So.

I gave up and went back to the doc--yet again--yesterday.  I saw the same PA who diagnosed my pneumonia almost 3 weeks ago.

I explained my symptoms: persistent, nasty, nagging, horrible cough that was keeping me up at night, making me cough so hard I would literally be sick, and the re-emergence of two troubling symptoms: a low-grade fever and back pain.

I panic about persistent back pain these days.  Mostly, ever since I got diagnosed with pneumonia in March of 2010 and discovered that my "pulled muscle" from what I thought was the stomach flu was really pleurisy: a painful inflammation of the protective pleura that surrounds the lungs, where the pneumonia had reached so deep into the lung (which lacks nerves) that the infection pushed against the pleura (which makes up for all the nerves the lungs don't have, and in spades).  That can be some severe pain, and I have absolutely ZERO desire to experience it again.  And since the back pain remained at the same general level throughout the day yesterday, and didn't unkink itself, I didn't think I could chalk it up to sleeping not-quite-right.

I was worried the pneumonia had reasserted itself.

Would not happen, the PA said.  "You've had enough antibiotics to kill a horse."  (If you're interested, that's 400mg of Avelox once a day for two full weeks.  Your new fact of the day.)

Yeahwell.  March 2010's pneumonia misadventures landed me in the hospital for six days (five of which were in the PCU, the ICU step-down unit) and on FOUR different antibiotics by the time all was said and done: Zithromax in a doubled course to finish out the prescription I'd been given two days before (pathetic though it was in its effects); IV Avelox, Vancomycin and Rocephin; and another two weeks of Avelox in pill form once I got off the IV stuff.

Don't mind me if I'm a bit paranoid.

He said I was almost to the point of needing steroids for the cough...almost.  Since I wasn't wheezing, I didn't need them.  However, he planned to aggressively treat the cough.  If I thought the cough syrup with codeine tasted bad, the new stuff he prescribed would taste worse.  He advised me to try to not take it more than the twice a day he wrote the script for, since it had Vicodin in it.  (Yee-haw.)  And then he put me on the same prescription Mom always gets for cough, Tessalon Pearls.

I realize I'm only one day into the new med treatment, but my back is even more sore today, and coughing tonight just rips through the muscles with screaming pain.

I don't like that at all.

I believe I'll be calling the doctor's office tomorrow and leaving a message for my PCP.

On the plus side, I managed to get through today, which has been my big goal, juuuuuuuuuust in case this gets worse and I need more medical help than just prescriptions.

Because, you see, today the twin Fries turned five.  This was a Big Deal.  Small Fry burst into our room this morning, fairly quivering with glee.  "Daddy, awre we five?  Is it our birfday?"  Happy shrieks abounded when Hubby confirmed that this was indeed their birthday.

The much-beloved Gramma and Boppa came out for a quick, abbreviated party (Boppa had NCCSE choir rehearsal to get to), and so we had cake and presents, Boppa bid us all a fond farewell, and then Gramma went out to dinner with us at a restaurant of the twins' choosing.  They chose a favorite spot, the GV Diner, and most of the waitresses there know us by sight and are just in love with the Fries.  Thus, they were very disappointed to find out about our reason for celebration only as we were leaving.

It's been a good day.

Medium and Small are five and loving it.

I can hardly believe they're five already.

I'll post pictures later, after I have a chance to catch my breath!

Saturday Morning

My dad related this conversation from Saturday morning...

Small Fry: What awre you doing?

Boppa: Getting ready to shave.

Small: Does dat huwrt?

Boppa: No, this is just shaving cream.

Small: Shaving cweem?

Boppa: Yep. See?  Look it’s green, but it turns white.  Isn’t that interesting?

Small: Yes. Dat’s inteh…westing.

Boppa: But it doesn’t hurt.  Sometimes I hurt myself with this (producing razor) if I’m not careful.  See the little blades?

Small: Sometimes I get huhwrt when I touch it.  I get a band-aid.

Boppa: Oh. Did you touch Uncle D’s?

Small: Yes.

Boppa: But I bet you were told not to.

Small: I haf to take my baby to da doctewr’s. [EXIT.]

