The Core that Wouldn't Work

My core is broken.

Last summer I had an emergency abdominal surgery and even though I was mostly good (swearsies) about taking it easy, my body had other ideas. I developed complications that mean I'll have to have another surgery in a couple weeks. I guess I'm old enough to need a new timing belt.

I tried to start back into a regular exercise routine in October, determined to lose the weight of my last baby. Every time I tried to do more than a gentle walk my stomach felt like it had performed 12 straight hours of Pilates  And then it got worse.

I could barely walk around Costco (and I walk around Costco a lot) without the pain overwhelming me. I wasn't tired, I wasn't winded, I had energy, but my body just shut it down. The pain became debilitating. Not being able to do basic physical activity is the worst. I am a busy person. I have a life. I have kids. I don't have time for my body not working the way it's supposed to. Silly body. Without exercise, and with limited physical activity, I've put on more weight instead of losing; it's a chunk of pretty special.

I had my first CT scan last week to diagnose me (after the doctor couldn't find anything at our regular appointment.) However, since my symptoms only occur after being physically active, and usually at the end of the day when I've tried to move heaven and earth, I decided to bring on the pain while at the imaging place.

That's why, if you were hanging around Imaging last Friday, and you were paying attention, you would have seen me in a smart blouse, skinny jeans, heeled boots, and my headphones booking it around the halls. The other people in pain, dealing with cancer, and all manner of other legitimate ailments stared at me, and with good reason. I ran sprints, I did lunges, I ran up and down stairs, I ran around the building, and every ten minutes I'd make it back to the waiting room to drink another Dixie cup full of orange juice and contrast. Delicious. The imaging techs were laughing. And I didn't stop until I felt the now familiar ache and stab of a body out of order. Hold your breath for the CT.

The doctor explained my diagnosis late that Friday, and referred me to a surgeon. The doctor also told me to sit down until my surgery and officially to take it easy. Do not like. I'll have to wait another 3 months before exercising seriously, which, to be honest, is hard to take. I don't think I'll be allowed to pick up Lulu. Someone will have to explain that to HER, because I think it's going to be a problem. She will probably yell at me. Elder abuse.

This week was particularly hard since J came down with the bubonic death flu and we got a foot of snow. Our driveway and walk are still piled high, and dragging out the garbage cans was an exercise in awful. I walked around Costco today and only had to sit down once. Someday, in the wild and hazy future, I have a feeling I'll be able to walk the whole way 'round Costco, maybe even the parking lot, without my guts falling out. Cross your fingers and curl your toes, my core shall return.

Sore Throats

Yesterday I swallowed a swig of orange juice, and for the first time in a week, I wasn't in excruciating pain.

This all started when I went to Seattle. The day before I left Proximo woke up saying that his throat hurt and crying. That night he was running a 102 fever and emptied the contents of his stomach every two hours for the next 12 hours. I can’t name a single thing more fun than a child up vomiting and a new baby awake, crying and demanding to be fed in between. It was quite the magical evening.

In the morning, Proximo was still running a fever and I was running around packing, He followed me around the house as I grabbed a scarf from here and a pair of someone's socks from there, no time to thoughtfully pack. I threw in a pair of jeans, a maternity shirt, rain boots, and maybe a kitchen sink? It was kind of a mess. He looked at the suitcase and said forlornly, “So where are you going to live now, Mama?”

Jeffiner texted me, after I left him in her car, to say that he’d curled up on her couch and said, “I feel like I become an old man.” Still fevered. The next day, as I marched Lisha around Pike’s Market hoping to kick her into labor, I booked him a Dr’s appointment. Turns out it was scarlet fever.

Scarlet fever?

Yes. I felt terrible for being so far away. Then I giggled making old timey jokes to myself. Scarlet Fevah!

Scarlet Fevah is strep throat gone bad. And apparently, a good sign your kid has strep, besides a sore throat, is vomiting and a fever. If things get worse, like a strawberry tongue and a sandpapery red rash, your baby’s developed The Scarlet Fevahs and will have to be put down. Or go to the Doctor and given antibiotics (it’s your call, really, but check with your insurance company.)

A few days after I returned, J got home from work and told me he’d been having hot flashes and chills all afternoon. I sent him to bed. No one needs that nonsense ambling through anywhere. Two days later, on the start of Fall Break, it was my turn for fever, chills, the sore throat of horrors and the shuffling gait of doom.

I pose this question: Is there anything worse than a sore throat? Is there? And you know the kind of sore throat I mean, when you stop eating and drinking, when you hold saliva in your mouth instead of swallowing it and have to summon all your courage to gulp and then tears come to your eyes? I just had a BABY from my UNDERCARRIAGES without drugs of ANY KIND and I’m telling you, I’d rather have a natural child birth once a month than a sore throat ever again. Someone make that happen. And then keep the resulting child because we’re all full up here.

Yesterday, on the day after our 14th anniversary (which we spent wrapped in our individual blankets on opposite ends of the couch, coughing and moaning from the pain,) we got a shared (awww) Dr’s appointment where we were cordially given a strep diagnosis. I got the penicillin shot. J, thinking he had some sort of wimpy, normal pain-feeling person on his hands, started counting down the thick shot, “You’re almost there! Half way done!” I laughed in his face.
“I don’t need that kind of encouragement.”
“Well, I do, I like knowing I only have to endure a little more.”
“It’s a shot. Who can’t take a shot?  Who even cares?”
And then I grabbed all the rest of the shots the nurse had and stabbed them into my eyeball to prove my sharp point. I followed up with a question for a friend: if the shot would cover syphilis and maybe clear up some burning?

(I guess I can’t go back to that office anymore?)

A short five hours later, I drank that orange juice and nearly cried from the lack of swollen misery. Penicillin! Some day I should try making my own from organic oranges and homemade bread for which I ground the wheat myself. I mean, that’s where we’re going with all this craft blogging: pharmaceuticals, right?

It'll be a huge hit on Pinterest.

Baby Lulu's Birth

It started at 4am on June 22nd. J had been asleep since 2am, unable to keep up with me as I was a whirlwind of Getting Things Done, until a self-imposed bedtime of 3am. I had a lot of errands to run in just a few hours, and I'd need at least some sleep, right?

