Dear Liza...

There's a hole in my wall, dear Liza, dear Liza.

There's a hole in my wall, dear Liza, a hole.

Water from outlets is BAD.

With what shall I fix it, dear Liza, dear Liza?

With what shall I fix it, dear Liza, with what?

Siiiiiiiigh.

Myron Lives!

Well, sort of.

I think maybe it's Myron's ghost's cousin, once removed.

Otherwise known as adhesions and scar tissue built up under the skin.

I was at OT today, and decided my progress was decidedly pathetic. (My therapist said, when I mentioned it to her, that it has nothing to do so much with strength as it did the scar tissue getting in the way of the ligaments and tendons trying to do their jobs. So I'm not pathetic, but it sure looks that way.)

I'm holding a 2-lb. dumbbell.

Yes, a whole two pounds.

I'm doing my extension/flexion exercises. Extension pulls the hand and wrist up; flexion drops it down.

Behold, it's progress!

No, really. Progress.

Honest.

I can now get about 51 degrees of extension without the dumbbell, which is awesome, compared to the 11 degrees I started with. And that's without all the heat therapy and the stretching and the exercises and everything that gets me another 8 or 9 degrees of motion.

With the dumbbell is another story. I'm still working on building up my hand strength. Two pounds is a lot when you consider the amount of trauma Myron has put me through.

By comparison, here's what I can do with my left hand:

Yeah, you can see why it's so easy to get discouraged. And I should theoretically have another 5-10 degrees of motion beyond that in my dominant hand. Which I don't (obviously).

My therapist says that part of my problem is that my ligaments are naturally so loose that any tightness feels even worse than it is, because I'm so used to being freakishly limber. In my hands, anyway.

I have to constantly remind myself that I could not even pick this up ten weeks ago.

But this terrible-looking splint (beautifully designed on pink hibiscus magic stuff by my occupational therapist), what my therapist calls aggressive treatment, is helping me get more and more movement back.

But yes, it hurts.

The Big Picture

One of the presents we got for the kids for Christmas was a game for the whole family: Big Picture Apples to Apples. I thought it would be easier for the kids to be able to play, if they were using pictures as opposed to words. It also has a hidden benefit for Large, which I didn't realize when I bought it, but I digress.

The Green Apple cards still have words on them, so they've been sounding out some new words as we've played. But the Red Apple cards are all pictures, some of them quite hilarious all on their own.

School got canceled for tomorrow, because of the ridiculously cold weather, so when the kids begged to play it again tonight after dinner, we said yes.

So there we are, seated around the dining room table, and Medium Fry is the judge.

"Drop-Dead Gorgeous," she reads, after we help her a little with pronunciation.

I momentarily debate among my picture cards, then smirk, and show this one to Hubby, who's sitting to my left:

He guffaws, and tells me I just have to play it.

So I do.

The Fries giggled for five minutes straight, and kept looking back through the pile of Red Apple cards just to find it so they could laugh some more. (No, I didn't win. Some lady in a pretty, red, strapless dress did. Good thing Medium was the judge.)

The truly hilarious thing was that Medium actually got the joke.

I really think I should've won.

A few minutes later, Small Fry is the judge, and her Green Apple card says "Squishy." I played a very poor card, and lobbied for the fact that my picture had a lady with "squishy" big hair, and lost anyway.

We're all drawing replacement Red Apple cards when Small leans over and grabs a handful of Hubby's chest. "Squishy!"

This sent everyone into fits of giggles, except Hubby, who looked mildly shocked and then sort of long-suffering. Small, continuing to chortle, grabbed Hubby's arm, earlobe, and goatee, proclaiming them all, "Squishy!"

I begged him to let me get a picture of Small's first squishy grab as a re-do, but he declined. (Loudly. And repeatedly.)

And then came the hand when nobody had anything good to play. Hubby was the judge.

He just sort of stared at the cards.

Yeah, what would you have picked?

Vignettes from the day...

~ 10:08 a.m ~

"Why do we have to take Daddy to work?"

"Because I have a dentist appointment."


~ 10:29 a.m. ~

"Mommy, where are we going again?"

"For the third time...we're going to my dentist's office. I have an appointment!"


~ 10:35 a.m. ~

"Is he nice?" (Large Fry)

"Yes, I think so. I really like him. That's why he's still my dentist."

"Then I'll hug him." (Large Fry)


~ 10:58 a.m. ~

"Do I have to go in there?" (Large Fry)

"No! For at least the fourth time this morning, I have an appointment!!!"


~ 11:17 a.m. ~

"Can we get a candy?"

"No. First of all, this is a dentist's office. Second, this was my appointment. You don't get a reward if it's not your appointment."


~ 11:35 a.m. ~

Medium has her Bible, and she's sounding out the names of the books.

"Zee-pee-nee..."

"Zephaniah."

"Mommy?" Large Fry pipes up. "Is it Palms or Salms?"

"Salms. The P is silent."

"Is it Proverbs or Roverbs?"

"Proverbs."


~ 11:40 a.m. ~

I demand that everybody stop talking and squabbling and mock-fighting and nearly throwing things in the back of the van, because I just got diverted off SR 316 (the way I know how to get home) and onto another for no explicable reason. But there were flares and cars with flashing lights and I wasn't allowed to go the way I know.

