tears squeezed from his eyes and down both sides of his head and into his ears. I picked up his free hand and held it in both of mine and asked him how he was. “I have to go to the bathroom,” he replied and I smiled back, relieved he was lucid.

Before I had arrived, the doctor had already confirmed Doodicus could move his feet and legs, grasp with his hands and his coordination appeared to be unhampered and had just left the room. The only pain he seemed to be experiencing was in the back of his head. I told the nurse that he had to void so they all came back in and carefully released him from the backboard and collar. He couldn’t get to the bathroom fast enough, and while unsteady at first, he ambulated completely on his own with Sparring Partner at his elbow.

That’s when they finally had the chance to see what he’d done to his head. After carefully parting his thick hair, they saw the blood was coming from a 1.5 x 2cm wound from the back of his head. Not big at all, but heads and scalps bleed heavily. He would need staples to close it up.

No films were taken or deemed necessary. I still wonder if that was the better decision by the doctor, but it was obviously the right decision as Doodicus has had no resulting soreness. If anything made Doodicus anxious, it was the attempt to numb the wound, first with a topical and then the injections. The doctor (and the med student) had to excuse themselves after they finally numbed the site because Doodicus became hysterical and didn’t believe that he wouldn’t feel them STAPLING his HEAD!

I forgot to mention that Sparring Partner had left prior to the shots so that he could relieve my mom and let her drive home before it got too dark. It’s a good thing he wasn’t there as his patience would have been exhausted trying to convince Doodicus to just hold still long enough for the doctors to do their job so we could all go home. As it was, even I was getting short as he refused to follow instructions and flinched with every gesture towards his head. I’m an asshole mom. It’s easy to forget his needle-phobia and anxiety because I don’t have them; I wasn’t allowed the luxury by my parents. Need we refer back to the post where my dad pulled my teeth with farm pliers?

When the doctors returned (and Doodicus had calmed down again – about 20 minutes later), they told him they were just going to look again at the wound assuring him there were no staples involved. While the doctor parted his hair, the med student who was hiding the staple gun in his sleeve – literally – quickly *ka-chunk!* the first one into the scalp. By the time Doodicus realized what was going on and started freaking out again, the third one was in place and they were done.

It should be noted that before any of this took place, I had pulled aside the med student and told him NOT to mention shots or staples or stitches. Obviously he had either not told the doctor or the doctor pooh-poohed him thinking a nearly 10 year old boy who had injured himself showing off to his friends could easily handle the “fun” that is surgical staples to the back of the head.

I think Doodicus is healing well. I wouldn’t know since he pulls away with annoyance every time I try to look. He took antibiotics for several days and will have the stitches removed Wednesday by the pediatrician. He even woke up the day after the accident as chipper as ever and willing to go to school. Aside from having the nastiest hair from the antibiotic ointment and limited cleanliness, he is fine. He is also very, very lucky. WE are very, very lucky.

 

Jack Handy

Here’s my Deep Thought from several days ago that I’m just now getting around to writing:

Most of us, at one time or another, have had someone with good intentions say to us, "God has a plan."

Huh. OK.

And we’ve probably all have heard, "God only gives us as much as we can handle."

Fascinating. Do go on.

So does that mean that God didn’t believe that I could have handled a living – but disabled – child and that’s why his plan was for her to be miscarried at 15 weeks??

And that’s all I have to say about that.

 

So. You’re having an enema…

I wasn’t sure what to expect when we gave Aitch an enema last night. It was a first for everyone. Please, for the love of all that is holy, let it be the last.

In an uncharacteristic move, I did not google enemas until after the fact. The pharmacist simply told Sparring Partner that if he wanted quick results, this would guarantee it. Aside from that, I honestly had no idea what to expect. When it was all over, I THEN decided to google.

I have to admit, I’m a bit surprised that “what to expect when giving a toddler an enema” provided little information. So as a favor to you and the googling-world out there, I’m going to share our experience of administering an enema to a toddler. You might want to put down the Nutella for this one.

1) Do not tell your toddler that you’re going to give them medicine in the tushy. No good will come of it especially when tushy = pain.