I wake up at 4am to try to go to the bathroom and, no shock to my logical mind, I'm in pain. I hobble to the on-suite and hobbled back, cursing the end of pregnancy and the way my body's strained with weight and promise. I go back to sleep.

At 5am I wake again, in pain even before I can even sit up. Argh, I think to myself, this really hurts, and I haven’t even tried to move yet. Stupid pregnancy. Hurting all the time. Wait a minute, I think again, labor. This has to be labor.

Duh, I hear you saying.

But guys, I say back, it felt different than the other two labors. This one felt lower, more like extraordinary pressure rather than waves of contractions.

Wondering how far apart they were, and realizing that I hadn’t downloaded a stop watch app yet to my phone, I laid in bed and found one to download. Of course I did. I didn’t want to wake up J in case things settled down, so I decide to get in the shower.

You might remember that I didn’t want to use drugs for this delivery. In an effort not to “wing it” this time, I borrowed my friend BreAnne’s Hypnobabies book and CDs. Two nights before I’d started the Hypnobirthing book; I made it through the intro and most of the first chapter. Go me. Pretty sure I got the gist of it.

So there I was, in the shower, when the contractions started strengthening. Sorry, not contractions, “surges.” Surges is what hypnobirthing folks call contractions; it’s a “positive” word instead of a “negatively-associated” word. Well, they feel the same, is what I say. A rose by any other name is still a freaking contraction. I remembered the 5 pages I’d read and tried to breathe calmly through the "surges." I even went as far as to picture a damn ocean.

Breathing in and out. Tides. Quiet. Gray ocean day. It's working. Deserted beach. Phone with stopwatch outside of shower and I can’t hit the button to lap the contraction because I’m dripping wet. Breathe. Doesn’t matter. The surges are a minute apart, maybe less. Don’t really have to bother with a stop watch at this point because there is no more "apart" there is only one long "surge" that doesn't stop. I can barely lift my leg to get out of the shower.

I call my sister and tell her to get to my house. “Want to meet me downstairs and unlock the door?” she says.
And in the last full sentences of that morning I’m able to say, “Use your key.”

I fall to my knees on the bathroom floor and call the midwife. She insists on asking me a bunch of questions. Dammit. I can’t answer these. I manage to stammer out a few answers. She tells me I’m doing a good job breathing through the contractions and she’ll meet me at the hospital.

I call for J. “J,” I say, from the floor of the bathroom.
“What,” he mumbles from the bed. I have to wait to answer again until the surge passes for 15 seconds.
“J,” I say.
“What?” Another long pause.
“J,” I say.
“What do you WANT?” He says.
“BABY,” I manage to get out.
“OH!” he says, and runs to the bathroom, “So, uh, what should I do?”
“Get. Dressed.” I respond, grabbing whatever shirt is laying over the back of the chair to pull over my head.

I just have to put the things I use every day into my already packed bag: contact solution, contact case, makeup, face lotion, toothbrush. I am unable to move. I can’t put those things into my bag because the space between the surges is so short I’m only able to grab one item and move it 6 inches before another surge hits. Not to mention, I am blind: I can’t stop to put in my contacts and no one can find my glasses. I’m just reaching for whatever is in front of me.
“What do you need?” J asks.
“Pants,” I reply.
“Which pants? Where?”
“Drawer. Pants. Brown.”
He has to help me put them on because I can’t: I can’t make a full sentence, I can’t put on pants, I can’t put my things in my bag, I can’t see. I have to hope that my glasses are in the bag because no one else in the house can find them even though I try to tell them to check the floor next to the bed (where they fall at night after I go to sleep.)

We leave the house at 6. My car is on empty. Why? Because Wednesday is errand day. I was going to Costco, to DI, to a million other places, including a stop to fill the tank. “Do I need to stop to get gas?” J asks.
At this point, reduced to monosyllabic responses, yet running a commentary in my head, I am getting angry at him. I don’t want to answer him. I want to breathe through this CONTRACTION. I cannot be answering questions or making decisions.
I grit my teeth and answer, “Yes.” We pull into the corner gas station.
“How much should I put in? Should I fill it?” he asks.
“Two. Gallons.” I spit out.
“Where is your gas thing?” he asks.
WHERE IS MY GAS THING? WHERE IS MY GAS THING? HOW CAN HE NOT KNOW WHERE MY GAS RELEASE BUTTON IS? I HATE HIM.
“Door,” is what I’m actually able to say.

I breathe and try to picture the ocean again. It’s not working. I should have read more of that book. I don’t have my glasses. I can’t see. I keep my eyes closed so I don’t have to look at the blurry world and because it seems to help. Also, I don’t have to look at the guy who doesn’t know where the release button is.

We take off down the road. The hospital is 20 minutes away in normal traffic. Thank goodness it’s 6 in the morning, the light is pale and there aren’t a lot of cars out. I’m half sitting, half lying, holding onto the door. When I have a break I try to reach the back seat, into the bag, to try to find my glasses. I never get any further than reaching the bag before I have to stop to deal with the contractions. I open an eye to peek and notice that J is driving really fast. Good.
“Should I take State Street or I-15?” He asks.
MAKE AN EXECUTIVE DECISION, I scream in my head, I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS. I AM GOING TO KILL HIM.
“I...15...” I manage to say.
He speeds, weaving through the sparse traffic, and asks me about the freeway exit.
“Right. Left. Straight.” I say, hoping he can remember those directions as we barrel down the off-ramp.
“Run it, ” I say when we get to the next light. He does.
“Hmm,” he says, “Looks like the road is closed ahead.”
NO THE ROAD CANNOT BE CLOSED BECAUSE THIS IS THE ONLY WAY TO THE HOSPITAL WE HAVE TO GO WE MUST GO ON THIS ROAD.
“STRAIGHT,” I demand through my clenched teeth.