I told Dad that I found his description of her sudden subject change and immediate exit hilarious, and he said that it happened exactly like that.  Small is the queen of verbal misdirection attempts when she thinks she'll get in trouble, so it didn't surprise me.

And, yes, she's been told not to touch razors.

Contemplations in Color

While we haven't yet closed on our house, we do have a key and have access to it so that we can start moving boxes over.  We won't officially take residence until after we close, but we can at least start clearing out the clutter of packed boxes from the house we're still renting.

The sellers are apparently quite fond of deep, rich reds (some of which border on maroon) and lighter greens.  Those colors are everywhere in this house.

Some of them, like the yellow walls and light green cupboards in the kitchen, I can live with for awhile.  Like, say, until my sister and brother-in-law come back to the States after the new year, and BIL needs work to do while they're here (anywhere from six weeks to three months).  He can come in and help us repaint the kitchen.

The girls' rooms are already perfectly painted for them.  Large Fry's room has two pale yellow walls, and the other two walls are painted like a blue sky with wispy white clouds and grass down near the floor.  That's perfect for her princess room.  The twins' room is done in shades of light pink and pale purple, with bees and flowers painted on the closet door.  Also perfect for the cheery pink Winnie-the-Pooh decor I have for their room.

Our room...it's a weird shade of slate green.  I think.  Weird.  And...well...to be perfectly honest...a weird ugly shade of green.  With a slightly lighter accent shade on the trim.

Yuuuuuuuck.

So now I have to decide...what sort of color do I want for my bedroom?

I'm thinking a nice cream color.  But that leaves me with a dilemma.  What kind of accent color to use for the trim?  I have no idea if we'll keep the same kind of color scheme that we have now, or if we'll change it, and...well...I just don't know!

Decisions, decisions....

Oh, Of Course.

It wouldn't be a holiday without a suddenly sick kid, right?

It could have been one of my cousin's kids, but this time around, we won the sick-kid lottery.

Small Fry woke a little after midnight last night, complaining that her left ear hurt.  Hubby got her back to sleep, but about twenty minutes later, she was awake again with ear pain.  I sent Hubby upstairs to see if Mom had any  children's acetaminophen or ibuprofen.  He couldn't find any, but Small didn't seem feverish, and by then, she had almost gotten back to sleep on my lap.  Hubby took her into the sofa bed with him while I settled into the recliner (I still have a nasty cough from my recent pneumonia, and so I couldn't sleep laying down on the sofa bed).

All that changed at 6 this morning, when Small woke up crying that she was going to throw up and I discovered she was burning up.  I ran upstairs for Mom's thermometer, and found that Small's fever was nearly 101.  Hubby had awakened me to help with Small's nausea and went back to sleep; I woke him then with the news of Small's fever and he went upstairs to again see if he could find something.  He apparently woke Mom, who found the children's fever reducer.

It was obvious that Small and I would not be going out to breakfast with the rest of the fam.

My poor baby.

I know she doesn't feel well.

I'm guessing we'll get to go to Urgent Care this afternoon.

Small is curled up on Boppa's recliner, with Boppa's fleecy leaf blanket, her piggy Pillow Pet, and a stainless steel just-in-case bowl.

I managed to get her to take some more medicine about an hour ago.  But she doesn't really want to do much of anything other than lay on the recliner and watch Disney's Beauty and the Beast.


Yep, lucked out on that one.

Gobble Gobble

We drove out to Gramma and Boppa's last night to spend the holiday with my family.

We have so much to be thankful for...

Great kids.

Extended family that we actually enjoy getting together with.

Modern medicine.

Even the coughing fit that woke me in the wee hours of the morning...which reminded me I'm still alive (although I was having my doubts).

Duckies and Pillow Pets and wonderful friends and kitties and a new house and missing teeth and piggies and sneakers and fun socks and memories and the list goes on.

Lord, for all that you have blessed us with, and for the blessings yet to come, we are truly thankful.

♫ Twenny-fowah-sebben, watchin' ovewr you! ♪

We've been trying to teach the kids that, when we're in conversation with other adults, they need to address us by name and ask, "Can I have your attention?" rather than chanting the desired adult's name ad nauseum until said adult responds.  (Usually with an aggravated, "What?!")

I told you that to tell you this story.