Sparring Partner was out of town with Doodicus and wouldn’t be back until late and Sunday night was Poo-Night, one way or another so I brought her into the bathroom and showed her the medicine and explained why we needed the medicine and she promptly lost her shit. Her mental shit. “I’ll go poop before bed! I want more apple juice!” so I gave her a reprieve. Poop before the end of whatever the hell was on Nickelodeon Jr. and no tushy medicine. It’s a deal!

That was at 8:30, already 30 minutes past her bedtime but I figured with Grandma Day coming up, she could sleep in. By 8:50, I accepted the fact it wasn’t going to happen on its own. Plus, Sparring Partner had just walked in the door!

2) A second set of hands will be necessary to hold a feral child about to receive an enema. Also, shut the door to the other children’s bedroom because the screaming… oh my god, the S C R E A M I N G !! You might also want to warn your neighbors if they live within a four-block radius.

We took her into the bathroom and tried to let her lie on the floor, but she was having none of that. Sparring Partner had to lay her across his knees, tummy down, as I had drawn the short-end of the stick, per se. MAKE SURE TO READ DOSAGE. It’s not prominently marked, and in this case it was ½ the contents of one bottle. This brand didn’t mention how far to insert the tip, either, so I barely went half-way, squeezed out the contents and then we released her.

When she stood up and faced me with tears running down her red face, she asked if she had pooped. No, I told her, not yet, and she seemed relieved as if, hey, that wasn’t so bad and she calmed down quickly. We put her in a diaper and waited.

3) “Results in 1 – 5 minutes” is no exaggeration, people.

Within a couple of minutes of getting the diaper on, the screaming started up again. She literally was jumping up and down, hands protectively placed over the front and back of her diaper. She became a whirling dervish of poo-potential. I brought her back into the bathroom where she refused to even get close to the toilet, so I shut the door and sat on the floor as I tried to soothe her. She was having none of that, either, and would push my hand away when I tried to rub her back, softly telling her to just let it go and that she was going to be OK. At the same time, she would grab onto my arm in an attempt to brace herself. She bowed her legs and stood on her tiptoes trying to control what was now out of her control. Did I mention the screaming?

When it became imminent, she leaned into me and I felt her still momentarily, before her body began to quake with exertion, and I wondered if this was what it was like to give birth. When she was done, she cowered against the wall glaring at me. The tears hadn’t stopped. I had just earned Mother of the Year. Sparring Partner brought me the changing pad, a diaper and wipes (our HOMEMADE wipes, thank you!) and I arranged it all on the floor.

4) Do not rush your child in the aftermath of an enema to do anything. If it says, works in 1 – 5 minutes, that doesn’t mean you’ll be able to move on with your day in 1 – 5 minutes.

I asked her gently a couple times if she was ready for me to change her. After grumpily replying “no” several times, I just reminded her that when she was ready I would help her. And I continued to sit on the floor quietly and waited for her to calm. I asked again if she wanted to lie down so I could help her, and she nodded. I asked her if she wanted to walk over and lie down or she wanted me to lift her. “Lift me,” she whispered. I picked her up, stiff with pain and anger, and eased her to the changing pad.

She physically flinched when I wiped her even thought I was very, very gentle. “I don’t want you to put medicine inside me again,” she told me. I replied that I hoped we would never have to, and that poop isn’t her but what her body makes and it’s OK to push it out because that is what is suppose to happen.

5) If you offer a bribe to your child, they will not let you forget it, especially after you give them an enema. Even if it is now two hours after their bedtime and Target closes in 45 minutes.

“Since I go poop, I get a dolly, right?” “Yes. We can go tomorrow when the sun is up and after I get home from work.” “I want to go now!” aaaaannd cue more tears. It’s now 90 minutes past her bedtime. What’s another 30? I dress her in her jammies and some socks. She won’t walk because she’s tired, sore, clingy, so I carry her across the house to go get my shoes from my bedroom. The aftershocks start. There is more screaming as the cramps work her intestines into knots. It’s a good thing we hadn’t left yet.

6) Shortly after the enema works its doo-doo voo-doo, it has going to come out, too. Most likely, a diaper will not contain it because it will not be moved gently.