We pull into the red lane in front of the hospital entrance at 6:15am. J runs inside to get a wheelchair. I try to get out of the car. I can’t. I try to talk myself into moving. I can’t. I take a deep breath, twist out of the car and into the wheelchair. “Bag,” I say. I manage to grab my contacts case from the bag’s side pocket and hold tight to it.
He pushes me to the elevator and we’re going up to Labor and Delivery.
I notice that there are a lot of nurses around. A lot. “Did you want to go unmedicated?” asks one.
“YES,” I say.
They wheel me into the triage room.

I’ve been in the triage room before with my other babies. You lie down on the bed, they strap a monitor around your belly. The “whoomp whoomp” sound of the baby’s movements and heart fills the audio system in the room. It's calm and orderly, people measuring and deciding.

Only this time it's chaos; they are trying to convince me to get onto the bed. I won't. They keep insisting.
“I CAN’T” I say, before giving it all I have and crawling onto the bed on all fours. They try to talk me into turning around, lying down, and someone is trying to put the monitor on me.

“NO,” I say, “Check NOW.” A nurse checks me and declares, “She’s complete! Time to go! It’s a good thing you wanted an unmedicated birth because you couldn’t of had drugs even if you’d wanted them.” I crawl off the bed and back into the wheelchair and I’m wheeled into a labor room. “I need a mirror,” I say, “For my contacts.”
“Honey,” says one nurse, “You’re having an unmedicated birth; I think you can manage to put on your contacts without a mirror.” She’s right, I realize, and while in the wheelchair, I undo my contact case and notice how my hands and fingers are shaking as I put in my contacts. It works. I can see--and I see the giant mirror they roll into the room. “What?” I say, “No, get that thing out of here. I just wanted a mirror to put in my contacts.” The nurses are laughing. I stand up out of the wheelchair, and bend over slightly to put my palms on the bed, my feet planted on the floor.

There’s a slightly scared looking male EMT in the corner who is observing the birth. One of the nurses explains, “This is an unmedicated birth. If you ever have to attend a birth in the field, this is probably what it will be like. See how she’s standing? See how she’s telling us what to do? All we do is listen to her and follow her instructions.” Yes, I think to myself, yes.

One of the nurses is applying counter-pressure to my lower back, her palms facing outward while she pushes. It feels wonderful. She calls J over and shows her how to push on my back. He pushes lightly, at first.
“MORE,” I say, until he pushes too hard, and I grunt for him to stop.

At that moment I realize something: if I push, this will all be over.

I don’t have to do this any more. I can push and it will be over.

I push and it feels right and good and I want to push more. I want to push harder. I do, and my water breaks, all over J’s shoes. I laugh inside, because I know he’s panicking inside. This is his nightmare--he does not want to be viscerally involved. He'll want to throw away those shoes. “Get onto the bed!” the midwife and the nurses tell me.
“No.”
“You have to get onto the bed!”
“Fine,” I summon all my strength, climb onto the bed, and lie down. I push.
“STOP!” says the midwife, “She’s crowning!”
I don’t want to stop. I want to push. Screw this stopping stuff. It only feels right when I push.
“Stop!” says the midwife again, “Push a little then stop, take a breath, only push a little, good, good.” I grudgingly listen to her, and when she says I can push, I do, and baby is out.

“I DID IT! I DID IT I DID IT!” I yell happily. The nurses are all laughing again, and I’m laughing with them.
“I DON’T HAVE TO BE PREGNANT ANYMORE!” I yell again. I am shaking a little but feel fantastic.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE I DID IT! I FEEL AWESOME! HONEY I DID IT. I COULD DO THIS AGAIN.”
“You did great,” J says.
“LOOK AT THAT VIEW!” I say, staring out the window, up the green mountain where the sun is shining over the highest peaks, “WOW, IT’S GORGEOUS!” And they hand me the baby,

who is even more gorgeous.

I see her.

She’s beautiful.

She’s perfect.

She’s in a hurry; it was 6:35am. 14 minutes from the time we pulled into the hospital until she was born.

I don’t count her toes or her fingers, I just look at her face.

I memorize her face.

And I know she’s the one.

E.G. is Sentenced to the Gulag, I Mean Goes to The Dentist

The last time we took EG to the dentist it did not go well. (And by “we” I mean “me,” as in I take the kids to the dentist, and the doctor, and to everywhere because for some reason I’ve turned into The One Who Does the Driving. Fine.) He needed two teeth pulled: one for being stubborn and one for being bad.

A note about EG: he’s a thinker like his dad and horribilizer like his mother. This means that he psyches himself into dramatic apoplexies based on his imagination. Although he was shot up to high heaven with numbing agent, his screams and cries echoed through the dental office. I, personally, watched the dentist shot him up multiple times, there was NO WAY he was still feeling anything, but the suggestion of work and pain was enough to send him into a freak-out spiral. I held his hand while the dentist tried to convince him that he was OK and that this would take No Time At All. The teeth came out quickly but the fit continued. “BLOOD?” mumble-screamed EG, “There’s BLOOD?” Because in his world, there is nothing worse than something bleeding. Oh, my dear child, there are far worse things than bleeding, trust me, as one who has both given birth and seen the ravages of disease.

We had to go back to fix the cavities a week later.

(Side note: I’m still angry we don’t have fluoride in our water. I hate all you nut bags.)

I informed EG we were going to the dentist when he was already captive in the car. He started screaming and crying, “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?”
“Do you know what used to happen to children who had teeth problems? Who had an abscess like you did last year? Who couldn’t get their teeth fixed?”
“What?”
“THEY DIED. Now, because we love you, and don’t want you to die, we’re fixing your teeth.”

When we arrived he refused to get out of the car. I got him out of the car. He refused to leave the car’s side. He refused to get into the office. I got him in the door. He ran to the corner, kicked off his shoes, curled up in a chair, laced his arms through the chair arms, and declared his intention to fight the dying of the light. The other man in the waiting room was amused.
“Next time,” I said to the receptionist, “I want a prescription for Valium--for both of us.”
“Do you want us to give him nitrous oxide?”
“How much extra is it?”
“It’s $42.”
“WHAT? That’s IT? YES, DO IT.”

I gave EG the requisite threats and he walked back with the dental assistant, crying and screaming the whole way. After about 15 minutes they brought him back out.
“There’s nothing we can do, he’s not cooperating, here’s a referral to a pediatric endodontist.”

