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!

Overheard at Gramma and Poppa's

Hubby: Gracious goodness.

Large Fry: Goodness gracious.

Hubby: Gracious goodness.

Large (mildly annoyed): Goodness gracious!

Hubby: Gracious goodness.

Large (irritated): It's "Goodness gracious"! Stop arguing!

Medium Fry: Gracious goodness.

Hubby: [laughing uproariously]

I am not a fan...

Normally, I hate reality tv. I really loathe the music competition shows. I spent two years in a semi-professional a cappella college choir. I know music. I can't stand hearing terrible musicians just for the sake of ratings. During my accident recuperation four years ago, I suffered through more than enough episodes of American Idol to last me a lifetime. (Sorry, Dad. I still don't like it.)

Hubby, however, loves watching the clips from shows like America's Got Talent and Britain's Got Talent and other shows like them.

Mitzy came over tonight, intending to do some housecleaning for us, but decided that she'd worked long enough today and we sat and watched tv together while I finished up an editing job and she just relaxed. (It's nice when you have friends you can just be with, without having to constantly talk, but I digress.) After Mitzy left, I popped in to see Hubby, who was in the den, before going back up to the living room to check in with another client.

He said, "You've got to see this."

I knelt on the floor next to the couch and watched as he started this clip.

"Do they suck? Please tell me they don't suck."

"Just watch."

I'm telling you the same thing.

Just watch.




Curious how this all got started?

Check this out:




Yeah.

Quote of the Morning

Overheard while I was finishing getting ready for church and the Fries were all down in the kitchen:

"I'm gonna tell Mama on you forever!" ~Small Fry, to Large Fry

Tattling, after all, is an Olympic sport in this house.

All three are medalists. 

Dickens' Days

Don't ask me what Dickens' Days is. Are. Something.

I have yet to find out. Too much else has been going on.

What I do know is that today is our little burg's Dickens Days' parade.

The PTO at the Fries' elementary school decided to do a float for the parade, and invited all the students who won "Character Counts" awards in September and October to participate and ride on the float.

Medium won in her class in October.

The theme is "A Charlie Brown Christmas," so they want the students to dress warmly and wear winter gear.

Now, I just so happened to purchase these little guys during my last foray to Kohl's. They were going to be Christmas presents for the Fries.

Given the float's theme...Christmas is coming a bit early, and they'll get these tonight, so that Medium and Woodstock can ride on the float together.

Update: Dickens' Days apparently kick off our holiday season here, and includes the town tree-lighting.

Explanations by Small Fry

"Mommy? Did you know that this—" Small waved her partially-eaten apple at me, "—has apple juice in it?"

I'm trying to read the last part of the book for my ladies' study group tonight.  "Mm-hmm."

"That means we're eating something that already has the drink in it! We're eating our drink!"

Quote of the Night

"That's the strangest version of 'Hey, Jude' I think I've ever heard." ~Hubby

This, ladies and gents, is what our esteemed Light Classical Music Choice channel deems as "light classical":

Oh, yes. They have a whole album. And you can hear this acoustical delight for yourselves.




Enjoy.

Incidentally, Beatles-covering cellists were followed by this:

And I thought Buddy Greene playing the "William Tell Overture" on the harmonica was impressive.




The whole thing is worth a listen, but "William Tell" starts at about 2:35.

Overheard

Small [laying on Hubby]: I wuv you.

Hubby: You wuv me, huh?

Small: I wuv you. L-o-v-e. Wuv.

Agog

Hubby is doing the 30-Hour Famine with the youth group teens, so it's just me and the Fries today.

I decided we'd have a movie/jammie day, and Large Fry was magnanimous enough to let me pick the first movie.

No one in my family will be surprised when I tell you I chose White Christmas. I love that movie, and it's been cold, and a few flurries here and there, and I love snow, and I love that movie, and...well, I really don't need a reason to pick it.

We're at the very end now, where Bob Wallace and Phil Davis are back in uniform again for the opening salute to Gen. Tom Waverly. They've just rushed back up on stage and are singing, "Gee, I Wish I Was Back in the Army."

Small Fry: Is that person in the Army now?

Me: No, Bob and Phil were in the Army. They're just singing about it.

Small: No, the one that we know.

I gave her very confused look.

Small: The one with really curly hair, like Medium.

I had to sit and think for a good thirty seconds, because I honestly had no idea who she was talking about at first.

Me: You mean Mommy XSIL?

Small: Yeah.

Me: Yes, she's in the Army now.

Small: Does she live in the Army?

Me: Yes, she lives on an Army base.

Small: Where's her house?

Me [getting exasperated]: On the base.

About then, Large walked into the den.

Large: Mommy, is Mommy XSIL dead?

Me [managing not to be startled, but just barely]: Nooo.

Large: Oh. I thought she was dead already.

"You love us, an' Momma loves us."

Hubby smiled down at Small, who was snuggled against him as she made that pronouncement. "Yep, you're my four favorite girls."

"Fouwr?" Small looked at Hubby quizzically. She looked at all of us on the couch. "Me an' Lawrge an' Medium an' Momma!"

"That's right."