Hubby was telling me about his morning commute up to work and the twins' preschool today, and I laughed so hard I triggered a huge coughing fit (no doubt, not helped by my Sonic pumpkin pie milkshake *sob*)

The Fries are singing along with their Pandamania cd from this summer's VBS.  It's one of their favorite songs, "God is Watching Over You."

Medium Fry:  Daddy, God is watching over you!

Hubby:  I know that.

Medium:  How do you know?

Hubby:  God wants to protect us.

Medium:  God is watching over me?

Hubby:  Yes, He's watching over you and protecting you, too.

Medium: How do you know?

Hubby:  Well, because He protects you, that's probably why you came to live with us.  It was probably His idea.

Medium:  His idea?

Hubby:  Yeah.

Medium:  I wanna ask Him.

Hubby:  Well, go ahead.

Medium [loudly]:  God, can I have youwr attenshun?   ...  He said yes ...  God, was it your idea for me to come live wif Mommy and Daddy? ... He said yes ... Okay!  Thank you!  Amen!

Small Fry: I wanna pway!

She then proceeds to mumble, and so Hubby can't hear most of what she's saying.  However, as he pointed out, Small isn't talking to him.  He hears enough to recognize that Medium is helping her out as she prays.

Small Fry:  Amen!

Hubby  [now in line at the McD's drive thru]: I'm gonna pray now.

He prays for all three girls, that they'll have a good and fun day in school.  He prays for me, that I'll get all my payroll insanity finished (holiday weeks really mess up my schedule).  He closes with the standard "Amen," and then gets his food.

A quiet couple of minutes passes, in which Hubby is totally unsuspecting.

Small Fry:  Daddy?

Silly Hubby.

Hubby:  What?

Small [parentally]:  Do you need to say something?

Hubby [thinking]:  Say what?  [aloud]  I love you...

Small [cheerfully]:  I love you too.  [parentally again]  Do you need to say something else?

Hubby [thinking]:  Oh, this could be a long game...do I play along or just ask?  Um, just ask.  [aloud]  Well, what would you like me to tell you?

Small:  No, something you need to say to God!

Hubby:  What would you like me to tell God?

Small:  You fohwrgot to pway for the new house!

So Hubby dutifully prays about our new house, thanking God that we were able to get it.

Small:  Dat's bettewr.

And then, Hubby realizes...his prayer was just critiqued by an almost-five-year-old.

"Mommy! Lawrge Fwy has blood!"

This is not what you want to hear your almost-five-year-old shout from the toy room.  And it immediately grabs my attention.

"What do you mean, she has blood? Where?"  As Large Fry comes into the living room, I see she's holding a tissue near her face that's got several bright red spots.

"Probably her mouth," Hubby opines.  "I just told her to take that thing out of her mouth."

"What thing?"  I snagged the hand holding the tissue and pulled it down, which had the miraculous effect of opening her mouth...which was, indeed, the location of the blood.

"That bracelet."

Ah.  The rubber bracelet she'd gotten at school today for being a "pillar of character."  (Took some deciphering on my part to realize that's what she was saying when I first saw the bracelet about five minutes before.)

"She had it in her mouth, and I told her to get it out, and she just yanked it like this."  Hubby demonstrated.

I peer into Large's mouth, and sure enough...her yanking the bracelet out has yanked out an only slightly-wiggly tooth, right next to the one that came out a week ago.

"Was it even loose?" Hubby asked Large, as I'm trying to use the tissue (now pretty damp) to apply pressure and stop the bleeding.

Large nodded as best she could.

So...now we have another tooth gone--"I have nightmares about that," Hubby said--and we don't know where it is.

And we don't have any dollar coins, either.

But then, the Tooth Fairy doesn't come if you don't actually have the tooth, right?

Good Grief

Me: Who put water in the sugar bowl?


Small Fry: Not me.

Medium Fry:  I didn't do it.

Me: Large Fry, did you put water in the sugar bowl?

Small Fry: I didn't do it!

Large Fry:  Um, no....

Me (fixing gimlet eye on most likely suspect): Did you put water in the sugar bowl, Small?

Small: No!

Having decided I'm not going to get a straight answer, I dump the water-logged lump of sugar in the sink, along with the spoon from the sugar bowl.  Then I open up the pizza box to start dishing out dinner.

