My Kid's a Medical Marvel

I read somewhere on the world wide internets that certain people are cut out to parent certain types of kids.  I’ve always said I think I was meant to be a boy mommy.  I just don’t think I was cut out to have girls.  I love girls; I have nieces whom I adore.  But for the day-to-day, I don’t see myself guiding a young girl into womanhood.  Granted, I’ve never actually BEEN a pre-pubescent boy and I know that there are all kinds of “surprises” in store for me within the next few years of my boys being in middle school, but I still think I’ll be better at boys than I would have been at girls. 

I was, however, a very awkward pre-pubescent girl once, and it weren’t pretty.  For some reason, I cut my hair short so that I looked like a middle-aged soccer mom trapped in a 13-year-old’s body, like I should be balancing a Virginia Slims cigarette precariously on my lower lip while spilling red wine everywhere and yelling at my peers to get off my lawn.  My pants legs were always too short approximately one week after we purchased them, but in the name of frugality, there was no way my mom was going to buy me a new pair of jeans.  To top it off, in 1987, suspenders were “in.”  Remember?  No?  Just me?  Anyway . . .  How does one wear suspenders when she is an awkward pre-teen with brand new boobs?  Do the suspenders go inside the boobs, so that they look like a giant hourglass?  Or do they go outside the boobs, so they look like giant parentheses?  I’m awkward from sheered head (BOOBS) to Bass Weejuns!  To top it off, I’m pretty sure I had a raging case of PMS for the entirety of the years 1986 and 1987. 

I think that my middle school years were a practice run.  God watched it all and thought: boys.  We’ll just go with boys.  So in 2003, he gave me one.

Apparently I’m not so great at raising boys either. Even though my mother-in-law periodically reminds me that none of her three boys every broke a bone, I cannot say the same.   

At age 7, Large had a well-fed 2^nd grader fall on top of him during a game of tackle and he broke his collarbone.  He’s also had a run-in with a wayward swing (it’s complicated) and he had a freak just-walking-down-the-hallway-at-school accident.  Kid’s got his mama’s natural grace.  Medium’s non-existent ninja skills at a mall play area earned him a cast when he pretended to be running his own parkour course.  Turns out he’s not very good at it.  The only one I had left was Small.

A few weeks ago, Small and Medium were actually getting along, for once.  Naturally this caused the earth to fall off its axis in preparation for the imminent apocalypse, and Small broke his finger trying to catch a football.  He came inside, showed it to me, and told me it really, really hurt.  I took one look at it and my powerful mother’s intuition told me that a pinky is not supposed to be turned in that direction.  Off we went to Patient First, and I literally chuckled when the receptionist asked me if we had ever been there before.  (My monogrammed parking spot out front shoulda been her first clue.)  After three weeks in the cast, we went to get it removed, but Small’s finger hadn’t yet healed completely, so he had to wear another one for 2 weeks. 

Keep in mind that at six years old, he’s still pretty active.  Some might even use the word “rambunctious.”

Small’s pinky and ring finger were both inside the cast - the ring finger serving as a sort of splint for the pinky.  He complained a bit last week that his finger was hurting.  I figured he scraped it or that perhaps the cast was rubbing and irritating his skin, and I reassured him that it could not be broken, because it was already inside a cast.  Go home Mommy, you’re drunk.

When we had the cast removed, I immediately noticed that while his pinky looks as good as new, his ring finger was swollen and purple, and he couldn’t bend it into a fist.  When the xray technician took him back to look at the pinky, I asked real sweet-like if they could maybe just sneak a peek at that ring finger too.

Yep, broken.

Small actually broke a finger that was already inside a cast.  The doctor was very sweet but admitted that she had never seen anything like this happen before.  Look at that – he’s a medical marvel.  This must be what the first kid to ever get Polio felt like. 

Our Romantic Getaway! (During a Hurricane.)