"It should be five," Medium proclaimed imperiously.

It was Hubby's turn to look quizzical.

"Your mom, too," Medium reminded him.

Hubby chuckled. "Yes, my mom, too."

Deeper Magic from Before the Dawn of Time

Hubby has been reading C.S. Lewis's The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe to the Fries.

Last time, he read the Stone Table scene, and ended up having to explain to the girls exactly what had just happened to Aslan.

I was going to come downstairs and just putter around, but I knew what chapter would be read tonight, and I decided I'd rather go listen instead as Hubby read.

In my opinion, it's one of the most glorious passages Lewis penned in this book. The despair of two young girls is so eloquently drawn, and yet, even though I know what is coming, the hidden depths of hope shimmer beneath the grief...

"Ugh!" said Susan from the other side of the Table. "How beastly! There are horrid little mice crawling over him. Go away, you little beasts."  And she raised her hand to frighten them away.

"Wait!" said Lucy, who had been looking at them more closely still. "Can you see what they're doing?"

Both girls bent down and stared.

"I do believe—" said Susan. "But how queer! They're nibbling away at the cords!"

... And at last, one by one, the ropes were all gnawed through. 

I sat in our big oversized arm chair and closed my eyes. I could see it all in my mind, in exquisite detail.

About then, the Weasel jumped up on my lap and then to the back of the chair behind me.

And he started purring.

Now, if you've never heard Pa'ani purr...well, there's a reason why we say he's got the motor of an Edsel. He's loud. He can't keep a rhythm. It's like he hyperventilates as he purrs. (It amazes me that he doesn't pass out.) Did I mention he's loud? He can be heard across a moderately noisy room if he's got a mind to do it.

"What does it mean? Is it more magic?"

"Yes!" said a great voice behind their backs. "It is more magic."

The Weasel's purring intensified as tears stung the back of my eyes. Oh, this is so the best part of this story. The absolute best.

"It means," said Aslan, "that though the Witch knew the Deep Magic, there is a magic deeper still which she did not know. Her knowledge goes back only to the dawn of time. But if she could have looked a little further back, into the stillness and the darkness before Time dawned, she would have read there a different incantation. She would have known that when a willing victim who had committed no treachery was killed in a traitor's stead, the Table would crack and Death itself would start working backward..."

I could not stop the tears leaking out. I leaned back and let Pa'ani's purr rumble through my ears, imagining the upcoming roar in the smaller beast behind me as his purr seemed to crescendo with the story.

...and whether it was more like playing with a thunderstorm or playing with a kitten Lucy could never make up her mind.

Oh, man.

"...I feel I am going to roar. You had better put your fingers in your ears."

Dear Clive Staples, that would have been a most excellent spot for an exclamation point.

Worth a Thousand Words

"Here, you suck that one and I'll suck this one."

Genetics will out, kid.

Hubby: What was that that you said about this family, Medium?

Medium: Dis family is weird.

Hubby: Do you know who the weirdest one is?

From the den, I hear my name being muttered and I walk back to the half-wall that separates the dining room from the hall.

Hubby (looking suspiciously guilty): You're getting me in trouble!

Me (to Medium): Did Daddy say I'm the weirdest one in the family?

Medium: You're the weirdest one!

Hubby: Ah, the informant. You're getting me in trouble!

Small (chirping): Mommy's da weirdest ooooone! Mommy's da weiwrdest ooooone!

Hubby: You're getting me in trouble!

Medium: Mommy? Are you cwrying?

Me (gasping): No!

Hubby: She's just laughing.

Yeah, and trying not to pee my pants at the hilarity of the conversation.

"I didn't eat a Smuhwrf!"

Bad Choices

Small Fry: Tickewling is a bad choice, Daddy!

Hubby: Nooo, tickling isn't a bad choice. Mommy, is tickling a bad choice?

Me: Nooo!

Hubby: Now...

Medium zerberts Hubby on the arm.

Hubby: ...zerberting Daddy's arm is a bad choice.

Me: Nooo!

Yeah, I'm evil that way.

Bedtime Confessional, Ep. 604

*cue theme music*

Tonight! On Bedtime Confessional...

*Medium escapes unscathed...

*Small is caught in a lie...

*and Large is discovered to be a criminal mastermind.


I went upstairs to see what the bedtime-readiness status was of the Fries.

I found:

~Small scrubbing the bathroom counter with her nearly-new toothbrush. Using liquid soap.

~Small had escaped the Berlin Wall and gone into our bedroom to find pajamas (the Fries are not allowed to go in our room because they will a) play, b) steal things from our room, c) make messes that they do not clean up, and d) wreak havoc upon our belongings), rather than getting some from her own room.

~Small had gotten out her generic play-doh (RED, of course) to play with in her room, and the container was still empty. Never a good sign. (Play-doh is forbidden in bedrooms or anywhere with carpet for good reason.) Upon inquiry, the play-doh was found taking a bath in a small plastic tub designed for small plastic dolls...and hidden under Small's bed. I took the whole mess and put it on the bathroom counter to deal with later.

