In less than twenty (unsupervised) minutes, the baby Jesus lost both his hands, Mary lost an ear and part of her mantle, the shepherd boy’s sheep is in smithereens and one of the wise men is split in two. Apparently, this occurred in an epic battle with the Skylanders, which the Nativity set lost horrifically. While I was folding the laundry.
So yesterday morning, I was sure we were heading for surgery today. There is an earlier note about Daniel’s travails with cysts in his eye (see Note about DYFS). The problem goes back to early August, when the first one appeared. It’s been an on-again, off-again battle since. On Sunday night, when the dervish finally went to sleep at 10:30, I noticed the big lump under his eyelid. I’d seen what I thought was another cyst growing earlier in the week, and I’d started the flaxseed oil horse pills and the compresses (again), but this looked bad. I pulled the lid out, and there was an enormous (for his little eye) pulsing, black blob of blood under there. I flipped. In mere hours, the clear blister had turned to blood. I called the pediatrician, who called the on-call opto-dude at CHOP, who told her to tell me to watch it,
Today, Daniel and I went back to CHOP to see the Chief of Pediatric Opthalmology about his eye. For nine weeks, there has been a cyst just under his lower eyelid. We’ve done the warm compresses to death, as Dr. Katowitz advised, and we were back for the check up. I was fully expecting to leave with surgery scheduled. Surprisingly, there was no wait. He called us back before we sat down. He asked how the eye had been. “No change at all,” I reported. “Not bigger, not smaller, not redder, and it never oozed pus.” You only get to say this kind of cool stuff when you’re a mother. “Hmmm.” Out came the giant Canon camera and for a few minutes he maneuvered Daniel’s eyelids as he snapped shots in what I can only imagine were 10,000 megapixels. “It’s healed, but what you’re looking at now is the callous.
Probably, everyone has that one person at work with whom they never want to tangle. That loony, difficult, often outright aggressive one that everyone avoids but is kept around because s/he brings in the bank. Here, we have one who is a former Immaculate Heart nun. While we think it odd that a former nun would be working at an institution owned and run by the same order she left, recent speculation is that she actually beat the children too hard during the 1960s and so did not voluntarily leave the order but may have been kicked out. And yeah, for those not doing the math, she’s like 80. And a terror. So when my phone rang yesterday, and she sounded all kind and fake-perplexed, I knew something was up, and it couldn’t be good. It turns out she was demanding information about a course she was running that was
A few nights ago, I went out to put out the trash, and I ran into the probably “in for homicide” rather than “in homicide” neighbor out front where he was talking to someone in a strange car. (See post about my hard-of-hearing mother and what had to be her miscontruing a conversation with this guy). “HI Karin!” I heard from the dark. “Uh, hi…” I responded with reluctance, a roll of my eyes and a silent prayer of thanks that Daniel was inside. “How’s your little boy Daniel?” Oh. No. He. Did. Not. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Really creepy-dude? I know you’re not currently listed on the Megan’s Law registry, cause I check it twice a week just for you, but just the sound of my child’s name on your lips is enough to make me want to call a cop. I bite
So, last night I told Daniel that he had to take a shower because tomorrow was a special day – we were going to go to Nonna’s for his early birthday cake because Aunt Kate wanted to sing “Happy Birthday” to him and wouldn’t be able to on his actual birthday because she would be too sick. Daniel (indignant, the temptation of gifts soaring over his head): “I thought you said we were going to visit Jesus tomorrow” Me: “Yes, first we’re going to go to church. And we have to be quiet and listen to the priest talk when we’re there.” Why are we going to church now when I’ve managed to only have him in church twice in his almost 5 years (once for his christening and once for a children’s Christmas pageant)? My mother. She’s concerned about his spiritual development. She thinks he needs to learn about
And this morning started off so pleasantly…til the first text at 6:45AM… Jay: “WTF is WRONG with you? WHY did you GLUE pictures of metal chickens with jester hats on them all over my truck? I can’t get them off. What have I done to you? I let you keep everything. I haven’t bothered you. Why did you destroy my truck?” FASCINATING. All the more so because this is NOT my handiwork. Me: “Can you send me a photo?” Jay: “WTF???? What are you talking about? It’s probably on fb already.” Me: “I know. But it’s not on MY page, and therein lies the problem.” Jay: “My whole truck needs to be repainted. You used GLUE. I’m going to send you the bill and you are going to PAY or I will sue you so bad you’ll never feed that kid again.” WHATTA GUY, FOLKS! Does anyone wonder why I
So last week, Jay and I had another of our “we can break up and you can take all my shit and we’ll still be friends” text exchanges that inevitably end in a reiteration of his true feelings about me being disguised by a statement using “hate” in some way with various adjectives and adverbs to help me better understand the many ways in which he feels this way (see Note about Why You Should Never Check Your Voicemail). Jay: “Stop leaving pictures of jesters on my truck. It’s not funny.” Me: “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And it was photo of Beyonce the Giant Metal Chicken, not a jester. And it was three weeks ago. I am so over you.” Jay: “You’re insane. Why are you leaving me photos of giant metal chickens?” Me: “I’m insane? Because it’s funny. One of the many things wrong with
I just checked my voicemail because the mailbox is full, and I’m expecting a call from a guy about a refund, and you know that I don’t want to miss him. Voicemail is useless, unless it’s about a refund. Then, it’s vital. I mean, if I wanted to hear your voice, I’d call you. Text me, for heaven’s sake. Or send an email. It’s so wonderfully immediate and impersonal and ignorable. At any rate, as I was scrolling through the messages hitting “7” every time I heard it pick it up, I paused for a moment and listened to a message from a Sergeant Geskuda (jess-KUDE- ah) of the Tredyfferin/Easttown police from “at least 7 days ago.” I couldn’t get the exact date because that would have required that I press at least a dozen buttons, and while these multifocal contacts are pretty awesome, they’re not that good when I’m
Earlier tonight, my friend Michele texted me: “Guess who won’t go the fuck to bed – of course!” Me: Go The Fuck To Sleep is like the best children’s book for parents ever written. You have to go to youtube and hear Samuel L. Jackson narrate it. Note: For those of you who have not seen/heard it, take a peek. It is worth the five minutes: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OW0A6L9kx4c&playnext=1&list=PLF63D12D36F4A3CC2 Michele: Is that really a book? Me: OMG. Best.Book.Ever. For parents. Michele: A kid’s book with that title? Me: You have to read it to “get it”. It’s what you want to say at bedtime but don’t. Michele: There is also a book called “Monsters Eat Whiny Children”. We need to write one of these. I’m listening to this and laughing my ass off. Me: It is the best. Michele: I’m dying. Me: Let’s write “The Rich Girl’s Guide to Being Poor on the Main