I took him outside where he continued to his Reactor 5 Meltdown. “ANOTHER DOCTOR?” He screamed.
“Yes.”
“BUT HOW LONG WILL THAT TAKE? I DON’T WANT TO GO TO SOMEONE ELSE I DON’T WANT TO GO SOMEWHERE ELSE...”
“I don’t know what to tell you, “ I said as we drove away, “You have to get this done and if it’s not at this dentist, it will be at another.”
“I want to go back.”
“Are you sure? I don’t know if they can even take you anymore.”
“I want to try again.”
“Fine, but you can’t give them any grief. You have to listen to them and do what they say.”
“OK, but I want you to hold my hand when I get the shots.”

We drove back to the office and the dentist agreed to try again. EG was a little upset when I couldn’t hold his hand--I guess preggos aren’t allowed in the same room as the laughing gas--but the assistant held his hands the whole time. EG finally listened and breathed through his nose to catch all the magic effects of the nitrous; it made him chatty and a little mixed up.

Whatever, he got all his work done and left happy.

Now, I need some nitrous so I can get some “work” done.

How Eggs Became My Enemy

source

It started about six months ago, but maybe even before that.

I cook almost every day and bake often, so I crack a lot of eggs. Months ago I noticed that my eyes would swell up and itch after I cooked, just like the allergic reaction I have to animals. After trying to figure out the common denominator, I zeroed in on the whites of eggs. If I had even a trace of egg white on my fingers and touched my eyes, they’d itch, water, go red, and start to swell closed. The yolk had no effect on me.

One day I separated some eggs and forgot I had a cut on my finger. My left index finger swelled like a sausage in a too-small casing. Could I really be allergic to eggs? I could eat eggs in things and I had no problems, so it wasn’t a true egg allergy. If I took Benedryl, the symptoms would go away (clearly a histamine issue.) I happened to mention that eating fried eggs gives me heartburn to a friend--I mentioned it like it was a normal thing to happen. Only I guess that’s not normal.

It’s not normal for an egg to cause your body pain when you eat it. It’s not normal for your mouth to go tingly and your tongue to go a little numb.

Which is ridiculous, because eggs are delicious. Is there anything as wonderful as a perfectly cooked egg? Soft-boiled, once over easy, the runny yolk and whites with crispy edges, soft and buttery scrambled, a rolled omelet with delicate herbs? No! Nothing is as delightful as the perfect egg!

I tried to live in denial but the rent was too steep.

A couple weeks ago I was making a flan, like you do; it’s just custard: eggs, egg yolks, cream/milk, sugar. I had some leftover custard that wouldn’t fit in the pan so I poured it in a cup. I added some fresh grated nutmeg and a drop of rum flavor--egg nog! I drank that sucker; it was so perfectly yummy. Even as I finished that small ¾ of a cup, I remembered that it had egg white. Oh no. Oh no. OH NO. Kids, the pain that followed: the cramping, the nerves firing, the feeling that I would lose it, and I did. That nog went through me like a train through Kansas. I think the only comparison is lactose intolerance. Oh, my lactose intolerant friends, I am so sorry! I have felt your pain! I am now empathetic!

I even tried fresh eggs from friends’ hens, to find they’re just as painful as the Omega-3 Oakdells I buy from Costco.

After a little more research I figured out that I have an egg white intolerance. It’s not an egg allergy because I most likely will not go into anaphylactic shock if I eat some egg. I can eat eggs that are well cooked, like in cakes. But I can’t eat an egg. This is terrible. And weird. What if I have to go vegan now?

(I am not going vegan.)

The Blog Also Rises

“Hello?”
“Where have you been, freak?”
“Blog? Is that you?”
“Yes, where have you been? It’s like you dropped off the face of the earth.”
“I’ve been sick.”
“Am I supposed to feel sad about that? The nausea can’t be that bad anymore, and you can write through the dry heaves. You’ve already done this twice before.”
“It just feels different this time.”
“You always think that, but the truth is that morning sickness is morning sickness and any self-respecting writer can write through anything. Think about Hemingway; he wrote everything in a revolving state of drunk and hungover.”
“Maybe that’s why I never really cared for Hemingway.”
“No, you never liked him because he was annoyingly masculine.”
“Guns and women and war and guns and killing and colonialism and manhood and GAH.”
“Right, but one of you is famous and the other of you spends most of her day face-deep on a sofa wondering when the next wave of heaving will reach her metaphorical shore.”
“Can we talk about something else? Please? In a hurry?”
“What’s that in your hand?”

“It’s a list of questions El Guille wrote down for me to answer.”
“HA! It’s all math questions! No one can doubt the parentage of your child now!”
“Wait, was that ever up for debate?”
“Nevermind. How is the fetus?”
“Sucking the life out of me. Remind me why we do this?”
“You’re creating humanity anew! Experiencing the incredible life force! Every new baby refreshes the world! Or maybe that’s a Pepsi. For Sale: baby shoes, never worn.”
“Enough with Hemingway, seriously. Plus, that story might not even be attributable to Papa.”
"Oh, sure, go check Snopes. Can you do anything ever without checking Snopes?"

"It's just a useful repository of which people should perhaps avail themselves more often."

“Yeah, we're all impressed you can use the Internet. Let me ask, are you craving anything interesting?”
“Meat. I ate a hunk of ham for a midnight snack the other night. I felt so primal.”
“How Green Hills of Africa of you.”
“Stop it.”
“I thought you were into Asian foods, like last time.”
“After an unfortunate night following a maiden voyage to Pei Wei Diner, we might have cut that obsession short.”
“Can you really vomit on command?”
“Affirmative.”
“Wow. I’m kind of impressed. Can you stay awake?”
“Not for a million dollars.”
“So you’re a narcoleptic refunder? What a delight!”
“I’ll say.”

A Sudden Onset of Panic

It was 5:20 pm on a Wednesday when I arrived at my sister’s place to pick up Proximo.

“Hey,” said my sister, “Have you noticed his eye?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look at his right eye, it’s lazy.”

“What? When did you notice it?”