Small Fry: I just spit in it.

Me: You WHAT?


Small: I spit in it.

Me: Don't do that again!

*facepalm*

Ignorance is bliss.

Popoki, 8/07

This is my very old kitty, Po.

It's short for Popoki, which is something of a mouthful, and the literal Hawai'ian word for cat.

I tried to tell Hubby, when we first got her as a not-nearly-as-small-as-we-thought 8-week-old kitten, that we were not naming her that.  Po had other ideas, because it stuck, way better than any of the other name ideas we'd bounced off each other in the few days the not-so-wee beastie had been living with us.  As it turned out, it quite suited her.

Yep.  HER pillow.

In two months' time, Po will turn 14.  That's old.  How old?  Well, I mentioned before that she'll compute to being nearly as old as my mother-in-law.  (Forgive me, Mom.)  .Fourteen kitty years translates into roughly 72 human years.  Po is already older than both of my parents, and by that scale, she's outlived my father-in-law.  She's diabetic, too, so it's really saying something that she's been diabetic half her life and is still kicking enough that she keeps Koa mostly in line.

She's my baby, my first pet ever that didn't come in a tank and only had a lifespan of a month.

Medium does not slow her down.

I live in a state of denial that she is so old, that she's gotten slower, that her coat is showing the signs of age and less fastidiousness on Po's part, that she's not the hefty 20-pound, Do Not Mess With Me Ever cat that she was when we moved here, four and a half years ago.

The only time Po looks dainty.

Or the Do Not Mess With Me Ever Or Be Sweet To Me cat that she was back in Columbus, where we lived when we learned she was diabetic.  The vet and the tech (God bless 'em) looked at me funny when I dropped Po off that first day for blood glucose monitoring, to figure out Po's insulin dosage.

"Do not be sweet to my cat," I told them.  No, seriously.  "If you're nice to her, she'll see that as a sign of weakness and she'll walk all over you."  I'd seen it happen at least twice before.  Only the techs who wouldn't put up with her guff were the ones who earned her respect.  Po terrorized anyone who tried to be nice to her.

Still cute after all these years.

They did not believe me.

Enduring the love of the twins.

When I picked Po up at the end of the day, the tech admitted she didn't.  (I could tell even before I left.)  And she admitted I was right.  Apparently, the next day, Po was an absolute grouch, and they were grouchy back, and she stopped trying to terrorize them and settled down.  Why, yes, I know my own cat.

One of many indignities suffered.

After we moved here, I set up the kitties with a new vet and took Po in.  The tech told me that they would record Po's weight as 19 pounds, rather than the actual 19.9, because that way she wouldn't think she was going too far and tipping the scales over 20 pounds.

I laughed.  "She'd be proud of it!" I told the vet.

On patrol.

For all that Po was a beast, both in build and occasionally in bearing, I was never worried about how she would handle children.  She never struck without warning, and she rarely did more than warn.  She would put up with the most grabby little interlopers, because she wasn't going to give up her turf without a fight, dagnabbit!

Dr. Medium checks Po out.

When we'd leave her behind when we'd travel, I would simply remind my friends to enter the house with the understanding that everything from the shingles down was Po's, and they'd be fine.

She's been the reigning queen of all she surveys since the day we brought her home.

It saddens me that she probably won't hold the title much longer.

Christmas 2010.

Age has stopped creeping up on her and has started to take over.  She sometimes looks a little shaky when she gets up.  She's willing to snuggle and cuddle so much more these days.  This, from the cat we used to cuddle as punishment, because she couldn't stand it.

Tonight, she clambered slowly into my lap.

I can feel almost every vertebra along her spine.

Best fwiends.

I don't think we could do that when she was a kitten.  (Contrasted with Mika, whose spine we've always been able to feel.  Skinny little dude.)

NOT giving up her spot.

Po stood on my legs as she decided how she wanted to take over my lap, and I stroked my hand down her back.  As soon as I got past her ribs, I realized she wasn't just skinny...she was alarmingly skinny, and I could wrap my hand over her spine.

Duckie is Po's best fwiend too.

The last time I could do that was about 13 years ago.  She's been a stout thing for most of her life, and my hand has always slid without much curve along her back, all the way down to her tail.

Not now.

