Thoughts of an (almost) middle-aged veterinarian, or is it mother?

2:44:22 PM EDT

I have an odd sense of humor.  It is my biggest flaw and my best strength.  When I was on eHarmony, that's what I wrote for both.  Perhaps it isn't so much as a strange sense of humor as a profound appreciation for the absurd. 

Examples:

When I was married we redid the kitchen.  TGX wanted granite counters.  I wanted to be out of debt in this lifetime.  In one of the few working compromises, we decided on granite tiles (12x12) as a countertop.  Black with silvery gray specks.  They looked nice- really nice.  Very classy.

What was not appreciated by TGX was my strange sense of humor.  When confronted with the huge expanse of shiny black obsidian, all of my neurons sparked back to the beginning of 2001: A Space Odyssey.  And I began to act like an ape, bouncy and making monkey grunts.  He got it, but was not amused.

I still find it pretty darn hilarious, to the point of giggling as I write it. 

Anyway, a friend showed me this website called: Icanhascheezburger.com.  Pictures of cats and other small cute animals in interesting poses (although I don't think they are posed, I think they are more just photographed at the instant they did whatever it was that they did, so more exposed than posed, as it were).

The one that got me giggling is on the second page, all black background with a cat's eyes glowing in a possessed way.  The caption reads, "Souls...I eets them." 

I think I laughed for a good five minutes.  And still am chuckling.  I don't know, just something about it strikes me as very, very funny. 

A few pages later there's a kitten looking into the oven, and the caption reads, "The dog really looks pissed."  Another giggle fest.

I do not think baking dogs in the oven is funny.  Nor is broiling them or roasting them.  Really.  I am a veterinarian, devoting my life and most of my income to the care of dogs (not to mention using a good portion of my breath advocating for their welfare).  But that is a funny, funny picture.

One of the funniest moments in my marriage occurred on our honeymoon.  We went to the west coast- California, and drove from LA up the coast.  In San Francisco, we stopped at the maritime museum and toured all of the boats and submarines.  I read faster than most people, so TGX and I naturally split up.  I was in exiting a room on a tall ship, about to step over the 6" barrier in the doorway, when TGX stumbled over it, tripped, and caught himself with both hands on my breasts. 

The other person in the room was a man, and he sharply inhaled, waiting for the outcry.  Silence.  TGX hastily jerked his hands off my breasts, looking shocked and embarassed, which (of course) struck me as hysterically funny in a "catholic breast guilt, the other white meat" sort of way. 

TGX, after the silence stretched out way too long, says, "Good thing I know you."

I responded, "Well, you do now!"  And the two of us continued on our way.  The man in the room spent the rest of the forty-five minutes I was on board following me and trying to puzzle out whether we did, in fact, actually know each other.  Still makes me giggle.

Laughter, supposedly, makes your blood pressure lower, and does what your parasympathetic nervous system is designed for- lowering heart rate, and just chillin' out your body.

But most of what I find funny is my little disconnects with the real world. 

For instance, when I first moved to town, there was a take out Chinese restaurant called (I swear) Woody's Suk Wok.  Ugh!  With a name like that, why would anyone eat there?  I lived here for at least a month before I stated that out loud, and got a very puzzled, "What's wrong with Woody's Quik Wok?" 

Oh. 

Then I was laughing.  I still can't go by that place, which has since changed to a sandwich shop, without chuckling.

This morning in "O" (Oprah's magazine), I read an advertisement about "A Beer filled Cereal". 

Huh.

For breakfast? 

Read it again- It actually is a "Fiber filled cereal".  Oh.  That makes more sense, really.  But I did laugh at myself.

I love those little glitches.  They are inane, meaningless, and amusing.  Like asking my friend what he was thinking about this morning.  He looked blank, and said, "Nothing."

"You looked pensive."  I told him.  And then followed up with, "But now that you're done, you are ex-pensive."

Get it?

Yeah, well, I thought it was hysterical.

Maybe it isn't so much a sense of humor as much as it is a deeply convoluted inner dialogue. 

Oh well.  I'm happy with it.

On a personal note, the singularly funniest moment in my entire life involves my younger brother.  We used to eat in the living room, and I was carrying my empty plate from the living room into the kitchen.  I met my brother in the doorway, and we did one of those shuffle back and forth dances that occur.  Finally, the solution flashed onto his face, and I relaxed, knowing that he had the answer to solve this problem of getting by each other.  I stopped, and he lowered his head, ducked under my plate and rammed right into my stomach.

I am now laughing so hard that tears are running down my face, just like I was then.  "What were you thinking?"  I asked him.

No answer. 

I still want to know.

 

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7:10:00 PM EDT

My son started school early several years ago.  He missed the magical wondrous day that divides those ready for kindergarten by, (gasp) ninety four days.  But to me, he seemed ready, naturally playing with kids several years older, counting, writing his name, adding, subtracting, coloring in the lines.  And then he'd walk into walls, causing me to choke back laughter.  It is hard to believe that your child is a boy genius when he feels that one of his biggest accomplishments is how far his urine arced through the air.

We were at a party several years later when another mother asked me how old my son was.  I told her and she was surprised.  He seems so much older than that.  Then she asked how old my daughter was, and again was amazed at her development, which was, I guess, advanced.  Then she asked me what I did to accelerate the two of them.

Imagine an intelligent woman with the blankest look possible on her face.  Okay, not actually blank, more...totally confused.  Okay, imagine the afore-mentioned intelligent woman saying, "Huh?" in the most stupid way possible, thereby negating all of the research that implies that intelligence is transferred through the X chromosome.