“Oh, on Sunday.”

“And you just waited until NOW to tell me?” I asked her, my voice rising (mostly because I, as his mother, hadn't noticed this obvious vision emergency.)

I knelt in front of Proximo, “Hey, baby, look over there. Now look back at me.” I made him look a dozen different ways and every time the result was the same: while his left eye came right back, his right eye didn’t. I started panicking. It was already after 5:00--too late to call a doctor. By the strangest of flukes, J had taken El Guille camping with my dad for the only night that will ever happen, so I bore the brunt of this development alone.

And what an alone.

I was pretty sure that Proximo had a brain tumor pressing on his optic nerve. What else could such a sudden change in his eyesight be except cancer? I told Noelle. “No,” she answered, “That only happens to other people’s children, like your friend’s friend, that doesn’t happen to us.”

“I’m someone’s friend’s friend,” I replied, not feeling very convinced.

The absence of J’s force of logic propelled me into the Diagnosis Fear Cycle (DFC.) You know the one: type in the symptoms and start Googling. First comes WedMD, then major websites, and finally the fringe health boards. Before you know it you’ve got seventeen different diagnoses, have decided you aren’t going to let a doctor tell you what to do, and have written down the experimental treatment options with a vague curse at the FDA thrown in for good measure.

Narrow down the diagnoses to the most probable one.

Now, search your diagnosis.

I did. I found a support group on Facebook and I joined it. I nearly cried with relief at finding other moms whose children’s eyes had issues and would be patching with possible corrective surgery. I left an emotional response on the group’s page (best to handle the introductions, I’m going to be needing these ladies soon enough.) I sent out a bunch of emails to friends who I thought might help. And finally, after working through the DFC, I went to bed with Proximo in the next bedroom, clueless to his newly helpless state.

I woke up in the morning and called Bek. I told her the symptoms. She asked me far more detailed questions than any doctor would and gave me a course of action to expect. She’s good like that, her kids have had everything.

I called the doctor after Bek (of course) and they gave me an appointment a month away. A MONTH? A MONTH? We’re not supposed to have waiting lists until AFTER socialized medicine! I pushed back a little and asked if perhaps, considering his delicate three years and sudden onset, they might be able to squeeze him in earlier? Success! An appointment in a week.

That’s when we learned that Proximo has estropia with astigmatism and is farsighted. Glasses it is! Cancer it is not! Nor is it anything else really terrible, he just has to wear corrective lenses.

Turns out I had to unlike the support group. Not the right group.

Jumping the gun and all that.

But I’d already signed up (in my mind) to organize the 1K for Lazy Eye! The kids could just walk in a circle!

All photos by my sister, fotohok, who's a great kid-wrangling photog.

Things I Don't Get: Fundraisers

(from a sign I saw yesterday)

I don't get begging to cover medical treatments; IT SHOULDN'T BE A THING.

We should be ashamed of ourselves.

Maybe you should be ashamed every time you see a sign like this?

It's despicable.

I'm Sick, Whine, Whine, Whine

The children ran into the bed, "Hey mom!" said the big one, bouncing off the bed.
"Hey mom," echoed the little one.
I lifted my head. They looked like urchins: still in pajamas, dirt crusted their mouths, snot smeared their faces, and did I detect a red ring left from fruit punch?
"Hi, guys," I coughed.
"If you need anything, anything at all mom, you can call me," said E.G.
"You can call me!" echoed the little one.
"Thank you, babies."
"I mean it, I can bring you anything, mom," said E.G.
"Mean it. Anything, mom!" echoed the little one, wiping a smear further along his round cheek.

I've been sick, and blogging about being sick is incredibly boring. You almost always illicit a ton of "Aww, feel better!" comments, and while those are nice, they almost seem like fishing. And I don't fish. Anymore. As of now. Second, it's just a cold, and no one can make a cold amusing, right? There's only so many ways you can describe post-nasal drip and a wicked cough; we've all been there, we all know it sucks, and we all just get over it.

So I called Allison, "Are you still sick?"
"Yes," she sniffed.
"Come be sick with me. We can lie on opposite ends of the couch in the same PJs we've had on for three days and watch Firefly. The kids can run around."
"OK," she sniffed.
That's exactly what we did, all day Monday, because nothing makes being sick cooler than having someone be sick with you.

"You know that if I could, I'd take this sickness for you," Other Half said.
"No," I said, "I don't want that. You're a pain when you're sick. You're just awful." Sure, it's great to have someone be sick with you, but it can't be your partner, that's just not right.

We all know what would happen if you were both sick: one of you would be convinced that he is dying and a single heart's beat away from his head exploding in a torrent of mucous, roaring like a wounded dinosaur, and you, while theoretically being at the same level of suckage, would still be expected to feed the children, clean the bathroom, and make sure no one dropped the brand new toy wooden barn on anyone else. That's why yes, I will be the sick one, I'll just do it, because the happiness of everyone is worth it.

Even if your children are given "fruit" punch behind your back.

October Surprise

Last week our ex-nanny, and still cousin extraordinaire, M, asked our family to be in a movie on Saturday.  OK, so it was just a student film, but we couldn't say no to M.

Friday night was just marvelous.  I wasn't sleeping, which was good, since Proximo wasn't either. I had the distinct privilege and honor of cleaning El Guille's throw up from where he missed the bucket, changing his sheets, cleaning him off, all three kinds of delightful! I woke up to a call from M reminding us of call time. 

I got up so tired that I thought I would throw up. And then I did. And did again. Yet, a promise is a promise. I know what a hassle it is to plan a shoot and then not have people show up, or have something go wrong. I managed to get into full makeup, get everyone dressed, and all of us out of the house. I rode shotgun, armed with a bucket.

We drove down to the park with Proximo screaming in the back seat because I had not let him buckle his own belt. All we had to do was sit on a blanket and pretend to be a happy family enjoying the park.  I got out of the car, walked two steps, and retched into the bucket. At some point, just holding the bucket wasn't enough, I had to fall onto my knees, in the middle of the park, in a skirt, cardigan, and full makeup, and empty the contents of my already empty stomach. I just like attention.

