We Are Finally Better

Thanks for the suggestions and ideas.  I finally took the baby to the doctor because my paranoia set in thinking he would get dehydrated.  Thankfully he was fine.  The doctor gave me a shot of Raglan.  Good stuff.  I also got pills to bring home.  I haven’t had a return deposit on my food intake yet. The whining of being sick from a 14 month old can now be replaced the normal every day whining of a 14 month old.  Oh yes, the terrible two’s have hit our home early.  And yes Helen, I have multiple layers on our bed.  Multiple.  I had Joshua sleep with me the first 6 months of his life and with my leaking and his leaking, that became apparent very early that layers were going to be necessary. 

Things that are slightly funny now that we aren’t sick

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  Joshua running off with the toilet paper when I was in the trenches and needing it most.

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  Giving Joshua a bath to get the throw up off him and he starts running out the other end.

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  Joshua picking up the phone while I was at the thrown begging for mercy, and I don’t have Caller ID.  Whoever called, I hope they enjoyed it.

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  Going to the store to buy hospital pads, toilet paper, diapers and flushable wipes and the cashier asking me if it was cash or credit and I replied, I think I’m using enough trees here, let’s go credit.

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  Having Joshua in the rocking chair and feeling a warm liquid on my leg and praying that it was his and not mine.  I’ll let you guess which one.

So we survived a round of the nasty flu.  Our house may not and there are a few towels and pillows in the trash that we won’t talk about, but we survived.  Isn’t it fun when you are glad you can be assured of leaving your house for 10 minutes won’t endanger your sense of humility?

Come To My Barn Party, We Are Burning It Down

Remember last week when I didn’t feel top notch?  Yeah me too, vaguely.  My house went to shit over the weekend and then it took me a week to recuperate.  Well, if you like surprises(and I know you do) then here’s a great one.  The baby got the flu from daycare and has thrown up and had explosive diarrhea since Friday.  As have I.  Too much information?  Too late, you are already here.  I found the first um shall we say over used diaper Friday night.  When I came in the kitchen, there was a mysterious streak leading to my child. Oh how I wish I lived with someone at the point.  Because I would have played the ignorant puppy poop game.  You know, when you bring a new puppy home and he’s not trained yet, but you "pretend" you didn’t see his poop in the corner, hoping against hope the other person has the grace to pick it up.  But alas, living alone means if I wait for some one else to see it, it will just solidify.  And the fun hasn’t stopped there.  No no.  When I put him in bed with me because he had thrown up over every single sheet he has, he then has the explosives out the other end in my bed.  I enjoy laying down with a baby, getting him and I comfortable, turning on a movie and then finding poop running down my leg from him.  Yes, I do.  Don’t feel bad for me. I like running 20 loads of laundry before 7 am because the kid has messed everything up.  I relish the feeling of throwing up while cleaning my child’s throw up out of the carpet.  No sympathy needed here, really.  The rest of the house?  The state health inspector could come through tomorrow and ban me from having property again.  Burning it down and starting over will be easier at this point. I hear that’s how they get rid of the plague in the Mid Ages.  Let’s bring back some of that charm, shall we?

My Tenant

Go visit Chad this week.  Maybe I’m getting crabby, but he cracked me up.  And I like his header.  Did I mention he was funny?  Because he is.

It’s Like Watching The TV Without Cable

When you call your babysitter at 7:30 AM and ask her to take the baby the whole day and if she’s not interested in some extra money, why not the night too, something is wrong.  But what’s worse?  I was sitting on my pharmacist doorstep at 7:45, waiting for them to open.  Waiting for my sweet nectar of substance to come to me.  And when she pulled up, she took one look at me and I thought I was being shipped off to the luney farm.  Seriously people.  I don’t have the patience to Google for you, but Google going off of Lexapro, Zoloft and Topomax in one weekend.  I have went into rehab for heroin and this was very very eerie similar.  Too similar.  How did I not go crazy and drop kick the baby out the window?  Because he is honestly the only reason why I live and breath.  And I barely held on, but I did.  But don’t think he had a bath this weekend.  He had food.  He had his milk.  And fresh diapers.  Anything above that, not so much.  And I’m not going to feel bad about it or hide that fact from anyone. 

Back to the  pharmacist.  She looks at me and just knows that I’m not sitting there 15 minutes before she opens because I have that kind of time on my hands.  I’m there for a purpose.  She unlocks the door and guides me in.  She hasn’t even made a cup of coffee yet.  I had drank 3 pots by this time.  She asks my name and prints up what I need.  And when she finds out I have been off them for over 60 hours, I honestly thought her concern was going to pop out her eyeballs.  My pharmacy is a joined with the hospital.  She called my main doctor.

Long story short?  My doctor came over and gave me a shot of I don’t know what and let me sleep it off for a couple of hours in the ER.  It helped   It made my body and mind quit racing.  Which I so desperately wanted.  And then she sent me home with my refills and told me to rest for the next couple of days.  I have strict orders to take the baby to the babysitter for the whole day for this week and rest.  Because my body has just recovered from a break up of chemistry things I can’t describe. 

I’m fine.  The baby is fine.  Can someone come over and clean because it’s just getting gross.

PS and By The Way- A post is coming about my new tenant.  But go check him out.  He’s cool.  I like him.  He made me laugh.