Seeing my confusion, the woman continued.  "Do you do flash cards?  Tutors?"

"Uh, no,"  I said, edging away slowly so as not to cause her to attack.

"Oh, well you must do something to build a base for your children to learn from."

"Uh, no," I said again, and ducked around the corner, grabbing my children and running for the door.

WTF? 

Keeping up with my kid's intelligence seems to be a lot like getting through their deliveries.  Ya know, when they were born?

My son was a shock, an endless ocean of continual pain that lasted so long that I just accepted that it would go on for the rest of my life, and was perfectly normal.  And then suddenly, much to my surprise (although I did tell his father that I was very aware of where he was coming from), there he was, looking at me with interest.  His intellect is the same- I just accepted that he was normal, and that all the other children his age were slow.  Those poor parents.  But then I realized that there were a lot of 'slow' children his age.  My jaw hit the floor when they told me that he was 'very gifted'. 

I make sure he knows it everytime he does somethinggoofy, like walking into the wall, or being amazed when something he drops falls to the floor.  "He's gifted," I'll say to the nearest person, in my Yuk-Kintucky accent.  His intellect is much like mine- really bright in a sort of out there esoteric way.

My daughter's intelligence is different.  Like her birth.  My daughter's birth was an out of control freight train.  Fourteen minutes from fully dilated to out in the world.  A half hour from 2 cm to check out the kid.  Keeping up with her is like that- you just hold on and hope to heck everything comes out all right.

My mother once commented that my daughter was brighter than my son.  I disagreed.  I think they are probably about the same, except my daughter is very, very driven.  How many other four year olds get three workbooks (a sight word one, and two different "entering 1st grade")  And has a goal of finishing all three of them before kindergarten? 

And yes, she's already done with one and 1/3 of the way through each of the others.  And no, I don't make her sit down and do them.  She likes it.  Okay, she demands it.

She also reads- currently voraciously devouring Beatrix Potter.  

It has been good for my son- forcing him to get moving if he doesn't want her catching up.  And believe me, he doesn't.  That would be worse than losing all the legos in the world.  Trust me.

So, I wanted to have my daughter start kindergarten this year.  She missed the magical and wondrous day that seperates those ready to go to school from those obviously not developed enough by.....(drum roll please)...one day.  School board says that she has to be tested.  Cost: $350. 

It is for her own good, really.  I mean, what if something happens and the kids a week older understand it, while she, poor dear, stands at the edge of the crowd helplessly confused?  That would be horribly, horribly damaging, really.

Yeah, I think it is ridiculous, how'd you know?

So she had her test, and she flustered the poor guy, causing him to try to keep up with her.  Test usually takes an hour or more, my daughter worked through it in about twenty minutes. 

Value of watching the guy giving the test frantically asking and scribbling:  Priceless.

Best quote- when she got one wrong- "Good to know that you're human."  Don't worry- it went right over her head.  Or did it?  Her response was, "I told you I'm smart."

Um, yeah.

So at the end of the test that the little four year old aced, the testing guy asked me how I thought she did.

I said, "I think she bridged that one day gap necessary to start school quite well.  Am I wrong?"

To which he replied, "She did better than some nine year olds."

Better not tell her brother. 

So now I get to have a nervous sobbing fit next August. 

Where the heck did my baby girl go?

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12:41:59 PM EDT

I was shopping at that huge consumer mecca of all that is wrong in America yesterday (starts with a W, ends up attracting white trash), which I hate doing, but there isn't a Target here in town (and trust me, when I drive past the Target an hour and a half away, I stock up so I don't have to go to the "family first/ Christian store".  I'll do my rant on that 'family first/christianity sold' crap later, honest.  Ah to heck with it, I'll do it now.

What I hate about W. World is that they sell a way of life- undersell the competitors/offer so much selection that only another superstore can keep up- put the little businesses out of business and then cut back selection and put the price back up.  They teach consumers that the only important thing is price.  And it isn't.  At least not to me.

Personally, I'd rather spend a little more for something that will last a little longer, or is a little less bare-bones.  I want a little feeling that I've earned something, not that I extorted some piece of crap out of some third world worker- knowing that I've bought it for this season, cause at the end of the summer, I'll have to toss it.  When I buy cheap, I feel like I've spun my wheels- worked for x amount of hours so that I can go back and work a few more hours for the same dang thing next year- never, ever getting ahead.

And the spin that they put on their merchandise bugs the heck out of me.  Case in point, my absorbent friend and I went around Mother's Day a few years ago, and looked in the book section for gifts for our mother's.  We found several books that all had the same message:  Mommy takes care of EVERYONE and EVERYTHING.  WTF?!

What I see depicted at the Great W World is that women are the new slaves.  And we should be happy.  Slavery, I mean, serving others, should be the end all and be all of our existence.  And if we need to think, well we should read one of the many missives that look amazingly like bibles.  You know, A Christian Women's Guide to Happiness, or Why Working Mother's aren't Satisfied.  The short answer being, in their minds, that women shouldn't work.  No, wait, that's wrong- women shouldn't work for MONEY.

These books make me want to scream.  Maybe a Christian woman would be happier if she wasn't told that she was second class and there to serve.  Maybe working women aren't satisfied because after work they raise the kids and the husband and take care of everything while their husband and kids take advantage.  Maybe they aren't happy because they have a different lifestyle than everyone else in their house.  Maybe God doesn't actually judge a woman by what she gives to the family, but on who she is.  Maybe God is judging the other adult in that house in a pretty negative way.  Maybe, just maybe, God has a brain, and a sense of fairness.

Maybe it is time for the big W to stop telling women what they want, need and should be, and start listening.