I walked a little wobbly to where our blanket was set up and laid down with the rest of the family. Proximo clung to me like he always clings to me, but this time with anger and loud noises, apparently annoyed with my inconsiderate illness. The crew did a couple more takes of the scene they had already set up and then turned to us. Just as we were ready to roll, I motioned to M to bring me the bucket. You know, with a cinematographer, a director, a sound guy, production assistants, rolling film, in a city park. I guess I can't run for office anymore without some really fantastic and perfectly lit YouTube footage ready to make an October surprise.

There's just something really funny about looking at yourself in the mirror after throwing up and seeing yourself in all that makeup. I thought about washing it all off, but decided that if models have to do it with perfect cat-eyes, so could I. The rest of the weekend was just as lovely. I may have even forgotten to feed the children one day, who can keep track? Solid food is for suckers.

It Has a Mirror Finish!

Several months ago I moved into a new house that I have yet to take pictures of and no one ceases to remind me of that deficit. Sorry. I should have taken pictures of the house before I started decorating it, when it was still a blank slate. I should have taken pictures of the house before my children started living here and tearing everything down, nicking it up, and using dry erase marker like Febreeze. Oversights have occurred on my watch.

Perhaps you've wondered to yourself, "Hey, what does Jet Set really do with the vast quantities of money she gets from ads?" And if you don't, you must have better manners than I do. I saved up those tens of dollars and combined them with some freelance work and bought the concussive device sparkly marble table you see above. Isn't it pretty?

If you are not a parent, remember all those times in the middle of the night you had an accident? Or threw up all over your pajamas? Or didn't make it to the bathroom in time? When your parent took off your clothes, changed your sheets, hugged you, scrubbed the carpet, and took your temperature? SPOILER ALERT: Once you have kids, you're the one changing the sheets and the clothes, hugging, and reading thermometers. Maybe you even guessed that you'd be sniffing stuffed animals for leftover bile, trying to identify what still stinks in the room, and hoping you don't run out of blankets and pajamas. I got 3 hours of sleep last night. Poor Proximo.

To make up for the night before, the universe delivered my new chrome table. Morgan, safely ensconced on my sofa, explained the glamor of life in entertainment production while I assembled the thing. Gang, it's so beautiful, it completely makes up for all of the sheets I've washed chunks out of and underwear I've tossed.

Can you guess how long before Proximo of the Chunk Blowing scratched the finish on the new table?

No, go ahead, I want you to guess. Go vote in the poll on the side.

Take a Trip with Me

When they told me that I needed a root canal I got so excited--I love Venice!

I now know there are other kinds of canals, and that sometimes you have to have your roots canal-ed again.

"I wonder if I get to make up funny excuses for why my face is covered in bruises tomorrow, like domestic violence jokes. People get so testy when you joke about spouse abuse; it's not like they don't deserve it!" I thought while I was laying in the dentist's chair having him hold the side of my face with an iron hand and file away on the other side's molar nerves.

The amusing thing about having someone holding your jaw open by force is that you still feel like they're ripping your jaw open by force even hours later. It's like after playing Tetris where all you have to do is close your eyes and you see the blocks falling. Yes, just like that, only with excruciating agony and no Russian folk music. I was sitting down, trying to distract my brain from my mouth's evil carnival of lies, and watching some evening TV when I felt liquid on my neck and chest. Something was dripping on me. And then I realized it was my own drool.

I am the hotness.

A word about pain killers: I've never really used heavy-duty pain killers before, they always made me sick, dizzy, or loopy and I disliked those feelings. It turns out that I'd just never had enough pain to make the pills worth it. I sure hope I don't turn to a life of petty crime and thievery to support my four-day-old habit. Embarrassing!

Also embarrassing: this post took several hours to write because I had to concentrate so thoroughly through the pain halo. I think I have a new found respect for all those writers who can produce work while under the influence, hey, wouldn't it be funny if I applied every single label I have on file to this one post? That would be super funny.

What's Another Synonym for Pain?

Why no, there are no photos on this entry.

Almost three weeks ago I went into my dentist to have a cavity filled for a tooth that wasn't bothering me. After the cavity was filled, my tooth gave me nearly unbearable pain. I spent two weeks taking pain killers every six hours, avoiding anything hot, or cold, or liquid, or chewing on the right side of my mouth, or even breathing funny and pulling faces (good for everyone else, I guess.) I forgot late one night, distracted by a New Yorker cartoon, and did a fluoride rinse. The resulting agony brought me within millimeters of meeting my maker.

The verdict was in: root canal.

(no photos)

The procedure itself wasn't too bad at all, plus, my dentist sings to me while he works (he has a nice voice and a pretty rockin' descant on Sweet Baby James.) I felt great! A little numb for six hours, but the pain was gone! Huzzah!

And then Friday my jaw ached. And then Saturday I was back on the pain killers. And tonight I took a Lortab that did nothing for the terrible throbbing pain. Oh my stars, I was seeing stars. I think I even hallucinated watching Kanye West steal the stage from Taylor Swift at the VMAs.

My friend Allison took me up on my offer to make Crepes Suzette from Julia and Jacques' recipe. By the time I'd finished whipping out those suckers, the ache had me in its sight and I was felled a minute after Allison left. I didn't even get to eat the rest of my crepe. Stupid tooth. Maybe I was hoping an obscene amount of butter would heal it. St. Julia! Why can't it be so? Butter should fix everything!

(no photos of butter or of crepes.)

My bed is calling to me now, and for once in my life I think I'm going to listen. Here's hoping I can sleep before the spasms return.

Oh wait, someone who was not me got a hold of my camera.

I guess there were pictures on this blog after all.

All Sorts of Peeps of Easter Goodness (Right.)

We’ve been under hostile fire for more than a week. El Guille volleyed cough after barking cough across the room and dinner table. He coughed in our faces during TV-time begging, secret whispering, story time, and his (lately) crushing hugs. No surprise that by Saturday afternoon, J, Proximo, and yours truly were also coughing and sick.