~After being fetched twice during the night regarding the mysteriously darkened nightlight in the twins' room (switched off the first time; bulb permanently disabled the second time), I decided I needed to question both Medium and Small as to who was getting out of bed during the night just to turn the light off. I knew it couldn't be Medium; she's the one who complained about it being "too dahwrk." Small insisted upon her innocence. About then, Hubby came home, and took over as Chief Inquisitor. (He's better at it than I am.) When Small continues to profess innocence, Hubby removes her to our bedroom for further questioning.

~Being a (justifiably) suspicious sort, and since this is not my first rodeo, I decided it would behoove me to check under Small's bed for further contraband. (Mind you, I'm only three weeks post-op and still tethered to an IV bag 24/7, which is thankfully stashed in a zippered pouch that I can carry around. No pole required.) Hellloooo there, small pumpkin acquired during the twins' first grade field trip to the pumpkin farm. Hello again, used nighttime pull-up that got hidden under the bed because Small didn't want to take it downstairs to throw it away. I tossed the pull-up out into the room behind me and went to lift the pumpkin by the stem...which gave way, and slimy pumpkin seeds dropped on the carpeting. Now, due to my medical misadventures and Hubby having to be everything around here, pumpkin-carving (a favorite Halloween activity around here) got the boot this year. We just couldn't do it. Trick-or-treating was last week as it was, and Hubby is still in danger of burning his end at both candles. We recycled costumes from last year because we didn't have the time, inclination, or ability to do anything different. But I digress...the pumpkin. I hauled it out from under the bed, grabbing George (my IV pack) and retreating out from under the bed. I pulled off the pumpkin's "hat," returned the seeds to from whence they came (mostly), and checked: yup, only a lobotomy incision. Innards were left alone. The surgeon was clearly a hack. I stormed down the hall and shoved the pumpkin in Small's face. "Did you do this?" I growled. Small nodded hesitantly. Hubby fetched the pumpkin from my hands, determined that fascial surgery had been attempted, and leveled his gaze on Small. "Well?" Small met his gaze (barely). Her lip quivered. "Large did it fuwrst!" Hubby sighed. "I can believe that, because you don't have the dexterity for this yet."

~I went to Large's room. "Where's your pumpkin?" She scurried to get it. Her pumpkin had been carefully tied up (triple-knotted) in an old Wallyworld plastic bag. I untied it and confirmed yet more amateur surgery. I marched both her and skull-jacked gourd into the bedroom to face Hubby.


After relating events to my mother-in-law, who's visiting with us this week to play chauffeur for me and to help out (I still have very little wrist strength and low flexion), I went back upstairs to make sure one of the sharp knives was not being squirreled away in a Fry bedroom (like my stapler was last week). Both Small and Large were focused on me when Hubby facepalmed after relating that, no, there was no sharp knife lurking about upstairs (I still feel the urge to move my knifeblock to Mars), because operations had been conducted with a table knife. (I was still chuckling about that when I got back downstairs some minutes later and related it to my mother-in-law.) Hubby was concluding business with Small, sent Large to her room to await further discussion on other matters, and he advised me to go have a listen to this:



The subtitles make it funnier, honestly. (You may have to watch it directly on YouTube. It's worth it.)

I'm dying by the time the subtitles read, "Non lo so!"

And then I watched this, and realized—between the content of both—why my sadistic parents are always smiling when they come to my house.



Stinkers.

G.I. Jane

The school nurse called the other day about Large Fry's hearing/vision screening. Given our earlier communications about Large's vision, I had not been surprised that Large flunked the vision screening. The hearing thing was a surprise, but the nurse had said that Large possessed a treasure trove of ear wax, which was surely causing the hearing issues.

Not too long ago, I spotted something at Walton's Market and More that I decided I needed to have: a home otoscope. Small has had tubes in her ears, and I figured having this (and the handy included chart showing what an infected middle ear looks like) would be beneficial for more reasons than just the tubes. That way, I can check first before rushing off to the clinic for ear issues.

So. The nurse had recommended some drops to help eliminate the wax buildup in Large's ears. I chose to treat that. Remembering that my other two were little wax machines (I had to test out my new toy when I got it home, you know), I checked their ears as well. Small sees her ENT next week, so I wasn't going to mess around with that. Medium came over and sat next to me on the couch.

I thought her pants looked a little snug, so I pulled back on her waistband to check the size of her jeans.

"Medium," I exclaimed, "where are your panties?"

"I fohwrgot to put them on."

Yes, ladies and gents, my six-year-old girl has been running around all day today...

...commando.

Quote of the Night

"You dihwrty wrat!"

Just Now

Hubby [collapsed on the hall floor, with Medium rubbing his shoulders and Small standing on his back]: It's walk on my back, not dance on my back!

Small giggled and jumped down...over Hubby's head.

Medium leaned against Hubby's belly.

Hubby: Oh, you don't want to do that!

Medium: What?

Hubby [pointing his index finger at Small]: Pull my finger.

Small grabbed his finger and tugged.

Hubby: Oh, wait, I lost it.

Today, I have...

...stripped the sheets off my bed.

...kicked those sheets downstairs to be laundered.