Po settled into my lap and began to purr.  I continued stroking her.

I could see loose folds of skin behind her front legs, just laying flat against my jeans.

The world is her bed.

My poor Popoki.

I've worried that this move will be too much for her.  That she won't have the reserves for one more change in location.

She doesn't seem to be in any pain, though; just the occasional stiffness from being in one position for too long.  She is still so tolerant of Medium's absolute adoration, of Large Fry's attempts to completely cover her with blankets, of Small Fry's tentative touches.

Po with a very young Large Fry, '07.

While Po might not be in pain yet, my heart breaks for what I know is coming.

I want to be ignorant for awhile longer.

I want to enjoy what time I have left with my kitty, without worrying about the specter of death that I know is lurking.

What's cookin'?

I want to prepare my children for the fact that their "best fwiend" isn't going to be around much longer, but I don't know how to define how long "much" is going to be, and I don't want them to prematurely grieve.  I don't know how to prepare them for something I'm nowhere near prepared for myself.

Also a Dr. Seuss fan.

It's a hollow consolation, to hold up her nine lives and look at all she's lived through.  Yes, she had the best life Hubby and I could possibly give her.

I don't know that nine lives are long enough for my heart, though.

"Mommy! Mommy!"

"My tooth came out!"

"I can wiggle it with my tongue!"

Large Fry has her first loose tooth!

A Photo Essay

While I'm being sick, amuse yourself with these pictures of Large Fry's newest friend.  She made her all by herself (with a little help from our tower fan).

Original work, while Fries napped.

Medium makes a few additions.

Now, with gloves!

The friend needs a friend: Medium's dog, Carla.

Oh, and a flower.  Gotta have a flower.

Still not quite...

Ah.  Perfect!

You know that feeling of impending doom?

Um, it was more spot-on than I anticipated.

I went to my doctor's walk-in clinic today because I'd been on Ceftin for four days and wasn't getting any better.

I wasn't worried about the flu, or pneumonia, because I'd been vaccinated a couple months back at a routine checkup.

Silly me.

With my convoluted medical history, I should know better!

Innyhoo, Hubby all but insisted that he and the twin Fries take me up to the doc's.  He would take them for breakfast while I got seen.  My not-better cough, my low-grade fever, my aching back...yeah, I needed to be seen.

Apparently, the rest of the world had the same idea, because the waiting room was pretty packed.  By the time I saw the PA, it was after 11a.  He asked about my symptoms and then listened low on my back, once on each side.

"Have you had a repeat chest x-ray since your pneumonia last year?" he asked, pulling out a form and filling it out.

"No...."

"Take this."  He handed me the form, and had me come with him.  He directed me down to x-ray, said I should have my x-rays done, and then come back to the walk-in waiting room and let them know I was back.  "No hurry," he commented.

Good thing.  There were a dozen people in there, already waiting.  It took an hour and a half before I actually saw the x-ray tech, who winced as I coughed (barked?).  Three pictures, then wait some more.

The nurse called me back about ten minutes after I got back up to the walk-in waiting room.  She put me in the same procedure room that my doctor had stuffed us all into last year, when I was squadded out for pneumonia.  I was really hoping to not have a repeat performance.

I was only half lucky.

I have pneumonia again!

He changed my antibiotic and gave me a prescription for some vile-tasting cough syrup with codeine, so I can sleep.

And my back pain?

Pleurisy.

Makes me think I'm 80 gazillion years old.

But at least I didn't need to be admitted.

Fever.

I have one.

My house is comfortable in ambient temp.

I am suddenly freezing and huddling under a blanket.

To quote Frank Burns... "If I had two fevers, I could give you change for a ten."  *maniacal laughter*

What's been going on around here?

Some sort of bug, that's what.

First, it gave the kids--and then me--a cold with a cough.

But noooooo, that wasn't enough.

And do you know how hard it is to not kiss your children when they come up to you, lips puckered and waiting?  Even if they're sick?

It's hard.

Then we went north a week and a half ago for Bro's wedding, since the Fries were all flower girls.

And the temperatures were about twenty degrees less than what they were (usually) here.  And it snowed.

And so their coughs got worse.  And my mother asked when I was going to take them in to see a doctor.