Now, when I’m sick, I’m just sick. I try to carry on. You know, because there isn’t a dishes fairy. When J is sick, as we’ve covered before, the world should stop, shudder, and weep in his name. He is also grumpy. Guess who else is grumpy? The children. So what do I do when I’m sick and they’re sick? I’M THE REFERREE, which I just love. Haven’t had the lovely opportunity to mediate between an angry, decongestant-popping husband and a whiny, snot-dripping child? Well then, you just deserve a cookie, don’t you? The child ignores most of your pleading suggestions to knock it off, while your husband tries not to bellow at small infractions.

On Saturday night we took full advantage of our children’s inabilities to tell time and had dinner and then a bath an hour earlier. While in the tub, E.G. complained that his ear still hurt from when the pediatrician looked at it. He examined E.G. on Tuesday; this was Saturday.

What is an ear infection? Ding! (Sometimes I pretend like my life has a running quiz commentary.) Maybe that's why E.G. wasn't listening to me and made me repeat everything two or three times--he couldn't actually hear. I am such an awesome mom.

I broke the news to E.G. that we were going to the doctor:

“DON’T LET HIM TOUCH MY EAR HE WILL MAKE IT HURT MORE DON’T LET HIM TOUCH MY EARS YOU CAN'T PLEASE DON'T LET HIM!”

The nice PA examined E.G. and blessed him with both an ear infection and croup.

The croup?

That’s what that cough was?

The croup. That’s so Anne with an ‘e’. I declare, Marilla will have my hide if I don’t remember to return directly from the pharmacy with a new bottle of cordial. 

Oh, the pharmacy.  They handed me a bag filled with items and charged my card but didn't actually put the antibiotics into the sack, making us do an awkward double child hand-off and sending J back to the store at 11:13pm (just shy of his own inevitable and much prophesied demise) for the miracle liquid.

So that’s why I’m getting used to running the shower in the dark at 2:38 am while holding a barking child (reason 5,653,009 to not have a dog: children eventually stop barking with the right medication,) and that’s why the boys didn’t wear their Easter outfits on Sunday (but you can see their exact outfits on LJ’s cute boys, along with everything *cough* I totally would have done had we not been a cesspool of viral love,) and why I have to remember that being patient with sick children and sick husband is a skill that needs exercise.

Now, hand Mama a cookie.

Personal Stimulus Package (not as dirty as it sounds)

Upon reflection, it became apparent that my car had reached the end of its natural life when it overheated while idling for 10 minutes in a parking lot on the coldest morning of the year.

It’s not like there weren’t other clues: the quart of oil a month it seemed to drink, when the rear defroster gave out, the rusty gashes in the passenger side, the long-gone clear coat, the unraveling upholstery, the power nothing.

“Could I get a new car?” I asked Other Half.
“No,” he said cruelly and with what I'm pretty sure was a sneer (could have been just gas.) (Frozen chimis.)

I loved that car, my very first car; paid off for ten years—practically my dowry—but I’m over it.

This morning the doors were frozen shut. I had to use my considerable might to yank open the rear passenger side for E.G, which caused the black rubber seal to come off. The seal wouldn’t go back on. I couldn’t shut the door. I drove E.G. to school with the door half open, begging him to get his fingers out of the crack! I never thought I’d ever mean more than his underwear.

Oh yeah, and

THE HOLE IN THE FLOOR.

The hole in the floor where pieces of ice fly up and hit my legs, or my hand while I’m shifting, and sometimes my face, the hole that the floor mat will only cover when it feels like it (which is never.)

Look, I’m all for being frugal, but my car has crossed the line to unsafe. I don't want to drive the kids in it anymore. I don't like having the check engine light go on and wondering if I'm going to make it home tonight. When I took it in for the inspection a couple months ago I mentioned, knowing it was probably futile, that the check engine light comes on intermittently. They laughed in my face. This car is an ’89, ma’am, the check engine light is going to be on a lot. Well I know that, but can you tell my husband?

No airbags, no anti-lock brakes, no LATCH tethers for the car seats, no side impact protection, no impact protection whatsoever, really. The seat belts no longer retract, which means you do that awesome thing where you close your car door and slam the buckle, breaking it bit by bit. And why don’t you notice? Because you have to use your quads to close those doors.

At least it’s still got its sweet tape deck.


I’m done. I’m out. It’s time.


So tell me, Internets, what kind of car do I really need to buy?

Full Report

Some of you might be asking yourselves, “Hey, I wonder how Azucar’s ‘lowering the bar and being awesome’ is going?” Well it’s a good thing you asked!

I invited a few couples over for New Year’s Eve. I made chocolate-praline mousse from scratch. While trying to fold in the cream the kids decided to disassemble each other and as a result of preventing a nuclear meltdown, the mousse seized. And do you know what? I didn't care! Oh, I started to care and then I remembered, "Lower the bar, lower the bar." So I served lumpy mousse. Take that!

I cleaned the bathroom for guests (I can't ask people to spend any time in a room that has been abstractly decorated in a homemade subtle yellow,) but I did NOT clean the bedrooms. Oh sure, I knew Morgan had never seen my place and would need a tour. Did I care? No! She got to see the full vortex of doom where we sleep every night, and that's low enough.

I have successfully served three 'meals' this week without a vegetable in sight, unless cheese is a vegetable.

I left the lights of my car on for the entire afternoon. I had to ask db for a jump from his car. By the time I got home I did not have all the radio stations set again (I know.) I even tossed the cables back into the trunk without neatly folding them. Just kidding, I wouldn't have done that anyway. I mean honestly, they're just jumper cables, not jewelry (which I also toss into a drawer.)

My desk doesn't currently have a box of tissues living on it.

I have a cold.

I sniffed and swallowed all day.

BAR: LOWERED.

Maybe It's Ebola

I’ve been considering calling in sick, no, not from my job for pay, but for the other one.

You know, the one where your work starts at 3:24 in the morning when the baby wakes up, and really gets going when the other ones wake up at the break of dawn. The one where people touch you inappropriately all day and you’re forced to yell at them for walking around half dressed—like they’re mini Clarence Thomases or something.

If someone I worked with actually took my contacts out of the soaking receptacle and tore them in half with his teeth, I could call HR and they would make it all better. There is no calling HR in this house (but there is calling Santa, and that’s more fearsome than any Director of HR.)