...been ferried to the specialist's for yet another follow-up appointment. (Just leaking synovial fluid, not anything that screams infection.)

...done countless stretches of the ligaments and tendons over the knuckles in my right hand, to loosen them up. Same with stretches of the wrist. Holding for 20 seconds is brutal, but just stretching and relaxing the joint tension doesn't do as much good.

...eaten lunch left-handed.

...operated a computer mouse left-handed.

...started typing again (and my pinky finger does not like stretching to reach the furthest keys).

...put the fitted sheet on the bed.

Aren't you proud?

Small Fry's Christmas List

In which Medium has a mad.

I, having overdone it today, am currently resting in bed. Medium snivels, sniffs, and sulks into the master bath, plastic bags in hand. It appears she's drawn the chore of emptying the small trash cans.

Me: What's wrong?

Medium: Nothing!

Me: Why are you crying?

Medium: I jus' tol' you. Nothing!

I almost pointed out that she was talking to the Queen of Nothing, but managed to refrain.

Me: Then why are you mad?

Medium: I don't wanna talk about it. It's only about me. It doesn't have to do with anyone else!

Me (texting Hubby): Okay.

Silence ensues for a moment as Medium struggles with the trash can.

Medium: Damn!

Me: What did you say?

Medium (with the same frustration as before): Damn!

Me: We don't use that word. Have you been hearing kids at school say that?

Medium: No.

Me: Well, we don't say that here.

Medium: I forgot!

Riiiiiiight.

Me: Where have you been hearing it?

Medium: Stawr Twek.

Now I know she hasn't really forgotten, because we had this same conversation several months ago, almost verbatim, and that was about the time Hubby stopped letting the kids watch ST:TNG with him. Medium's memory rivals an elephant's.

Me: Ah. Don't use it again.

And I left it at that. There was no need to take it further.

The plastic grocery bags rustled.

Medium: It's dese twrash cans dat awre the pwroblem!

Me: What?

Medium: It's my chohwres! I don't wanna hafta do chohwres! I don't wanna gwrow up! I just wanna die!

Me (mildly): Then thank goodness you're only six.

Medium: No, it's not dat!

Me: Not what?

Medium: What you just said!

Me: You're only six, thank goodness?

Medium: It's not thank goodness! I don't like chohwres! An' then when I'm done...

Gramma (from the hallway): I have a project I need little girls to help with!

Medium: ...I'm gonna go to my room!

Me: If you want to go to your room and sulk when you're done rather than help Gramma, that's your decision.

Hubby walked in after Medium left and his text response chimed in.

Hubby: She wanted to go play with Gramma rather than do her one chore.

By show of hands, who here was not surprised that Medium popped back into the bedroom a few minutes later, all smiles?

Medium: Momma, how many twrash cans do we haff in the house?

While I thought (12, if you're interested), Medium took the opportunity to ambush love on Mika. She grabbed him and squeezed him in a tight but gentle body hug.

Medium: You'wre just so cute, yes, you awre! You're sooooo soft!

She looked at me.

Medium: I love Mika.

And that, ladies and gents, is about how it is here... All. The. Time.

Awwwww Factor 10

I came home from the hospital yesterday, and I've reclaimed the oversized chair in the living room as my recuperation station.

I was contemplating how close I am to the next dose of pain meds when Small Fry popped into the living room. "Hi, Mama!"

I smiled at her.

"Wewre you sleeping?"

I shook my head.

"Just tiyewrd?"

"Yeah."

"Do you know what I'm gonna do at bedtime tonight? I'm gonna pway fowr you to feel bettewr!"

My heart went all gooshy.

"An' I'm gonna pway fohwr you now, befowre I go back outside to play. Is that okay?" She placed her little hand over mine.

Oh, of course!

"Help Mama's hand..."

"Say 'Dear God,' so he knows you're talking to him," I whispered.

"Deawr God, please help Mama's hand to feel all bettewr so she doesn't huhwrt anymore. Amen." She gave my hand a little squeeze.

I smiled. "Thank you, honey."

"I love you!" she chirped, and scooted outside to play.

Hospital Excursion, Day 2

DObservations of the day, brought to you by Meredith Hospital, some 40ish miles south by southeast of Casa De Fries.

*Yes, I said day 2. I was in too much pain yesterday to even think about it.

*In the interest of full partial disclosure, I spent over 7 hours in the semi-local ER on Sunday, trying to convince them that, legitimately, Vicodin 5/325 was barely taking the edge off the severity of the pain, I thought the Myronectomy site was infected, and nearly cried when I realized I'd been sent home with a script for only ten Percocet pills...which do not work as well as Vicodin for me. Initial blood work showed there was the possibility of infection. To help support and provide pain relief, they clamped a half-cast splint over the most painfully swollen part of my hand and wrapped me up like a mummy. I was sent home with orders to see my surgeon on Monday.

*Which, of course, I knew was one of his OR days. I must have sounded pitiful enough and the words "ER visit due to severe pain [which I still have], and they told me to get an appointment with Dr. M today" were enough to convince them to squeeze me in between surgeries.

*I won't tell you how much I cried on the way down here. Or while in the waiting room. Or in the exam room.