A few weeks ago, Hubby and I had escaped for a few days by ourselves to celebrate our 15^th wedding anniversary.  We know plenty of people who are able to “sneak away” every now and then in order to recharge their marriages, and even some who are able to have regular date nights.  We do not have that luxury, however, so planning a getaway in which we would leave our children for a few nights with their grandparents was a big deal.  We haven’t been away together since 2008, if you don’t include the one raucous night we went to an out-of-town wedding so I could be the super-fun pregnant bridesmaid.

The BEFORE pic, when we were still dry
and didn't feel like vomiting yet.

We have been planning this trip for some time, as making arrangements for the three boys requires a lot of logistical maneuvering.  Add to this the fact that everything we do seems so complicated – many times we’re just too exhausted from the planning to actually put anything into action.  We booked flights and hotels and we were all set to have our romantic vacation from July 3-7. 

You know where this is going, right?

We used frequent flyer miles to book our flights from Richmond, Virginia to Boston, Massachusetts.  Via Newark, New Jersey.  I’m sure Newark is a lovely town once you get to know it, but everything I’ve ever seen/read/heard about Newark leads me to have a preconceived notion that it is the smelly armpit of the Northeast.  Unfortunately, the weekend we were traveling was the same weekend that Hurricane Arthur was wreaking havoc, so we were trying to beat the bad weather up the east coast.  No luck.  Our flight from Richmond to Newark was delayed, and before we even stepped foot on a plane our flight from Newark to Boston was cancelled.  Hubby stood in line for 2 hours and 45 minutes to try to figure out how we were gonna get this party started. 

Any of you who follow my blog regularly already know that Hubby, bless his heart, does not handle travel hiccups well.  See this or this.  He held it together, though, even though the airport restaurants and bars close at 8 which meant there was not a nerve-calming beer to be found anywhere.  We finally boarded a flight from Richmond to Newark and realized we would have to spend the night at one of those shady hotels near the airport.  In Newark.  The airline graciously gave us a discount coupon freebie! number to call to make our own reservations at the airport hotel.  In Newark.  Finally something went right . . . Hubby logged on to the hotel booking website and found us a room.

Surprise!  When we got the hotel, in Newark, they had no record of our confirmation, and since everyone else whose flight was delayed or cancelled was in the same predicament, there were no rooms left.  Hubby started to lose it a little here and after a few tense moments, the desk clerk found a room for us.  It was “Lou’s” room, but we could use it.  Um, not sure who Lou is, but our choice was between Lou’s room and another room, in which an employee’s girlfriend had just showered so it needed to be cleaned first.  Lou’s room it is.  Once we got to Lou’s our room, we discovered that Lou is either in a wheelchair or he is a midget/little person.  Hubby was very confused by the door peep hole that was only 3 feet off the ground but found it comforting that he had a handle to hold onto in the shower AND an emergency phone next to the toilet.  I double-bolted the door just in case Lou didn’t receive the memo that his room was occupied for the evening. 

We caught the first flight out to Boston the next morning, but we missed the 8am ferry we were supposed to catch to Cape Cod.  We arrived in Boston, got settled and refreshed, and figured taking a later ferry wasn’t a bad idea after all.  The original plan had been to spend most of the day basking in the sun on the beach in Provincetown and then hit some of the cute little shops and bars before catching the ferry back to Boston around 7pm.  The ferry trip was 90 minutes long, and since it was Independence Day, we thought we might be lucky enough to see some 4^th of July fireworks as we pulled into the Boston Harbor.

Yep.  That would have been nice.  

Bad hair/bear day.

Again, Hurricane Arthur screwed with our plans.  The ride over from Boston to Provincetown was cloudy and gray, but we were still excited to get to the Cape.  Once we arrived, however, the rain started in full force.  The first thing we did when we got off the boat was buy a raincoat for me.  We tried to maintain a positive attitude, visiting quaint little boutiques and fun bars.  I started to get really cranky when my feet started sloshing in my shoes and my underwear got wet through three layers of clothing.  By the time the rain started coming sideways and in sheets, we attempted to find an earlier ferry back to Boston.  No luck.