How would it be if there was no cooking, no dish washing, no sock-finding, no band-aid application, no mental pantry inventory calculations, no detergent level analysis, no soap-stocking or shampoo backup, no mail retrieval, no garbage day monitoring, no shoe sizing, no BATHS, no birthday cupcakes, no show-and-tell emergency delivery, in fact no delivery of people to any locale, no diaper disposal clearance, no remote operator or finder, no flossing, no hair brushing, no mopping of urine from target practice, no wall or window or baseboard scrubbing, no table-wiping, no coffee table detailing, no old sippy cup-of-doom opening, no light bulb changes, no Christmas presents, or even hugs or snuggles or boo-boo kissing, no homemaking.

Would it be so bad around these parts?

Would people even notice if I got so sick I couldn’t leave my bed (or my novel?)

I think I feel a fever coming on…

Threats Are My M.O.

So Blue fell flat on their personal foul faces.

And I may have ended up on the kitchen floor crying tonight because my house is so filthy and I couldn't get to all/any of the housework I wanted done today and I still walk too slow so my errands take way longer than they should.*

And when Other Half said, "Just give me a list of what you want done,"I may have seriously contemplated taking a sharpie and writing on the fridge:

1. Clean the house
2. No really, clean it
3. Go ahead


I did, however, find:

A.) New jeans on sale that fit me and are cute
B.) Chup and The Chief at Target
C.) My sisters at Target
D.) A Seth Meyers interview on my iPod

I kept a promise, too. When I was small my mother was always working or cleaning and never had time to play with us. I made a pact with me that when I grew up I'd make sure I played instead of cleaned. So when Guille and Proximo lined up book after book in front of the piles and piles of laundry, I read the books.

I even used the reading finger to follow along and didn't skip any words.

So now I am going to:

i. Take a shower
ii. Crawl into bed
iii. Hope the sickness threatening goes away
iv. Leave the laundry in the chair for another day
v. Wonder if you've ever cried over housework





*Did that run-on sentence make you cry? Sorry.

All MacGyver'd

Tonight I ran into a very 21st century problem: my DVR was overbooked. I wanted to record both my regular Thursday shows and the football game. What was I to do? And then I remembered something..

"Hey self?"
"Hmm what? I'm busy."
"No, self, listen, remember that silver box in your room?"
"What, huh?"
"You know, the TV you bought your boyfriend in 1995 because you were sure you were getting married to him and didn't want to be one of those newlyweds without a TV?"
"Vaguely. Is that the one with the awesome wood paneling?"
"Yes, now focus, there's a silver box next to it, do you remember what it does?"
"Weren't we supposed to go to something today? Or was it cleaning the car? What's our position on sheet changing again?"
"THE VCR!"
"The what? Oh, right, VCRs...huh...we still have one of those?"
"Yes, silver box, and we need to use it."
"Uh, I don't think I remember how. And didn't our husband throw out all the video tapes? They're video tapes, right? That's what they were called?"
"Oh crap, you're right."
" 'When are we ever going to use these?' he said, 'Can you possibly think of a situation where we are going to sit down and watch Ishtar?' he said. Look who's wrong now."
"It doesn't matter, you are a terrible, forgetful housekeeper and there HAS to be a video tape someplace in this house that you can use to record ABC's prime time lineup."

I/we rummaged through the house and HA! I found a tape of The Pianist; it's the only remaining VHS in this humble abode.

I remember making an argument that I couldn't throw away The Pianist because I'd never even opened the package since it came home with me for free as part of a DVD rental special. (I don't know why, but Ishtar came home with me the same way and I didn't fight for it. Nothing personal, Ishtar, but one of you movies has to be the Sophie's Choice in this tale.)

From the deep reached of my subconscious I remembered: Being a legitimate movie, this VHS would have copy-protection, and I know how to get around it.

Oh yeah, remember the tape trick?

I am so cool.
(And so are you if you remembered how.)





Turns out I probably shouldn't have recorded the football game; it gave me heartburn and a serious case of the snotty "I-Told-You-So's" from Other Half.


Oh, and here's my broken pinky toe for those of you who love to engage in a little schadenfreude (don't deny it, it makes you seem cheap.)


I'll throw in the baby just for kicks.

Chill in the Air

You’d think you’d be safe from Nature when you’re ensconced in a generic cubicle, but think again.

I was working on some documents for my real job when across my desk crawled an earwig.

Gross.

Really, eww.

I may work in a boring gray cubicle year round, but I can’t forget the garden where we, as children, were forced to labor all summer. I especially can’t forget the disgusting image of earwigs crawling out of our sweet corn: long, black and wiggly with those evil looking—I don’t know what they’re called—Wigs? Horns? Pitchforks of Doom? And no, I won’t go google earwigs to find out the proper name because then I’d see more pictures for sure.

Look, I’m not a generally squeamish sort of person. I am perfectly capable of thinking something is creepy and gross, yet being able to kill it or at least usher it to another spot on this planet. I stood up at my desk and asked everyone around me if they were responsible for the piece of nature earwig at my desk. When no one claimed responsibility I picked someone to blame (Nate.) I’m good like that.

Then I backed away from the creepy-crawly. That’s when Ryan walked over from the cube next door, went to my workspace, and killed the earwig with one fell blow.

At that very moment I suffered simultaneous pangs:

1. Post-feminist guilt—I can kill my own earwig, thank you very much
2. Gratitude of realistic action taken—Yes, please, kill whatever you like since you seem to want to do it and I seem to just want to complain about the thing
3. Hunger – I think I’d really like the last of the summer sweet corn for dinner tonight

This leads me to the other evening in the kitchen when I was working on some paper garlands. I stood up to arrange the flowers and felt a little normal itch you feel on your skin, except it wasn’t a normal itch, it was a spider, a big one, and it was crawling on my leg. I killed it with my bare hands (no Ryan.) Isn’t that one of the hallmarks of the weather turning? Your home’s population of life forms grows exponentially? I’m ready to say goodbye to summer, but I’m not yet ready for all the bugs and insects to move back inside with me.

Gross.