*Dr. M asked what I'd done since Tuesday to cause such swelling. He thought it was most probably cellulitis, and I had the options of coming back daily to be checked out...or being admitted to the local hospital. You know which I chose.

*Wisely, as it turned out. There was nasty goop leaking out this morning. Back to the OR! That makes this my fourth surgical procedure this year.

*Betadine makes my thumb look like it's been playing in a dark pumpkin.

*Hot flashes that decry their name by lasting for nearly half an hour are not fun when experienced in post-anesthesia care. But surprising the PAC nurses was fun.

*I know Hubby was worried about me and was thus cracking jokes about me to cover for it. In another five years, I'll probably think it was sweet. I was cranky after I got back to my room.

*I have a room in the baby wing! This means I also have a private room. Hubby fell in love with the recliner in here. He wants one for Father's Day.

*The food is surprisingly palatable.

*I've needed much less pain medicine post-op than I needed pre-op.

*I've determined that people fall into three camps when it comes to ice: More Ice Than Drink, Happy Medium, and Away From Me You Frozen Cubes. Hubby and I dwell in different parts of the spectrum of the third group. My mother is on the high end of the first. And, apparently, so is my nurse tonight. She brought me some pills, and I asked for more ginger ale to swallow them with. When I tried to suck on the straw in order to do that very thing, I had the worst time getting enough liquid to swallow. It was like trying to swallow pills with a thick slushy. So much ice. So little ginger ale. I was afraid I wasn't going to get them down.

*All of the machines here are so musical! The IV chirps like a teeny, tiny baby cricket. The BP chimes a very pretty chord. It's so fun. It might be due to the ward I'm on, but I don't care. I love it.

*The Fries do not like this separation from Mommy. And I'll be here until Friday. Ish.

*Dr. M says there was definitely cellulitis in there, which was responding to treatment. The oozy yuck was definitely staph of some kind, and he's bringing in an infectious disease specialist. Dr. M. Ali...the same infectious disease specialist called in to consult on my nasty pneumonia three and a half years ago.

After School Confessional, Ep. 248

On today's episode of After School Confessional, we had confessions related to the following:

~An opened bag of mini-marshmallows, which was not supposed to have been opened, but was nonetheless open, and admittedly done so without parental permission.

~The hijacking of an Ernest H. Shepard drawings-inspired Tigger (by Gund), who was liberated from the floor of Mommy's office. Because, clearly, he didn't belong there. (Of course not. He belongs up on the desk.)

~The delivery of a missive from a child's teacher, regarding homework uncompleted and not turned in, and the disciplinary action taken, requiring a parental signature. Upon reading, it was determined that Mommy had been lied to the afternoon before, when she inquired about said assignment and was told that no, the child was not required to complete it. Disciplinary proceedings are pending.

~There was tattling on the youngest sibling, perpetuated by the middle sibling, and delivered by the oldest sibling. Youngest's offense seems to have been a gaffe, and Youngest was cleared. Parental supposition is that the middle child wasn't so much looking to protect her sister, but rather to rat her out, and to give herself an alibi of sorts by asking her older sister to do the tattling. New rule established: no asking one sibling to tattle on the other.

Stay tuned for our next episode!

Be sure to ask your cable provider to carry After School Confessional if it isn't in your current lineup!

The Queen of Nothing

Tonight, as I was herding the Fries up to bed, I realized none of them had folded their socks, put them away, and rehung their sock bags like I'd asked them to earlier this afternoon. Furthermore,  there was a pair of dirty socks on my kitchen counter. All three Fries had worn identical socks today, so there was no way to know whose they were. They had to belong to either Large or Medium, both of whom had whipped off their socks within minutes of getting home from school. Small had still been wearing hers when I'd sent them up to change.

Both Medium and Large were sure they'd put their dirty socks away. No problem, saith I. We'll just go upstairs and look. The kids raced ahead of me while I carried all my stuff upstairs, since I planned to go to bed right after tucking in the kids. The driving and grocery shopping and grocery putting-away I did last night was too much. It had been four hours since my last Vicodin, and I was seriously hurting.

Medium followed me up the stairs after coming down to tell me the errant socks in the kitchen were in fact hers. I looked over my shoulder. "Did you leave your socks downstairs in the kitchen?"

Her frown turned mutinous. "Yes." Medium scowled.

"Go get them!" I shouted, exasperated.

Medium fetched her socks. I dumped my stuff on my bed, then began to distribute sock bags. "Fold these and put them away," I barked at Large. She scrambled to do what I said. I went to the twins' room next and repeated myself. Small Fry happily complied, while Medium grumbled and glared.

"This is the most terrible day," Medium grouched after a pair of socks refused to do her bidding.

"Why? Because I'm making you fold your socks?"

"No."

"Because I'm mad?"

"Yes."

"Do you know why I'm mad?"

Her lips curled in an impressive pout. "I don't wanna say."

Uh-oh. "Why not?"

"'Cause you'll get mad again."

Well, that just confirms that I need to know. I pressed further.

"I'm just a bad kid."