When we finally boarded the ferry at 7pm (with about 20 other suckers, total, who hadn’t been able to score an earlier ferry,) the wind, rain, and lightening were so bad, we each popped a Dramamine and tried not to think about the choppy waves.  I laid my head down on the sterilized and probably not encrusted in dried ketchup and coffee rings table with my palms down in order to steady myself because it was the only item I could find that seemed to be staying still.  I felt like I was on the Edmund Fitzgerald.  Hubby and I have been together for 20 years, and I know from experience that an evening that ends in vomit just isn’t as fun when you’re 40 as it is when you’re 20. 

Luckily, the rest of our vacation was lovely, but it was a long time comin’.   We’ll be ready to take a romantic vacation together again in approximately fifteen years.

Diary of a Wimpy Mom

Large is headed to his tour of the middle school today.  I’m not ready.  It makes my stomach hurt to think of my baby going to middle school . . . partly because I want him to remain my little boy, and partly because I remember what a freak show middle school was.

I was so awkward.  My jeans were always too short because I was growing faster than my mom wanted to go jeans shopping.  I had braces … and a haircut that could only be deemed “unfortunate” … and hairy legs because my mom wouldn’t let me shave them.  And the hormones.  Dear God, the hormones!  It was not a good time in my life. 

I don't mean to brag, but I was a size 0.  For about two weeks in 1986.

Anyhoo, this is the conversation Large and I had this morning:

Large:  I have my middle school tour today!

Me:  It makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it.  (It will be important for him to tell his future therapist that he felt guilty for growing up because of how it made his mother feel.  Totally healthy.)

Large:  Why?  I’m excited!

Me:  I want you to stay my baby forever!  I want you to stay in elementary school!

Large:  Mooooom.  I’m gonna go to college.  And meet a pretty girl.  And buy a house with her.  And have kids with her.

Me:  (look of panic.)

Large:  But Medium will still live with you.

Remind me of this conversation in 20 years when my 30-year-old middle child is living in my basement. 

Men's Marriage Manual: Chapter 1

This week will mark our 14th wedding anniversary, and we will have been together for 19.  One would think that with age and duration comes wisdom.  Currently I am not speaking to Hubby because he said one of the following to me this weekend.  I'm sure he's considering this lull in conversation as a little nagging vacation, but alas, I'm stewing.  In the interest of helping him survive another year without me smothering him with a pillow or poisoning his corn flakes (or both, if I really want to speed things along,) I offer 

Things You Should NOT Say If You Value Your Life, Your Sleeping Arrangements, or Your Front Teeth: 

       

      1.  Is that what you’re wearing? / Is that how you’re going to wear your hair? / Or any version thereof.  You'd think by this point one of you fellas would have written a marriage manual and this would have been Chapter 1.

2.  Do not tell me you’ll be home at 7 and then call me from the office at 6:55 to tell me you’re running a little late.  You are likely to arrive home (finally) and find the neighborhood kids roasting marshmallows in a bonfire made completely of your business suits.

3.  What’s for dinner?  Seriously.  We’ve been together almost 20 years and I have not ONCE made a meal that caused you to celebrate my skills in the kitchen.  I don’t like to cook.  I’m not good at it.  It takes longer to make it than it does to eat it.  Invest in stock in the Chef Boyardee company and leave me alone.

4.  My mom never let the clothes pile up like this.  Well then perhaps you should take your laundry to her.

5.  Didn’t you just get your nails done/ hair done/ brows waxed?  It’s called maintenance.  Don’t ask how the magic happens . . . just appreciate the end result.

6.  What do you need to get at Target?  Nothing.  Target is my happy place.  I like to go to there.

7.  You don’t need ice cream.  No one NEEDS ice cream, but the fact that you are pointing out that I, in particular, do not NEED ice cream means that I’m now considering ordering two ice creams. 

8.  What’s the over / under on when these clothes are going to be put away?  On a completely unrelated topic, please note that Jimmy Hoffa’s body has YET to be found.  Maybe he aska too many aquestions.

9.  Why is the house always such a mess when I get home?  You should have considered this question about 9 months before I delivered each of your children.

10.  When’s the last time you went to the gym?  1996.  The answer is 1996.