I carried her back to the rocking chair during this second wave. I cradled her body in such a way that her bottom was not “restricted”. Her eyes were glazed with exhaustion and hair was stuck to her face in sweaty wisps. We were not making a trip to the store anytime tonight. I felt it on my lap that her diaper had leaked, and I got up and carried her to the changing pad again. I worried that this was going to continue all night.

7) Your child may not be able to figure out the whole pooping (or peeing business), but they know what 1 + 1 equals.

As I cleaned her up, she asked, “Did I poop again?” “Yes, honey, you did. I got you in a nice dry diaper.” “Since I pooped two times I get one (she holds her hand up and pops up a finger) and two (she lifts up a second finger while using the other hand to hold the remaining fingers down to give me a wobbly peace sign) dollies! Clever wench. “How about ONE doll and ONE piece of candy?” We reach an agreement. “I want to go now.” She is so tired that I know that she will hardly make it down the driveway in the carseat before falling asleep. We bargain some more and we will get her dolly tomorrow. “I can have a fairy doll?” “Yes, you can have a fairy doll, or a mermaid doll, or a Sleeping Beauty doll. Whatever kind you like.” “OK.”

8) While your toddler is brave and resilient, you as the parent is frightened and pained. While your toddler will likely forget the whole horrible experience within a few months, you as the parent will have it permanently scarred into your brain. Your toddler’s body will eventually function with the rhythm that is natural to them. But you as the parent? It’ll make your heart skip a beat trying to justify the means to an end.

 

I had a good day? Did YOU have a good day??

Have you ever had one of those days just start off like you were mired in a pile of poo? You know, like the day of your wedding when you realize half-way to the church which is a 25 mile drive from your house that you forgot the slip to wear under your wedding dress and cell phones were non-existent so you have to stop at the roadside bar where truckers stop to have pie and coffee and you’re wearing your big poofy wedding veil because you just had your hair done but you’re still in jeans and a button-up, groddy shirt because you don’t want to mess up your coif? Or how about the kind of day, say like your wedding, where once you DO make it to the church, you then realize you forgot your chicken cutlets that go into the bust of the wedding dress because you’re so flat, water pools on your chest…standing-up but you can’t get a hold of your husband-to-be because he’s already left the house a bit early so he can bring you a stupid slip?

That’s not the kind of day you want starting off not going well.

Today I’m kinda havin’ one of those days. I slept on the sleeper sofa again since husband snores. Why don’t I kick HIM out since HE’S the one that snores? Because by the time I can get him awake enough to comprehend I’m kicking him out to the sofa, I’m so pissy I can’t sleep. So if he wakes me up with his snoring, I can go make the trip with pillows in hand without opening my eyes. I go right back to sleep in the glorious silence that is the front room’s pull-out sleeper.

The downside to sleeping in silence is that the alarm is still in the bedroom. Husband got up this morning, got my son up who has this dry, hacky cough, so he puts him in the shower and then by the time he wakes me, 20 minutes of my morning is gone. I can’t get in the shower because our bathroom appears to be the only one the kids will get clean in even though there’s a perfectly good, but unused, bathroom with tub AND shower in between THEIR rooms.

Instead of a shower, I decide I’ll eat my breakfast first and then take a shower. I eat my blueberry shredded wheat, which isn’t “bad”, but the other day when I told Aitch I was having shredded wheat for breakfast, she erroneously repeated back to me, “You’re having tumble weeds?” So yeah, now I think of my breakfast as great balls of weeds blowing across the prairies.

I finish breakfast and head to the bathroom since Doodicus should be done by now, and while yes, he’s standing there wet from the shower, he’s crying and coughing and generally having a breakdown. Dad gave him his cough medicine WITHOUT. LETTING. HIM. HAVE. SOMETHING. TO. WASH. IT. DOWN. WITH! What kind of jerk does that anyway? Partner exits the bathroom, his eyes rolling and I’m left to comfort Dood who now complains he can’t breathe and the coughing is revving up in frequency and then whoop, there it is, BLOOD!