"No," I said gently but firmly. "You are not a bad kid. You just made some bad choices tonight: you didn't fold your socks and put them away when I told you to, and you didn't take care of your dirty socks, either."

The grumpiness was firmly lodged in place. Oh, please, God, let Hubby come home soon. I can't even call him and tell him to come home NOW because he left his phone here.

"I fink Daddy is home," Small Fry chirped, looking out the window.  "Yep, he's home!"

Oh, hallelujah. Hubby handles Medium better when she's in a snit.

He prayed with Large Fry while I went looking for the temporal thermometer I was sure I'd stuck in my pocket to bring upstairs.  Small has been home sick for the last two days, sporting a triple-digit fever and massively swollen tonsils. I found it down on the table downstairs and trudged back up. Hubby was in the bathroom, getting Medium a dose of cough medicine.  "Small says you didn't give her any medicine."

"I wanted to check her temp first." I gave him the dosage and then brought the Tylenol in to Small.

Hubby followed and propped his arms against the loft bed rails, studying Medium. "So. What's going on tonight?"

"Nuffin'." The word was mumbled around her thumb as she deliberately faced the wall.

Hubby chuckled. "Oh, I know better than that. What's wrong?"

"Nuffin'."

"You know something? Your mommy used to be the Queen of Nothing. I'd ask what was wrong, because I knew there was something, and she'd say, 'Nothing.' But I knew that was wrong, so I would keep asking her until she told me."

"I don' b'leeve you."

"Ask her." Hubby turned to me. "Mommy, were you the Queen of Nothing?"

"Oh, yes."

"See? She would say 'nothing' when it was something. But she's learned that I want to know. And you know what? She doesn't do it as much anymore. So...what's wrong? What happened tonight?"

There was a momentary pause.

"Ask da Queen of Nothing," Medium mumbled without belligerence.

Didn't we just do this?

"My toofbrush went krrrrght and it came out!" (For the record, Medium lost the tooth below tonight's on Friday night.)

Post-Myronectomy

This is just a quick post to let you all know I'm recovering nicely from my Myronectomy.

However, I am vividly reminded that bone pain and tissue pain are very different. I tried scaling back my pain meds to just the OTC stuff today, after overworking my poor hand yesterday, and I'll admit it was a dumb move. Yes, both the overuse and the OTC pain pills.

Of course, forgetting when I took my last dose of pain meds is also dumb.

I'm blaming the Vicodin.

Innyhoo, there were no complications to the surgery. Myron hadn't caused any additional problems to the ligaments running over him or the joint beneath him. At least, that's what Hubby says the surgeon told him after the procedure. I didn't actually see Dr. M. after surgery.  I spent about an hour in the recovery room, got to eat some graham cookies (yum), and they sent me home with a prescription for Vicodin.  Yay, good drugs!

Mom was baking a cake when we got home. (My house smelled SO yummy.) She'd come out since we weren't sure if Hubby and I would be home before the kids got out of school. As it turned out, we got home about 45 minutes before school got out. I waited until the kids got home before I went up to bed to rest.

The twins were ecstatic to see me.  Large Fry? Not so much. She refused to even look at me. She wouldn't talk to me. She was mad. Mom finally got it out of her: Mommy was supposed to still be at the doctor's. I wasn't supposed to be home! Large had apparently been looking forward to having time just with Gramma, and I foiled that by having a quick procedure and being home early.

So, I went upstairs and snoozed until Hubby came up and asked about dinner. He was kind enough to bring it upstairs. Mom brought me a slice of the peanut butter bundt cake that she made. I slept between Vicodin doses.

Mika takes his job seriously, albeit sleepily.

And my feline nurse hovered worriedly. He even tried to block me from going downstairs when Mom left after helping me tuck the Fries in bed. Mika hasn't been far from me since, although he doesn't hover nearly as closely as he did the first couple of days.

My wrist is growling severely at me, and reminding me it's been too long since I've taken any pain meds.

Innyhoo, I'm feeling better, which is why I'm clearly able to do too much and pay for it later, and I see the surgeon for my follow-up on Tuesday.

Mika just hopped on my lap. I think he's telling me it's time for bed. And I agree.

Priceless

Since Mom and Hubby have birthdays six days apart, and we wouldn't be able to get together closer to Hubby's birthday, she and Dad came out for church today to celebrate both birthdays in one swell foop.

Large Fry, due to a previous indiscretion, is required to sit right next to me in church, and not with her friends.

I am horrible, I know.

However, today it wasn't so bad because Large Fry got to sit between Mommy and Gramma, so all was right with her world.  She snuggled into Gramma and looked generally delighted that today she would get to celebrate the birthdays of two of her favoritest people in the world: Gramma and Daddy.

Well, Daddy was on the platform, still leading worship, when Large got especially gooshy-feeling in the heart.  She had Gramma's arm wrapped around her, but that was no longer enough.

She grabbed for my hand, and at first tried to wrap it around her shoulders, too. She quickly discovered that wouldn't work.

So she stacked our hands together.

Mom made a frantic gesture to Dad, who (after almost 45 years of marriage) promptly decodes her message and pulls out his cell phone.