If they asked, I'd tell them- cheap isn't more important than safe.  It isn't more important than choice, and it isn't more important than healthy.

So Wally and I see each other rarely, and I sort of wander through, glazed, buying my $100 of crap, and slink out the door.

But yesterday, I had an interesting conversation at the check-out.  That was, actually, a first.  (Read anything into that you want.)  The clerk asked me how the world was treating me.  And I said, "Pretty well, actually."  And she looked up in surprise, so I said, gently, "The world usually treats me pretty well."

And she said, "That must be because of good choices."

I replied, "That, or low expectations."

"How so?" she asked.

"Well," I said, "sometimes a good day is simply one in which nobody dies.  Or maybe it is just who I compare my life to."

And she nodded, and said, "I've often thought that.  I get down on my life, and someone comes through the line that makes me realize how good I have it."

I liked that woman.  She 'got' it.  Think you don't have goals?  Read an article about a 700 pound man whose goal is to walk.  I got new goals- to walk every day.  That article also helped me look at the scale a little different.  Self-image improves when you compare it in that way.  And I don't mean in a negative way- I doubt that guy gained 500 pounds overnight.  No, he put it on a pound at a time, or 5 or ten.  Makes it easier to get off that gaining weight trend and put down a little food today.  Or get up and walk around the block right now.

Great motivation, really.

It is all about who you stand next to.

I still like Target better.

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10:07:21 PM EDT

As I sat in the doctor's office last time, I began to wonder when I had lost my credibility.  It happens a lot lately- started with the TGX ignoring me, and has now spread across quite a bit of my life. 

I have an irregular heartbeat.  Well, that isn't true, entirely.  Sometimes my heart beats funky.  Last September, it beat funky enough that I couldn't walk across the room.  I was in the hospital for three days, unable to rise from the bed.   The nurses commented that they could tell when I went to the bathroom, because my heart would throw a constant stream of pre-ventricular contractions. 

These stopped on the third day.  After I got a full night's sleep, because the doctor's stopped asking for my vitals to be taken.  This happened after I saw two internal medical specialists.  Both of which felt that I was under stress.  My question, of course, was what made my body react so differently this time.  No answer, of course, except to be told that I was obviously under stress.

I was fairly blunt- I've been under stress for years.  That's what life is about when you are a fairly high acheiver.  I've had a job since I was seven- delivering newspapers.  If anything, my life has had the least stress ever in the last eighteen months.  Is it tiring owning one's own practice, and being a single mom half the time?  Of course it is.

But it isn't more stressful than it has been for the last twelve years.  In fact, it is less stressful.  I have a place where I can go, put my feet up and ignore the world.

And yet, my period comes every three weeks instead of four (yes, this was worked up also, and no, it isn't peri-menopause).  That's stress too, or so they say, and when I ask why my body has suddenly decided to react differently, the doctor again leaves the room.

My family doctor tells me that I am too aware of my heartbeat, my menstrual cycles, and my level of energy.  And that is causing me stress.  I was too amazed to respond. 

What kind of a world do we live in where it is accepted that people should not be aware of their bodies.  And aren't I the absolute expert on me?  Not according to the doctor.  According to the doctor, I am the last person to be good at diagnosing myself.  Huh?

I also do not have any idea of when my child is ready for kindergarden. My daughter misses the cut-off by one day.  My son missed it by a hundred, and we had him tested and admitted.  He's gifted (you have to say it in a Kentucky farmland 'yee-huck' sort of voice for that to really impact). 

My daughter is working (at her own discretion) through her second sight word book, and the summer book for kids entering the first grade.  She reads as well as her brother, with expression and meaning.  She's a little slower in mat- only at a kindergarden level. 

But yes, she has to be tested to be sure that she is "ready". 

I'm getting a reputation for pushing my kids- that is obviously part of the stress in my life.

Except, of course, that I don't. 

But nobody believes that. 

 

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12:47:37 AM EDT

My son went through a phase when he was just out of babyhood- thirteen or fourteen months- where he would carry an odd assortment of things:

A frankenstein plush toy that sang the monster mash in one hand, a stick in the other.

A balloon, a rock and a lincoln log.

Diesel, Thomas and a piece of train track.

Combinations that seemed to make some sort of odd sense somehow.

He was very particular about what he needed, searching through the house until he had his two or three things, and then would keep them with him a day, or two, or more.

All four imaginary teletubbies rode with me in the car for weeks, until I broke down and bought the freakin' plush toys.  Then the invisible tubbies disappeared, and the plush tubbies were ignored. 

A seagull feather, and the big plastic owl from the front porch.

I would ask him why he chose what he chose, but he didn't have enough speech to make it clear.  Or maybe I didn't have enough brains to get it.  I wrote down some of the combinations in one of my journals, thinking that when it would give me some sort of insight into the man he'd be.

He still carries around things, but I can see the influences of the outside world now:  a finger-knitted whip made out of yarn (thank you Indiana Jones), a small lego figure wrapped in grass (school project), the latest rock (trust me, someday I will build a wall out of the rocks that he's acquired).

Today I realized that what he carried probably didn't mean anything, but that might have been my jaded response to the four trips it took to and from my car after work tonight.  I carry, on a daily basis, a computer, a bag for my personal stuff (I get my personal mail at the practice), a bag for my recently castigated daughter, and the groceries that we needed (aforementioned son has developed two hollow legs- I'm okay with that so long as neither of them breaks anytime soon), and my daughter and her cast.