When Good Friends Forget To Ask How Are You Doing

I’m always the supportive one with my friends.  You can call my phone 24/7 and I will answer and talk you thru whatever is going thru your heart and mind.  I will listen and not judge.  But we all have that friend who over dramatizes everything.  And never listens to you.  And if you have to listen to her gripe about how her husband just doesn’t pay enough attention to her during the day, and that’s why she feels the need to look for other people in her life and why she flirts with danger every time she goes out of the house, but it is never her fault because she’s the neglected house wife with too many duties and too much stress ONE MORE time you might dash her head in.  Because she hasn’t heard a word you have said for the whole conversation.  Like the fact that you have real problems.  The fact that you are drowning in debt and working 22 hours of the day and it is still not enough to pay the damn bills, and we aren’t talking broke like watering down the kool aid to make it stretch, we are talking about calling the electric company and crying to the manager that he can’t cut off your electricity when it’s 109 degrees outside and you need AC.  The fact that you forget to fill your prescription for Zoloft and it’s the weekend and can’t get it refilled and are already having panic attacks and have cried for two hours on the bathroom floor because the toilet paper wasn’t where you thought it was.  The fact that you are worried you might lose your mind if you don’t take Zoloft for 60 hours straight and you are the only one with the baby and you have to be sane but damn it this might be the time you finally snap and they cart you away in a straight jacket and you never return.  The fact that if you had a partner who helped remember everything that needed to be done you might not have forgotten your prescription.  The fact that you are already hearing voices and you didn’t realize other people didn’t hear voices till you were 28 years old and the guilt of not knowing how to deal with the voices better almost killed you because MY GOD if they could do it why  couldn’t you?  But then you found out other people didn’t have voices, only you but not when you take your medication.  And the fact that you will be on medication forever because when you quit, they come back.  But you don’t have your prescription this weekend is a definite problem.  You get frustrated with your friend when she moans about hiding the fact that she took $500 from her husband when you are thinking what $500 could do for you.  But you are the good friend and sit and listen and say "uh huh" because really, there is no break in the conversation.  I look put together, I have my make up on, my clothes are ironed.  I fake sanity very well.  But take a look on the inside, especially this weekend and you will find a massive Bermuda Triangle of problems that tend to get ignored because I don’t know how to tell people JUST SHUT THE HELL UP AND LISTEN TO ME FOR ONCE.  I need help.

I’m Ready For My Arranged Marriage From The Old Country, Thank You

Dating at 12 sucked.  Dating at 16 sucked.  Dating at 30 sucks.  I’m ready to be a mail order bride.  Here’s my ad:

Single, moderately attractive woman seeking single moderately breathing male.  No smokers, no drinkers, no gamblers.  Must work.  Anywhere.  Must like children.  Must be able to heat up own cup of coffee in the microwave without me writing out the directions.  Must be able to put down toilet seat when finished.  Must know where cleaners are located.  Here’s what you will get in return: I don’t drink, I only smoke 4 cigarettes a month in hiding, I take out the trash daily. I can’t offer an emotion but a daily dose of sarcasm is in order.  I only sleep 3 hours a night, so I promise not to disturb your nightly hibernation.  I forget to eat daily meals, but have crackers and snacks frequently.  If you need meals, please email me and I will adjust accordingly.  I also forget to write things down and will email myself things through out the day.  If you feel the need for daily communication, please write into my calendar and I will organize a conversation.  If this kind of oblivion sounds like your kind of relationship, please call my therapist, you need more work than I do.

My Renter of the Week

Please, go show some love to Jenn at Have a Great Rest of Your Day!  She’s a working mom(like yours truly) and blogging to stay sane. 

Want Something Different?

Ok, so I have become the Myspace freak like everyone else.  I filled out a survery, and since I’m narcissitic that way, I’m going to ask that you go over and read my answers.  Some are serious answers.  Some are not.  You’ll be able to tell.  So go please!!!

If You Find My Baby, Hold On Till I Get There, Mmmmm K?

You know how you are driving home, music cranking along, unwinding from the day, thinking of what to fix for supper.  You might be on the way to the babysitter’s, but instead, you drive on past, go home and walk in.  And that is when it hits you.  You have forgotten you precious baby at the babysitter.  You drove right by her house, pulled into your alley, walked into your house and only noticed that the thirty pound extension is missing because you didn’t have to trip over him to use the toilet.

But rest assured, I used the bathroom in peace while I still could.

Martyr, Only On The Outside

I face the same issue that every working mother faces.  Do I martyr myself till my child turns 18, leaves for college and I then pursue finding myself again?  Or do I simultaneously pursue my dream and raise my son, praying he won’t hate me for it when he’s old enough to start therapy?

I hadn’t had to face this question many times until today.  When a new coworker said off handedly that it must be hard to leave a baby at home with a babysitter.  And on the outside, I replied yes.  And it is hard on one level.  She’s not me and I want her to do everything like I do.  On the other level, it’s fabulous leaving him.  And doing my own thing, my own grown up thing.  Being a grown up, without a baby rubbing cheerios in my face, clothes and hair.  I couldn’t say what I really wanted to say.  That I got a part time job, partly to get away from my child.  To get away from being needed exclusively. 

I love my child.  But a small part of me was dying on the inside, being smothered with mothering duties.  Yet I am still afraid of saying that aloud for fear of the Betty Crocker club tying me up, giving me organic recipes and sending me home.  I hung up my pearls.  Why can’t I tell some one that to their face without fear of judgment?