And then we had Halloween and trick-or-treating.  Which was, by the way, about ten degrees colder than it was the last three years.  If not more.

Everybody stayed home from school the next day.  I tried (mostly unsuccessfully) to keep the Fries on the couch/loveseat/armchair and quiet throughout the day, while Hubby went to work.  When he got home, we all went over to the urgent care in town.

Large Fry has a sinus infection.

Medium Fry has an ear infection.

Small Fry has bronchitis.

And, as it turns out, Boppa is sick, too.

He has just as much trouble saying no to kisses as I do.

Large Fry went back to school on Thursday.

The twins went back to preschool on Friday.

I collapsed.

I spent most of Friday resting.  Saturday, I folded the laundry I'd managed to do earlier throughout the week.

Sunday, Hubby went to church.

The rest of us girls stayed home.  The Fries were still coughing rather hard...and I was feeling lousy too.  A sense of impending doom was hanging over my head.

I was so exhausted that when Hubby called after second service, he had to ask if I was even up.  Up?  Yes.  Downstairs?  Yes.  Not sure I was still going to be awake when he got home?  Yes.

Hubby ordered in pizza, and we shuttled everyone upstairs for naps after we ate.  Hubby laid down on our bed and patted the spot next to him.  "Come take a nap," he said.

I was torn.  I wanted desperately to sleep.  But I also knew I had two choices for medical intervention before payroll started on Monday, the urgent care here (open 'til 9 p.m.) or the walk-in clinic in S-burg at my doc's office (open from 1p-5p only on Sundays).  If I went to the urgent care here, I'd have a shot at getting to Target to fill my prescription before their pharmacy closed.

Yes, I was that sure I was going to be walking out of wherever with a prescription for antibiotics.

I explained my dilemma to Hubby, who agreed that I should go if I felt that awful.

There was no one else in the waiting room at the urgent care when I got there, and, I noted with amusement, the same doctor who had seen the girls on Tuesday was on duty again today.

Guess who I saw?

She walked into the exam room and introduced herself.  "I know," I said.  "I was just here Tuesday with my three girls."

She remembered me then.

I had plenty brewing.

Chest congestion, but no wheezing (thankfully).

Eardrums bulging from fluid behind them, but no infection (yet).

Sinus pressure and congestion.

I'm a poster child for impending seasonal illnesses.

I love this doctor.  She listened to me, acknowledged that I knew my body and my sinusitis patterns, and asked me what worked best and what I couldn't take.  She prescribed an antibiotic, which they even had on hand, which meant one less stop between me and bed.

"I won't give you all the information," she said wryly.  "I just gave it all to you on Tuesday anyway."  I let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-cough.

I went home, climbed in bed, and proceeded to not move any more than I had to for the next two days.  I felt so horrible yesterday that I only came downstairs when Large Fry got home from school, and I only stayed down long enough for Hubby to get home with the twins.

I feel marginally better today, but I'm still feeling so yuck that I'm not sure I can handle the twins all day tomorrow and then Large Fry too, coming home two hours early.

I can't wait to move and be only about six minutes from the church.

Imagination is a Wonderful Thing

This morning, Medium Fry wandered into the living room from the toy room, holding Hubby's old Fedora.

It's a bit battered.

It's been plunked onto so many heads (Fries, large bears, cats) that it doesn't always keep the standard crease in the top.

"Uncle, I can't make it go in!" Medium complained.

Hubby held out his hand, and Medium slapped the hat into his palm.

Hubby fiddled with it for a minute, forcing the crease back in and smoothing it out.  Then he handed it back to Medium Fry.

"Tankoo!" she said happily, plopping the hat back on her head and skipping back to the toy room.  "I'm Pewrry the Platypus!"

On a totally different subject....

Today I lost a friend I've never met.

I was surprised to learn today that William the Coroner had died on Sunday, when I looked at the "In memoriam" post on another blog that I follow.  Sure, I was expecting to see a post memorializing someone the blogger was close to, but never imagined that it was someone I "knew."

William was, by all that I'd read, a good man: single, but loved his students, his cats, his job.  He was mentor, teacher, coroner, final voice for those who've been silenced, and friend.  I enjoyed reading his blog, even going back and reading through the archives.

I will miss his posts, his wit, his small presence in my life.