The warm shower + dry sinuses + coughing + tendency = gushing epistaxis! And while I want to just sit him down and get into the shower because I need to shave today since my mole-check is this afternoon and I can’t be standing there mostly naked with hairy pits, legs and…other stuff…but hey, my kid is oozing blood from his nose, so copiously that it’s draining into his mouth so now he’s gagging. I walk him to the toilet to stand over the bowl and basically drip-dry. Bloody water splatters out of the bowl and onto the walls and toilet. I think we’ve had this discussion before, right? Murder scene over a commode or something, yes?

I stand with him, rubbing his shoulders as he whimpers and gags and spits blood until it slows down. We walk away, his towel now smushed against his face to catch the last of the blood. He sits on the edge of the tub. He feels better so I’m about to shoo him out the room so I can FINALLY get into the shower and shave and smell better.

And then the bleeding starts again, just as heavy but it doesn’t last as long. Christ! Just stop already! I need a shower and I can’t just sit him on the bed while he bleeds all over it so I stop the selfish thoughts of shaving my monkey legs and wait again, but not as long, for it to stop. He says he can’t breathe. He’s still dry-hacking. I decide to take him to the urgent care (after I jump in the shower). I don’t bother to shave. I also decide that since today is a short day at work, I can come home and re-shower properly before my strip-search.

At 7:20 we head to the urgent care, barely a 10 minute drive. At 8:20, we are still in the lobby but the parking lot is empty. Doodicus wants to go to school. He’s bored. I’m bored. Finally we are to the exam room! Where we wait some more and I take a picture of the hideous yellow walls and post it to facebook along with a picture of Dood looking at himself in the stainless steel paper towel dispenser and a photo of the sign that says, “Exam gloves are for staff use only Thank You” and realize they must not like it when moms like me take a glove and blow it up, tie it off, and give it to their kids to play with. MAYBE THEY SHOULDN’T KEEP US WAITING, HUH??!!

He’s in school right now. I’m at work. Not working, apparently. My new shoes are fabulous but they are hurting my feet while I break them in. My hairy legs are snagging my slacks, which are also new and appeared to be tan at the store but are more grey but I don’t care as they fit my current bloated form because hey! Did I mention I also am in the middle of my womanly molt? Where’s the fucking menopause I supposedly was starting no less than five years ago, so said my reproductive endocrinologist.

Finally, can this post get any longer while I try to tell you that basically my day started off in that pile of poo that has surely dried now to a nice crusty pie for me to fling into the prairie of tumble weeds? In short, I am hairy, funky, and period-y and I have to undress for a young man who may or may not take a sharp (hahaha! I typed “shart”) instrument to my skin, which may or may not be trying to kill me. It’s a motherfucking awesome cocksucking day!!

It’s a PAR-TAY!!

 

BOULDER

In the five years I’ve been blogging, I cannot – nor do I want to – recount the number of pregnancies that began and ended too soon. Always, too soon.

I’ve been an invisible witness to separations and divorces, reading only what can be written by a broken heart.

Today the news of one of my long-time fellow blogger’s husband’s death reached me and my heart thudded in my chest in a painful ache because there’s nothing I can do. I cannot stop by her home with something to put in her freezer. I cannot be there to be a witness to what his life was. I cannot be there to wrap my arms around her and tell her I’m sorry. I cannot be there to cry with her.

I can only be here. And that cannot be enough.

 

The Pliers

My dad would tell us stories about how he would ice skate to school every day in the winter as the creek that runs through the farm would take him straight to it. “Straight” being relative for a meandering creek with a minimum width of little more than a skate’s breadth. My brother and oldest sister would ride their horses to that same school, which certainly had to be an improvement over ice-skating since you could do that year ‘round, right? They weren’t very old when the one-room school house closed and they bused us all to the school in town.

Don’t you love quaint stories from days of antiquity?

Here’s another for you, but I don’t know if I’d call it quaint.

My dad was/is a cheap SOB. Growing up a child of the Depression will do that even though his dad (grandpa) did quite well farming. As a frugal farmer, you don’t just learn how to be an agriculturist and a meteorologist; you learn to be a veterinarian, too, if there were any livestock. As my dad, his skills as a vet were impressive when you’re six year old, but in reality he wasn’t very good at it.

A farmer doesn’t need many tools to provide medical care to animals: pliers, pocketknife, chains and maybe a handful of magnets.

…don’t ask…

Eventually, I’ll tell all, but for now I’m going to tell you about the pliers.