My daughter is getting amusing with this leg.  Yesterday she asked if I was her slave until the cast comes off.  (Uh, no.)  Today she wanted to know how long I was going to leave her wherever I sat her (until I sort through whatever else needs to be done to pick you up again?).  And she does it in this lovely, sweet, cherub voice full of concern.  "Are you going to leave me here forever, mommy?"

And when I do pick her up, she wraps one arm around my neck, and uses the other hand to gently stroke my face.

Are you done with that "Awwwww"?

It's not that great- I've been near her so much in the last 30 hours that I'm ready to flee civilization just to not have my face touched.  I have an abrasion on the right side the width of her pudgy, sweaty little hand (okay, not really, but I ought to).  Tonight she is sleeping in her own bed for the first time in two days.  Mostly because last night that cast became a weapon around 3 am, crushing my left kidney to a small bean.  (again, not really)

I also learned that my daughter is a proliferative dreamer.  She has a dream about every hour.  She likes to wake the person sleeping with her to share these dreams.  "And when I waved my hands, like this (little hands flash in front of my half-opened eyes), sparky little bits flew out."

Me, mumbling:  That's nice.

Then she was in tears.  "Okay, you castly child, what's wrong?"

"My sparkies are gone."  Deep, heart-breaking sobs.

"Do you think it might have been a dream?"

Big draw in of breath, half way through heart-broken sob.  "No, I, Maybe.  (puzzled look)  Yes, it was a dream (disney princess enthusiasm)."  She rolls over, inhales deeply and starts snoring.

Every hour.  Every single hour.

Nights like that would be so much harder if the night before I hadn't gotten my sleep in twenty minute or less bursts.  Only an experienced mother can say that.  If you were a person accustomed to say, eight hours of sleep, in a row, then you'd be ready to cast the little girl out the window.

But then, she'd roll back over, smile, and in her sleep, rub my face with her pudgy little hand.

 

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3:46:11 AM EDT

My daughter was invited to a birthday party- a little girl who will be in her kindergarden class next year...that is, if my already reading daughter tests well enough to get in (she's a whole day too young).  This was set up by TGX who apparently can't read a calendar to know who's day is who's, and had already accepted on (my) behalf.  Party at 5 pm, if I was working, I generally work until 5:30 pm.  That's working until 5:30 is a new thing-- ya know, just in the last 11 years.

But that is okay- I know the parents, I know the kids, they are wonderful people.  And apparently, they've seen a lot of my kids- as in, they baby-sit for TGX all the time (who knew?).  In spite of a child custody agreement that says that the other parent has right of first refusal for child care-taking.  Yet another interesting conversation with a set of parents who were told that all I care about is working.  They were amazed when I stayed.

I stayed because they are a half hour from town, so if I drove home, I'd pretty much turn around right after getting there and turn back.  I also stayed because I like my kids, and don't feel like I get enough time with them.  And because my daughter is four, and I prefer to stay at birthday parties until my kid is about five or six.  Just me, I guess. 

Because I didn't get the invite or any details beyond the time and location, I made sure my kids were fed beforehand.  They still partook of one slice of pizza each, and of course, some cake and ice cream.  Guess that was on the invite, who knew.

They played limbo, freeze dancing, pin the tail on the donkey and beat up a pinata shaped like a horse, who, in a weird sort of coincidence only fell apart after my daughter broke its left rear leg.  Presents were passed out, and the kids went into the backyard for a little running around, jumping on the trampoline. 

I hate trampolines.  More so, now, for reasons that will soon be obvious.

I stayed behind to watch the two kids still eating (one of them was my son), and four very good parents followed the kids out.  One of the very good parents was right next to my daughter when she somehow broke her left rear leg.  We don't know if she landed on it wrong or if one of the other (there were two) little girls landed on it or what.

I heard someone start to cry, and thought, "Party's never over until some little kid is hurt and crying."  After listening, I thought, "Not mine, thank God."  And then one of the parents came in with my daughter in her arms. 

"Oh shit, that's my kid," I said, taking her and looking her over for injuries.  "Where's it hurt?"

She pointed to a place just below her knee, with a strange disconnected, painful expression.  You know, the kind humans get when they break a bone.  There's nothing like that look.

I didn't see any swelling, but her leg looked shorter than the other one-- no difference in shape, but just a tish shorter. 

I conferred with the other parents.  "I think I'm going to take her to the ER and get an x-ray," I said. 

One of the parent's said, "Maybe you are just paranoid because your son broke his leg last year."

I looked up at her.  "Maybe.  Or maybe, I know my kid, and I've never seen her like this-- that's a lot of pain.  Not to mention that I've seen plenty of broken bones.  And her leg is a little shorter.  But, I could be paranoid.  Let's do the gold standard."

I asked her if she could stand, she said no, but I tried it...without letting go.  Her body's answer was no way in hell.  I looked at the parent.  She apologized.  I said, "I get it, don't worry." 

I asked for an ice pack, rearranged the car, got the kid stuff loaded, loaded her brother, and carried her to the car.  Reassuring the parents the whole way...What are you gonna do?  They are kids.  This happens.  Geesh, it isn't anyone's fault.  I'll call you to let you know.

On the way, my daughter started losing consciousness.  I had a hard time rousing her verbally, and her brother shaking her hand wasn't bringing her around.  I didn't think she'd whacked her head, but no one saw it.  I called 911, and the operator figured out a place for the EMT's to rendevous with me.  They were fantastic, assessing her and agreeing that she was shocky.  When they tried to put her in a cervical collar, however, my daughter decided that shock was something that was going to wait...and we all agreed that they would follow me while I drove her the rest of the way. 

They got her a wheelchair and greased the wheels to get her seen soon. 