Rest well, my friend.

Conversations of the Evening

We're sitting in the van, eating Sonic for dinner, after picking up the kids' prescriptions (Large Fry: sinus infection; Medium Fry: ear infection; Small Fry: bronchitis).

Hubby: Small Fry, how many chickens did you eat?

Small Fry:  Two!

Hubby [suspiciously]: You ate two chickens?

Small Fry:  No.

Hubby: How many did you eat?

Small:  None.

Hubby [knowingly]: How many tater tots did you eat?

Small: Lots!


Then...


Small:  I love you, Daddy!

Hubby: I love you, too.

Small: I love you, Mamma!

Me: I love you, too.

Small: And you'll nevewr stop loving me?

Me: Never, ever stop.

Small: Daddy, you'll never stop?

Hubby:  ♫ Never gonna give you up.... ♪


Me: ♪♫ Never gonna let you down ♫

Hubby: ♪♪ Never gonna run around and desert you ♫

Me: ♫♪ Never gonna say goodbye  ♪

Hubby: ♫ Never gonna make you cry ♫

Me: ♪ Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you  ♫♪

[pause]

Me: We just Rick-rolled our kids.

Hubby:  Probably won't be the last time.


And...


Me [checking email on my phone]: Clearly, my mother has not checked Facebook.

Hubby: She ask about the kids' coughs?

Me: Yeah.

Hubby:  Just give her the link.  She should have to find out on Facebook, just like everybody else!

Me [laughing uproariously]: I should do that!


So I did....  *giggle*

GENTLY!

For the last three and a half years, that's what we've said.  Gently!  Treat the kitties gently!

In response to that...

• Medium Fry, at 18 months, tossed Airman's ten-week-old kitten down the stairs.  (The kitten was fine.  Kittens that age are almost made of rubber.)
• Medium Fry sat on Popoki, when she was just barely three.
• Each of them has deliberately tried to touch Keiki at the base of her spine, by her tail.  (Which Keiki hates.)
• Po has been dressed up repeatedly.
• Large and Medium have both gotten in Koa's face and blabbered, which resulted in Koa showing her displeasure for them invading her personal space.

Mind you, our kitties are not spring chickens.  Pa'ani is the youngest, and even he's a "senior" now, at age 7.  Popoki, the oldest, is almost 14 and diabetic.  Keiki is 13, Mika is 12, and Koa & Minou are both 10.  

Yeah.

Not young.

When Po hits 14, she'll be almost as old as my mother-in-law.

The Fries are all home sick from school today with nasty coughs, but they're starting to feel better, and Small Fry is now very insistent that she's nawt sick!

Trying to keep them on the couch and out of trouble has been almost impossible.

While I was threatening Large Fry with dire consequences if she doesn't eat her half-sandwich, Small Fry escaped to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, I hear this:

"I want Popo!  I want Popo!"

I turned around in my chair and gasped.

Small Fry was pulling poor Popoki towards her...by the tail.

It's to Po's credit that she didn't retaliate.

"Don't do that!" I shrieked.  Small Fry let go.  "Don't ever do that!"  I pointed to the loveseat, where Small Fry has ostensibly been taking it easy today.

My poor cat.

Parental Punishment

Medium Fry has been sent to the corner.

She is mad.  She threw a crayon across the room, and I sent her to the corner.  She said no.  I asked if she wanted something worse than simply being sent to the corner.  She said no.

Very well then.

Go to the corner, says I.

She proceeded to scream, cry, bite her own hand, and hit herself.

Okay then.  Tantrum, eh?  Well, that requires sterner discipline.

Still crying, Medium sulks to the corner.  And the rant begins.

"I don't love you!"

"I'm very sorry to hear that," I said.  "I still love you, very, very much."

"I love Uncle more than you!  I'm not gonna be youwr best fwiend!"

Allrighty then.

"I'm gonna go away!  I'm taking Uncle!  An' KeKe!  An' Po!  The rest can stay hewre!"


Thankfully, she was still in the corner, and she wasn't able to see me try to smother a smile and a chuckle.  It's not the first time that she's shouted that she doesn't love me anymore, or that she loves Uncle more than me.  However, it's the first time she's imperiously announced that she's running away, and taking Hubby and two of the cats with her.