My dad was never without his pliers. I mean NEVER. The leather pliers-holder he wore on his belt kept them with him always. They gouged a groove in his chair at the supper table. It created scuffs on the toilet seat. If the pliers weren’t in its holder, they were in his grease-blackened hands, turning, tapping, prying, and pulling something.

Pulling.

Dad would pull our loose teeth with pliers. Not just any pliers, but the same pliers that were covered in grease, grit and most likely the blood from a tick he pulled from the dog’s ear and squished that morning. If mom was taking pity on us, she would wipe them down with a paper towel. If the tooth was particularly slippery, she would wrap the paper towel around the tooth which provided dad the leverage he needed to get a good hold with the pliers and then I would pray to god that he had the right tooth when he yanked. That is, I would have in the right frame of mind as I was usually whimpering and crying and promising through snot and tears to wriggle the tooth out myself even though I might have said it this way, “I pwomith to wiggle ith outh mythelf!”

Mom would also provide the nursing care. Pffffft. That meant while I was lying on the couch, and dad was sitting on my chest to pin me down, mom would hold my head still and provide a wet washcloth to stuff in my mouth to staunch the bleeding post-extraction.

Ahhhh, the good ole’days, amiright?!!

Now my son already firmly believes I grew up living in a cave because no, I didn’t have Pokémon cards, a DVD player, or Nickelodeon. And I wore pork rinds on my feet for shoes and I LIKED it!! *shaking raised fist*

My dad still wears the pliers on his belt. Doodicus still has baby teeth. I need to coincide a trip to the farm with a loose tooth. Just for fun. Just so HE can have a quaint story to share with HIS kids.

 

Today I’m Full of I Don’t Give a Hoots

After six days on paxil, I’m almost hesitant to admit that something seems to be working. Hesitant because I have an incredible knack of jinxing myself, but I’ve gone on this far.

Before I talk about why I think it’s having a positive affect on me, I want to talk about the ambien, which is seriously trying to make render me as senseless as a box of hair. I started by taking a whole pill but that left me woozy the next day. The following night I skipped it. The third night I was laying in bed thinking, "I don’t need a sleep aid! I can fall asleep just fine on my own!" until about an hour passed with me tossing and turning before getting out of bed and taking half a tablet (scissors work pretty well for that).

Sure it puts me to sleep in a snap but by 3:30 – 4:00 a.m. I’m awake AND exhausted. By the time my day starts I feel like hell. I feel like my clients are staring at me as one eye slowly meanders to the left. Just the ONE eye so they are glancing away uncomfortably, not sure of which gaze to follow.

What sucks is that by bedtime, that fuzzy feeling has faded and I feel wide-awake. No more ambien for me, OK?!

As for the paxil, I noticed I’m not as anxious or irritable. Pretty miraculous considering I’m PMSing. Doodicus’s whining and arguing doesn’t set my teeth as far on edge as it use to. When I’m notified that a client has a problem with their account, I don’t feel my ass-cheeks clench up in defense. I’m not as quick to reply with my scripted instructions, which is a good thing. I’m waiting for them to complete their questions, to let them inhale again, before jumping in.

While I am feeling better as far as the ADs go, my husband is not. He’s annoyed that I would take the first thing offered to me; that I wouldn’t seek out a psychoanalyses; that I would dare trust a *gasp!* Physician Assistant with my mental health. Now on the other hand, if the PA had prescribed me a little blue pill that made me horny ALL. THE. TIME. he would think that PA was a freaking genius! With the aid of medication, I can just poo-pooh Sparring Partner with a dismissive wave of my hand and walk away. A week ago I would’ve punched him in the nuts.

OK, so I’m exaggerating, on both ends. It’s not THAT good and it’s not THAT bad.

Will keep you updating with all the scintillating details.

P.S. My G+ account is via my "real.name" gmail account if you are looking for me. I’m trying to switch it over to thismamasaid, but in trying to do so I gave myself a brain aneurysm. I can also be found as one of the probable hundreds under my "handle": D D. That’s first name D and last name D. Yes, I’m re-energizing my old identity for purely selfish purposes as many still know me by that in addition to my old avatar, the boxing babies.