During all of this, I'd made several calls to TGX letting him know what was happening.  And letting him know that the situation was controlled.  He was "somewhat out of town", and "might have to stop for gas," "but he'd be there when he could be."

Yeah, whatever.

My son was a little worried, seeing as he'd broken his leg the year before.  He held her hand and told her that he understood, and sweat broke out on his head when he told her that he was sure that "Mom will make sure that you stop hurting soon." 

I asked him if he wanted me to have someone pick him up.  "No, I want to stay with you and my sister."  Absolutely, little dude, I get it.  I thought back to those studies of kids in WWII-- much more stress in those seperated from their mothers than those that stayed in the city.  No way was I letting him go if he didn't want to.

TGX showed up as we got there, holding her hand, and telling her that "Daddy was there now."  As I walked around him to fill out the forms.  He moved out of the way the third time I asked him to let me move her out of the walkway so she didn't get bumped.

He'd have been there sooner, but he was afraid that he'd run out of gas (he said this six times during the few hours we were at the ER).  I'm still not sure what he wanted for a response.  Here are some that I didn't say:

1)  So some things don't change (stopped for gas before coming to pick me up for both bee stings-- yep, I'm really allergic; stopped for gas when bleeding started in third month of pregnancy with number one son; ah shoot, let's just cut to the chase-- any medical emergency involved a gasoline station, or the nerve wracking 'are we gonna make it on fumes'.)

2)  A smarter human would figure out that motorized vehicles run on gasoline.

3)  Well, crap, I can't believe you were taken unawares by the gas-sucking demon.

4)  You mean you still believe in the gasoline fairy?

5)  Okay, I give up-- what the hell do you need me to say here?

6)  Wow, six times- what is the desired effect here?  How about we focus on the little kid with the broken leg.

The doctor (the doctor) looked at him and said, "Once I had kids, I figured out that you should always keep at least a quarter tank ready."  And then he looked at me, "When did you learn that?"

I laughed, and said, "Vet school- on call."  He raised an eyebrow.  "Well kids came more than five years later."

Then he turned and looked at TGX, who suddenly became obsessed with the time. 

"We should have someone pick up Number One Son."

"Already talked about it, Number One Son is worried about his sister, wants to stay."

"He has school tomorrow.  I'll call Girlfriend. She can take him to school tomorrow."

"As I said, we've discussed it, and it is handled."

"I'll call her.  She'll come pick him up (she's also his teacher...I know!!)."

"He's staying.  Many studies on stress in kids, they do better staying with the parent."

"Oh, I'll be there later."

"We've discussed it, and the decision has been made."

"So I'll call her and she'll come...."

"You can call her, and she can come, but NOS is staying with his custodial parent of the night, and that would be me.  Do you need to go?"

Doctor interjects- Your son is pretty worried about his sister, I think he should stay so he can see that she's going to be fine.

Oh wait, I skipped the part where the x-rays come back as it's broken.  A buckle fracture of the tibia.  Fibula is fine, and yes, the leg is shorter due to that little fold over.

I say, "Do you splint it?  Bandage it?  Cast it?  What do you do with this?"

Dr. says, "Yeah, you probably don't see these, do you?  We'll cast it."

TGX on phone says (to ???  right after telling the other person that it wasn't broken), "Oh, I guess it is broken, but just a minor fracture, really small.  Probably just a cast for a few days."

I turn to the Dr. and say, "Wow, I've never heard of a cast going on for just a few days, did you guys talk in the hall and I'm out of the loop?"

Dr. says, "Well as I told your husband."

"Ex."

"Ah.  As I told him, the cast will stay on for four weeks, but we will check it weekly."

I look at my daughter.  "Well at least you are still a convenient carry size, not like Mr. Long Legs was."

TGX had hung up.  "We have a little walker that her brother used."

Dr:  At this age, it isn't a good idea.  Or crutches.  Best thing to do is carry them, and wait on them.

TGX:  But it is a small walker.

Dr.:  I want her carried.  (Turns to me.) 

"I'll make sure she's carried."

Dr:  She with you for the next few days?

I nod.

Dr. leaves.

TGX launches into an explanation of how muddled his schedule is because of I have no clue because I didn't listen, because I don't care because his schedule has seemed to be muddled for about the same amount of time that we've been divorced. 

Anyway, he wants me to have the kids until late at night or maybe Saturday, or only one kid or some amorphous make my life easier because this working thing is so freaking hard for me, and how can I be expected to cope?  (Understand that all of that was just my interior dialogue response to his half statements and wandering dialogue.)  (And it therefore might be slightly jaded.)  (Like, a lot.)

I say, "Sounds like you want me to take the kids until Saturday morning."

He says, "Well, no, I'll pick them up on Friday night but I don't know what time, probably late because I'm just concerned that having her at my workplace in the dirt and unsupervised and I can't plan my life (oh wait, that's me again).

Me: So you are working until after their bedtime Friday.  I'll keep them until Saturday morning.  What time?

TGX: Well, I don't know because (I have no idea, but I think it was more of the I can't plan my life because I'm a dumbass.)

Me:  I'm on call this weekend, so you will need to call me, and then we will figure a pick up time and place that works for both of us.

Physically turn back on TGX's explanation of why his life is so much more complicated than the rest of the working world's.

Finish up at hospital, give bag with keys to NOS, as well as asking him if he can open the door where his sister's car seat is, so I can carry her out.  He's a smart little duff, so he's on it.  Reach to pick up daughter.  Have daughter in arms and halfway up, when...

TGX:  Do you want me to carry her?

Me (squelching "Well that was right on time, wasn't it?):  I've got her.

TGX:  I'll go open the door.