Large grabbed our hands again, to get them just right on her lap.

And Dad captured this:

Three generations.

Yeah. There are no words.

And if you can't tell, Large has both of her hands surrounding mine and Mom's.  It's a hand sandwich: Large, me, Mom, and Large again.

Further Misadventures of Myron

Okay, so, Myron being named as a migrant is something of a misnomer...

Myron came into being as I said, during the accident in July of 2009.  I was mistaken as to his point of origination, however.

Myron is technically a bone spur, born of an avulsion fracture of the triquetrum bone (bone C) that occurred in the accident...and got totally missed.  Never having been put back into the proper place, the chipped-off bone (that'd be Myron) remained where it was, floating above where it belonged, and the natural regrowth of new bone that happens after a fracture ultimately tethered Myron to the triquetrum from whence he came.

So, Myron extends out from the triquetrum bone, right under the ligaments and tendons, who are now quite cranky about his presence.  Four years of rasping against Myron during wrist motion was more than enough.

Myron does not have long to live.

Surgery is scheduled for Monday, just before noon.  It should be a relatively simple procedure, and my surgeon will look at the ligaments that have been irritated by Myron, and check the joint beneath to make sure it's okay.

I had my preop appointment today, and I'm good to go.

Dr. M says that I should feel a lot better once I'm past the surgery and healed up.

I can't wait.

You just keep that attitude, sweetheart.

One afternoon last week, as I was walking the Fries home from school, a whole passel of shirtless teenage boys ran past.

There must have been twenty of them or so.

Cross-country, no doubt.

"Yuuuuuuck!" Medium proclaimed, averting her eyes from the runners.  "That's so gross!  I never want to see THAT again!"

Now if we can just keep her thinking that for the next thirteen or fourteen years...

Myron Update

I saw the hand specialist again on Wednesday.

I reported that I had had some pain relief due to the cortisone shot, but it was not necessarily significant, and moving my wrist the wrong way (I have to keep the brace on to protect it, but loose so that it doesn't aggravate Myron) will cause flare-ups of pain.  And the relief I felt from the constant pain, at the height of its effectiveness, lasted only about a week.

"Well," Dr. M. said, "that much tells me that I got the cortisone in the right place."  He tapped his fingers together.  "That leaves us with two options.  Option one, live with it.  Option two, remove it."

Option one is untenable.  I can't function like this.

"I'm gonna have to go with option two."

"Okay then.  We'll come down here and get you set up.  I will want to see you before the surgery, just to listen to your heart and lungs."

He said that surgery will be either next week or the week after, but since no one has called to schedule it, I'm guessing it probably won't be next week.  He said he usually operates on Mondays and Wednesdays.  And I was told that the surgery center (right next door to Dr. M.'s office) where I'll have the procedure had some flooding issues last week and all of the surgeries this past week had to be canceled as a result.

So, at some point in the next two weeks, I'll be having a Myron-ectomy.

Feet on the Ground

Awhile back, I got an email from my crazy Aunt Pat (who will be honored to be featured as such here).  Crazy in this case is a very good thing.  Her completely offbeat sense of humor and delight in choosing the perfect silly gifts are just two of the things I love about her.

In her email, she explained that she had plaster casts of her feet.

Would I be interested in having them for the Fries, who could use them as sidewalk chalk?

Okay, we just had to have these.  Somehow, they are just better than Easter-egg shaped chalk.

So I emailed her back that we'd love to have her plaster feet, and the kids would really enjoy being able to use them.  Yes, we sure do allow them to scribble all over the patio, driveway, and sidewalk with chalk.  It washes away when it rains.  What's not to love about sidewalk chalk?

Aunt Pat emailed back to say that she would send them back with her sister to deliver to my mom, after my other aunt was there to visit.  I brought them home with us when we were out at my folks' for Labor Day.

Medium was the first to attempt using one of the feet to draw outside.

And she wanted me to be sure to send the pictures of her efforts to Aunt Pat:

Foot chalk requires a two-handed approach.

Form suffers when the chalk is bigger than both your hands.

Medium does know how to spell the important words.

Such long legs.

This sentence is incomplete without a heart.

"I need to draw a heart here, Mommy!"

"Take a picture and send it to Auntie Pat!"

Her Daddy's Girl

When the Fries get home from school in the afternoon, I make sure they get a snack.  It helps their brains wake back up, and helps them be less grouchy with each other (and me).

This morning, Medium asked, "Mommy? When we get home today, can I have a snack?"

"Of course, honey."

"I know just what I'm going to have!"

"What's that?"

"Peanut Butter Spoons!"

I had to shove my eyes back in my head real quick.  "What?  No!  You can't have Peanut Butter Spoons."

"Can I have a snack with peanut butter then?"

"Yes, you can.  Just not Peanut Butter Spoons."

"Okay.  I looooove peanut butter!"

On the one hand, all I can think of is this scene:



On the other, she's her daddy's girl, all right.

He apparently told her that he used to have Peanut Butter Spoons for snack after school when he was little.

Thanks, hon.  Thanks ever so much.

Parental Differences

Today's earlier post elicited responses that demonstrate the difference between my parents, whom I love.