And if you know me at all, you know that I am seriously directionally challenged, I could get lost inside a paper bag if you closed up the end of it, and whatever direction I'm facing is north.

Thankfully, the van has a compass display, and I know what direction I generally need to be headed in to get home.

Doubly thankfully, I figured out months ago how to recalibrate the compass when it got stuck in Auntie J-mode and every direction was north.

I am exceptionally pleased to report that I not only got myself back on SR 316 without a whole lot of trouble, but I also didn't need to pull over into a driveway or parking lot or skimpy shoulder of the road and start Waze to figure out how to get home.


~ 11:52 a.m. ~

"We need to stop for food on the way home. I'm hungry." (Large Fry)


~3:52 p.m. ~

"Why do we need socks?"

"Because we have to go get Daddy."

"Why do we have to go get him?"

"Because we do."


~ 4:03 p.m. ~

"So, how was your day?"

I gave Hubby a sidelong look that clarified just how long a day it had been.

"That good, huh?"

Yeah. Dentist appointment, squabbling kids, kids who didn't want to do chores, lots of driving, lots of cold...lots of achy.


~ 6:47 p.m. ~

We'd decided to go out to eat. However, little burg that we live in, lots of places close early on holidays. Our first two choices were closed, or nearly so.

Large Fry: "Are we going to go eat somewhere?"

"Yes."

"Where are we going to go eat?"

"I don't know."

"Are we gonna go eat somewhere?"

"YES!"

We'd settled on Denny's when the kids started chanting "Denny's! Denny's Denny's!"


~ 8:00 p.m. ~

Large Fry: "You know, Daddy, if you take us to get ice cream, you can pick first!"

I glanced at the dash display on the van as I sat shivering in my seat, pulling the seat belt buckle across me with mitten-clad fingers. Twenty-five freaking degrees.  "No!"

"So, no Sonic then?" Hubby asks me quietly.

"I don't care." (I really didn't.) I shivered some more. "Freaks and sadists," I grumbled. "Ice cream when it's sub-freezing out. Insanity."

Hubby was grinning as I looked over at him.

"Holy cow, I'm old!" I shouted.

My father was kind enough not to laugh at me when I texted him the story.


~ 8:50 p.m. ~

I had the realization that, less than ten minutes after midnight tonight, Hubby and I will have been together 20 years.

Wow.

Life Around Here: A Photo Essay

"I didn't sign up for this!" ~Hubby

"Medium, all you're doing is pushing her knee in my face!" ~Hubby
"I know. I like doing that." ~Medium

"No knees! That's not fair!" ~Hubby
"Yes, it is." ~Large

"I wish I had boys, so I could roughhouse with them." ~Hubby
"Then we'll get them." ~Large

It has begun.

3:56 p.m. The phone rings.

I was coming down the stairs when it rang, so I turned right around and headed back up to my office. Hubby and I both have cell phones, and those are the best ways to reach us, but we keep a home phone number for a couple of reasons. One, the kids need to memorize our phone number. Two, it gives us a place to collect messages.

And it lets us screen calls...which we usually do.

However, this time it wasn't a robo-call. I didn't recognize the name on the caller ID display, but I picked up anyway. "Hello?"

"Hello," a small voice said. "This is Brooke. Medium Fry is in my class, and she gave me her phone number. I was calling to see if she's there."

"She is. Just a minute, honey." I took the phone to Medium. "Medium, Brooke is on the phone for you."

"Brooke!" Medium's face lit up. "Hi, Brooke!" she said when I handed her the phone.

Small was very put out that she wasn't the one getting a phone call.

Large complained that she wanted to talk to Brooke, too, despite not knowing the little girl.

And all I could think of when I hung up the phone after the five-minute call was that my phone line is going to get a lot busier in the future.

First Thing

Medium Fry: Mommy? Two things. I don't have any pants, and Large went into your office.

I groaned inwardly and got up, head still hurting from last night's killer headache. I could hear Large and Small bickering in the kitchen. I got down there and looked around. Medium is now wearing pants. Small, however, is not.

Me [to Large, who isn't wearing her glasses…again]: What did you forget?

Large: Glasses!

Me [to Medium]: I thought you didn't have any pants.

Medium: I found some in my bin.

Me [to Large, who's just reached the stairs]: Why were you in my office?

Large: I was trying to get Pa'ani out.

Me: He's allowed in there.

Medium: She was trying to feed him a brown leaf!

I'd caught him gnoshing on one the other day. Dingbat cat. I sighed.

Me: Large, were you trying to feed him a brown leaf?

Large [cheerfully]: Yes!

Me [knowing I'm going to regret this]: Why were you trying to feed him a leaf?

Large: Because there's no more cat food.

Not true; I'd bought a new bag the other day, and the kids were with me; Hubby probably hadn't gotten it poured into the plastic bin.

Large: And that way he could eat something.

At a hefty 17 pounds, Pa'ani can miss a meal and be fine. However, he chokes on leaves...as I know from the other night.

Me: There's no more food in the bowls?

Large: Nope!

Me: We have more food. He'll be fine. Please don't feed him leaves. Wait!

I handed her a pair of pants.

Me: Take these down to Small Fry.

Large: Okay!