Me and NOS look at each other:  Son has that covered.

TGX:  I'll...

Me:  Kiss your daughter, as I said on the phone, we've got it covered.

Nurse:  Did you want a wheelchair?

Me:  I've done this a lot. 

Nurse:  That's obvious, you are pretty organized.

Me:  Someone's got to be.  (nurse and I exchange one of those looks that pass between women who've been with a 'little too late, little too little guy-- or maybe that's just me again)

Both kids zonked the moment they were horizontal, poor little beans.  Son and I discussed it.  He was worried that she would keep hurting.  I told him we'd cover it.  I praised him for being such a great brother.

It was interesting to have that encapsulated view of why my marriage didn't work with that particular man.  Completely different approach to life between the two of us.  Totally not the kind of guy I could count on during emergencies or day to day.  Not to say that he couldn't handle them, but rather that I didn't see any indication that he could.  And that's important to me.

And I still wonder if he hears a buzzing noise, or just silence when I talk. 

So, to summarize:  Only surviving parent has terminal cancer, life expectancy 2-3 years, cruise planned for August (life long dream for her-- climbing wall and running track for me-- take it any way you want).

 MNM moving in next month- must go through and organize and cull those things that I've been meaning to organize before he gets here.  (and I've been meaning to do this for months- it should be done at least yearly, geesh!)

Number One Son- project due June 2.

Lovely Daughter cast as a girl with a broken leg.

Dogs all appear healthy.

Cats obnoxious and so far healthy.

Business-- doing okay, but I can't wait to get back to it after my ten day vacation (including weekends and holidays).

When it rains, it pours.  But nothing I can't handle.  I still think all kid's parties can't end until some kid gets hurt enough to cry.

I'm just hoping I've filled the quota of it being my kid for a while.

Oh, and the bubble wrap, fully padded suits of armor are on back-order.

Figures.

 

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12:43:35 PM EDT

I've been asked multiple times in the last few days whether I am getting married to the man who is (as I write) moving his stuff in. 

Nope.

And right before I sat down to write this, I looked at pictures of the China earthquake caught by wedding photographer.  The picturesque church in the background fell to pieces during the quake.  None of them harmed, not the brides, grooms, or photographer.  What luck.

The road out, however, was closed, so they all spent the night in tents.  Someone asked whether this would make their marriages more precarious.  And the response was full of hope- "What is happiness, happiness is safe and sound," the caption says. "Having gone through a life-and-death test, they surely will clasp hands and grow old together."

 Yeah, right, the cynic in me sneers.

The best glue doesn't keep marriage together.  Life and death tests are more likely to split couples up- the death of a child, a miscarriage, a fire.  That's life.

I know that some of you are shaking your heads and saying, "She's just bitter."

And perhaps the answer is "Absolutely."

What's not to be bitter about?  Marriage got me a boat load of debts that appeared as fast as they could be paid off.  They got me a long work week that never seemed to end.  They got me a crappy employee who had to be fired three times.  An employee who morphed into the most amazing employee for someone else.  An employee who criticized, and undermined me all the hours that I was awake.

And the funny thing is that I'm not bitter.  Astonished, amazed in retrospect, but not bitter.

Because that's what I thought I deserved.  That's what I thought marriage was.  That's the best I thought I could do.  That was the price, I thought for having a family- a place where I finally belonged.

Here's what I know now.  That everyone is worth an amazing life partner.  That no one deserves to be treated the way I was.  That everyone is worthy of love, common courtesy and respect.  The place I belong is wherever I want to be.

And the guy moving his stuff into the garage (as a first step- duh, I do let him sleep in the bed).  Knows this.

One thing I used to say in my marriage was that I wasn't a sure thing.  That's reality.  No one is.  You treat a person like dirt, eventually they move away from you.  Eventually, they stop interacting.  It just took me awhile.

I'm not getting married again.  One of the questioners was my four year old daughter.  Don't you love him, she asked. 

Yup.  No hesitation there at all.  Like him a lot too.  He's a terrific guy.

But I'm probably not going to marry him.

Mostly because I want what I work for to go to my kids.  I've already given up enough of what I worked for to someone who didn't deserve it.  And that guy had a job when we got married.  That guy looked great on paper. 

You can boil a frog by slowly increasing the heat. 

I'm a little shy of the tub at this point, to be honest. 

Does that make me bitter? 

Or smart?

There aren't any advantages to marriage for me- not taxes, not health insurance, pretty much nothing.  Marriage is set up, I think to allow one person to carry another.  Been there, done that, shredded the t-shirt.  Not about to buy another one.

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1:19:18 AM EDT

I've been trying to call my mother almost daily, an exercise that often makes me want to slap myself until my eyes spin.  Don't get me wrong, I love my mother.  I even like my mother, although the vast difference between our personalities and outlook on life never ceases to amaze me.  My daughter is a perfect mix of the two of us (my mother and I), which is oddly appropriate. 

I read a study that said that it was actually impossible for mothers and daughters to communicate effectively verbally- so much is 'heard' from body language and intonation, and so much is history. 

Every mother is now reading this, thinking of an incident where their daughter sputtered "I hate you," for a seemingly innocuous statement.  And every daughter is nodding their head. 

"Depth Charge" conversations is what I call them- as if I am a submarine and my mother is just lobbing out statements that might annoy me.  I pride myself on just letting them go over most of the time, but every now and then, one hits close enough to make me go peer into the school of dead fish stunned by the depth charge.

Here was the conversation recently: 

Mom:I was talking to your aunt the other day and we talked about your blog.

Me: That's nice.

Mom:  She thought that one of your blogs a few weeks ago was 'out there'. 

Me: Which one?

Mom:  I don't remember, but I read it, and I think it is 'out there' too.

Me:  What was it about?

Mom:  I don't remember, but it did seem as if you went off the deep end, and I didn't get it.  I don't think you made sense.

Me:  That's interesting (crushing glass with hand).  Do you remember anything about it?

Mom:  Not really, just that it was 'out there'.  You should watch that. (changes subject)

Note to audience- I did not actually crush the glass.  It is a literary device where the writer embellishes actual events (in this case, nothing at all, or at worse, a very deep, slow breath) to emphasize a point.

Really.

What I said to my mother, and to myself, multiple times-- well, just once to my mother, was that this blog isn't there for anyone except myself.  And quite honestly, I don't care if it is 'out there' because usually even when I'm 'out there', there is usually someone else nodding their head.  Or wishing they had the courage to nod their head.  Or laughing their head off.  Whatever.

Not to mention that there are many places 'out there' that are actually quite pleasant.  Fun, even.  And I'm happy 'out there'.  So, ya know, whatever (that was heavy on the New Jersey accent there).  After all, this is the same mother that worried that I was drinking too much while I carried more than 20 credits and a 3.83 GPA.

And yes, I re-read the last six weeks of blogs, and I think they are fine, and securely in the realm of Helen.  Which, I happily admit, is often, 'out there'.  That's part of my charm, dammit, and often a huge part of my sense of humor.

MNM thinks I am blowing all chance at my inheritance.  (he was laughing when he said this) But I think my mother actually has a great sense of humor.  And I think that she knows that I like and love her.  And that we are sometimes very different women, striving to understand one another.  And if all of that doesn't work, she knows, beyond any doubt that my daughter is just like me.  Or at least enough that I will understand how my mother felt many times.

And I personally think that is terrific.  I've called my mother many times since my kids were born and apologized to her.  Not for any particular reason except that I suddenly understood the sheer frustration that my mother must have felt.  If any child knew what they did to their parents, they'd be paralyzed with fear and shock. 

It isn't like I have the inheritance spent, anyway.  I'm actually hoping that my mother gets to spend a bit more of it herself.  Like a lot more, actually.

 

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4:46:01 PM EDT

I talk on the phone.  A lot.  Okay, like, excessive.  Like, I don't talk when I'm sleeping- well, not on the phone, but if I could dial in my sleep, I might.  That level of excessive.

I didn't used to talk on the phone.  (Great grammar, huh?  Oh well.)

My freshman year of college, I probably talked on the phone a total of 2 hours.  The entire year.  There was a payphone down the hall by the front door of the dorm.  Old school, no wiring for phones in the room.

I did get a phone in my room for all the rest of college, and I would talk on it, but only long enough to clean the room- mindless work, really, and to this day, if I am home, it is what I do on the phone.  It annoys me that I can't vacuum while on the phone.  My friends complain that they call and it is only a matter of time before I start washing dishes.  If I'm on the phone long enough to pick up everything, fold and put away the clothes, and wipe everything down, it is the dishes or the vacuum, jeesh! 

When I was living in Florida in an apartment I bought longer and longer phone cords.  I still remember the first conversation I had on a cordless phone.  My mother called.  Ten minutes later she said, "Why are you still talking?"  (usually I hung up after cleaning everything in reach)

I crowed in ecstasy about this cool invention called the cordless. 

It wasn't that I didn't have anything to say, it was more that I didn't want to be tied down to the damn phone.  I had things to do.  Places to go. 

Staying in one place, talking on the phone, bores me.  Yes, it does.  There are only a few people in the world that are actually interesting enough to get me to sit in one place, doing nothing for any amount of time over five minutes.  I know!  I'm incredibly shallow.  It isn't like I've been hiding the information, for Pete's sake.

And then came the cell phone.  (cue the angel chorus)

I love the cell phone.  It is wonderful.  I can talk and drive, and talk and walk, and talk and ...stand in the backyard, lay in my hammock, hang out at the beach, whatever I want (and no, I don't talk in restaurants, movies or those places).  I do talk in the bathroom.  It isn't like they can see me, duh!  And most of the people I talk to are already aware of the fact that I have bodily functions.  So how shocked can they be?  Really?

My younger brother doesn't like to hold the phone to his ear because of the effects of the cell phone on brain waves.  I think of holding the phone up as an exercise against the 'bat wings' that old ladies get.  And whenever someone expresses concern about cell phones causing brain cancer, I let them know that my exposure is like a trillion times higher than theirs. 

I'm the canary.

Now if I suddenly get a brain tumor, I would recommend that no one put the phone next to your ear. 

Although I just read a study on the internet that the cell phone disrupts your sleep pattern as much as half a cup of coffee. 

So I'm thinking that this might be my new way of dealing with the post-prandial slump.

Now, who should I call?

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3:08:56 PM EDT

I was on call Monday and Tuesday.  Monday I had a call from one of my clients whose lovely little dog decided that his vaccine for kennel cough was something that his body really didn’t like- as in puking didn’t like.  No problem, really, easy cure, stop giving the dog food, and then after no pukes for 20 minutes, you give a little bit of benadryl- notice I’m not giving a dose there.

 

I’m not giving out a dose because it is amazing the amount of people that read something on the internet and decide that works better than a veterinarian.  Makes me want to start an online practice.  Really.  Here’s how it would work- people would log onto the website, give a credit card number, and the transaction would ring through- I’m thinking $9.00 per minute, because making all that money would be better than some sex I’ve had- certainly better than any sex I’ve had on the internet.  (No, Mom, I’ve never had sex on the internet.  Or on a phone.  I’m a virgin, really.)  Then they could ask a question. 

 

If they had a really tough problem, I would ask them (for an additional fee, of course) to place the affected part of the pet up to the monitor so that I could ‘scan’ it.  I would also offer the crystal ball, I mean, predict the future for another additional fee.  I would be able to devote most of my time to this, as a great portion of my clients would use this service rather than visiting my office.

 

And the compliance would be amazing.  I know this from experience.  People will do anything they read on the internet- feed raw food, stop using heartworm prevention, throw out febreeze, buy crap products that look just like the real ones (but are 1% of the price)—anything to stop themselves from getting gouged by those rich veterinarians.  I mean, we all drive porsches, right?  (Prius- 2005 model, in case you were wondering).

 

So, back to the poor little vomiting dog.  Here’s the way it would work on the internet.  Dog is puking post-vaccines. 

 

Client: Could it be the vaccines? 

Vet: Yup. (nine dollars)  How many times has it vomited? 

C: About thirty.

V:  What is he vomiting?

C: Food, after he eats, water after he drinks.

V: (fighting the urge to ‘scan’ the patient) I’d recommend taking away the food and water.  Please do that, and I will call you back in 20 minutes.  I am happy to see your pet.  (If on the internet, this would be, log back in in 20 minutes, please (oh, and we are up to $72).

C: (20 minutes later)  He vomited once, and then didn’t vomit for a few minutes, but ran to where his food dish is, so we gave him food, and then he vomited.  Then we gave him water to wash out the taste and he vomited up again.

V: (typing slowly) Pick up the food and water for at least 20 minutes (another $32).

C: (20 minutes later) He hasn’t vomited again!

V: Now we can get some benadryl in him.  (total bill—A lot of money!!!!)

 

Next call:

 

C: I’m not going to pay you.  (See, at this point, the internet is great, because he couldn’t get beyond that first page—no credit card, I never even know that they are out there!)

 

Unfortunately, I haven’t got the online practice.  So, real life here (Honest- how could I make this up?)

 

C:  I’m not going to pay you, but I need to drop my dog off.

 

V: What kind of a dog is it?

 

C: A Jack Russell

 

V: How old?

 

C: About 2 and a half years, well, 2 years, 4 months, because he was born at 11 pm on (whatever day).

 

V: What’s going on with him?

 

C:  I think he must have gotten hit by a car again.

 

V: What makes you think so?  (AGAIN?  WTF?  THEY DON’T HAVE LEASHES OR FENCES WHERE THIS GUY LIVES?  Oh right, he lives in the country where there aren’t any cars.  Reachable only by the alien ships that land on a regular basis and take him off to their world where everything is FREE!)

 

C: Well, he’s shaking and falling over when he walks.  It isn’t what he did the last time he got hit by a car, but if I got hit by a car, I might do that.

 

V: (visualizing this man being hit by the very quiet Prius- in stalk, I mean, stealth mode)  When did it start?

 

C: A few days ago.

 

Must interject here that my associate had a phone call from the same guy on Friday night- this was on Tuesday. 

 

V:  Didn’t you call our service on Friday night?

 

C:  Oh, yeah. (slowly)

 

V: So, this has been going on about a week?

 

C: (kind of abrupt)  Well, 6 days.

 

V:  I’m happy to see your dog, there will be an emergency fee, I will do a physical exam, and then get you an estimate for a treatment or further diagnostic plan.  Give dollar amount of emergency fee.  Payment is due at the time of treatment (this was told to him by the service also, both on Friday and on Tuesday—although the service should not have even paged me, but that’s another rant.)

 

C:  (Friendly tone)  I’m not going to pay you, I owe $700 to My Regular Vet (Friday this was $600, wonder what he bought), and I’m probably never going to pay them, and I like them.  So when can I drop him off?

 

V: (pushing aside all astonishment):  Again, these are the fees to be seen, and payment is due at the time of services, so I’m happy to see him when you are able to pay.

 

C:  So my dog is going to die because of you?  (outrage and astonishment)

 

V:  No, I think since he survived six days, he may survive overnight, and you can bring him to your regular veterinarian in the morning. 

 

C:  I have things to do during the day.  So you won’t see my dog?

 

V:  I am happy to see him as soon as you allow me to.

 

C:  I want you to see him.

 

V:  As soon as you are willing to take financial responsibility to have him looked at.

 

C: (sputtering)  He’s going to die because you want to get paid. You are heartless.

 

V: (interrupting):  Oddly enough, I care enough to be a single mother and provide for my two children.  Oh, and to be available 5 days a week during the day.  (hang up phone)

 

I’ve come to the conclusion that there is a place somewhere in the world there is a place where this works. 

 

So I tried it at the video store. 

 

Me:  (placing DVD on counter):  I don’t have any money, so I’m not going to pay for this movie, because I owe (Name of other video store in town) $700.  But I’ve wanted to see this movie for two weeks, so you’ll give it to me, right?

 

Clerk:  You owe the other place $700?  What’d you do?

 

Me:  Doesn’t matter.  So, you’ll let me have this movie for free?

 

Clerk:  Well you have credits on your account to rent it with.

 

Me: I don’t want to use them.  Is it free?

 

Clerk:  Um, no.  You have to pay for it.  (very confused look)

 

Then I let him in on the deal.  And he said:  People actually think you should see their pet for free when you aren’t working?  Or even when you are working?  That’s crazy.

 

Yeah, that’s what I thought.  I can’t wait to try the grocery, the electric company, the phone company…oooooooooh, my employees!  I’m so glad this guy clued me in!  I can save soooooooo much money!

 

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