First, I heard from Mom:

One night among many good ones.  I know it doesn't help the tired feeling today.  But you -- and they -- have created memories.

Then, I heard from Dad:

LOL.  Literally. 

Hee.

What a night.

11:45 p.m. ~ Large Fry wandered into the den, complaining that she had red bumps all over her tummy. Despite the fact that I know she's had the Varicella vaccine, my first thought was chicken pox, because I know that doesn't always fully protect against the illness. And it's only the second day of school. Awesome. She comes over to me and lifts her nightgown. Sure enough, she has red bumps. Hives. "Did you put on any lotion today?" She shook her head. "Anything else?" "Well, I was itchy, and so I put on some lotion." "Large! I asked you if you put on lotion! What lotion did you use?" She thought hard. "Go get the lotion you used." She skipped off and returned a couple minutes later with a bottle: White Citrus lotion by Bath and Body Works. Oooookay. Another one bites the dust; Medium is already allergic to perfumed lotions. I gave her some allergy medicine,took her upstairs, washed her off, and had her change her nightgown,  and got her back into bed. "But I want to sleep in your room." Oh, no. "No, you need to sleep in your own bed. I'm not even in there right now." I turned on her music, turned off her light, and said goodnight.

2 a.m. ~ Middle-of-the-night constitutional. I was awake enough to hear one of the twins get up to do the same thing. Their bedroom door opened...and closed. Thirty seconds later...open, and close. This repeated three more times before I finally peeked down the hall to see what was going on. Medium stood there, and as soon as she saw me, the explanation burst forth. "Mommy, Pa'ani is in ouwr wroom! I make him go out, but he keeps coming in. Fouwr times!" Ahhh. "I'll be right there." I finished up, washed my hands, and walked down the hall to evict the cat. Medium probably hadn't closed the door well enough to make it latch, and the 17-pound beastie had just barged in. I hefted him out, closed the door, turned on their music again, and said goodnight. When I left, I made sure the door latched.

6:45 a.m. ~ "Mommy?" I opened my eyes and peered blearily at Medium. "My nose is bleeding and it won't stop." I grimaced as I rolled out of bed. "Did you stick your finger up your nose?" She nodded. I spent five minutes in the bathroom, stopping the bleeding, and sent her back to bed. Since I was up, I might as well...and before I'm done, she's back. "It's bleeding again." I checked. Nope. Back to bed.

7:50 a.m. ~ Large Fry materializes by my side of the bed. "Mommy? There's blood on the floor of the Mickey Mouse bathroom." Groan. "Can you just wipe it up?" She goes to try, and reports back that it's stuck. "Okay, I'll take care of it." I wait until Hubby's alarm runs through the first snooze cycle, and once again get out of bed. Everything hurts this morning. As I walked down the hall to deal with the blood on the floor, I see Medium and Large coming out of my office...still in their jammies. "What are you doing?! Get dressed!" (If you're curious,  they were hunting Pa'ani, who likes to hide in my office, so they could lavish him with affection.) I grabbed a disinfectant wipe and scrubbed the nickel-sized blood droplet off the floor while noticing something else. "Who went potty but didn't flush?" The most likely culprit came in and flushed. As I'm staggering down the hall to the stairs so I can go pack lunches, Medium hollered, "Mommy, there's blood all over my Pillow Pet, too!" Yeah, I'm not surprised.  "I'll try to wash it today." Oh, look. It rained overnight.  That explains the aches.

8:45 a.m. ~ The Fries are all at school. Hallelujah.

Things I've Been Asked in the Last 15 Minutes

"Why is Sleeping Beauty asleep?"

"Why is she unconscious?"

"What's unconscious?"

"They didn't want her to die?"

"Who's Meriweather?"

"Do you know about sleepwalking?"

"Do you sleepwalk?"

"Do I sleepwalk?" (Large Fry, who has a few times.)

"Do I?"  (Medium, who hasn't.)

"Do I?"  (Small, who also hasn't.)

"Do you know anyone who does sleepwalking?"

"Why do people sleepwalk?"

"Why are they putting everyone to sleep?"


A thousand bonus points to whoever can tell me what movie we're watching.

Oh, the drama!

It's not even 10 a.m. and the first squabble of the day has required my mediation.

Large Fry complained that Medium Fry had "tricked" her by saying that the "Go, Diego, Go!" game cartridge was in her Leapster, when it wasn't. It was in Medium's.

It took several minutes of questioning and reminders that "I don't know" is not an acceptable answer (especially from Medium, who forgets nothing) before I got the whole truth and understood the chain of events.

Large had been surprised to find that the cartridge in her Leapster yesterday was not there this morning. That would be because I put both away last night. Medium found her Leapster in the living room, with the Diego cartridge in it, but told Large that the Diego cartridge must be in her Leapster.

"Give me your Leapster," I said to Medium. She handed it over, and I tossed the cartridge to Large. I gave Medium a stern look. "You're grounded from your Leapster today."

Large scampered off, and Medium burst into tears. "Now I'll never be able to play my Leapster again!"

"No, you just can't play it today."

"Then tomowrrow I'm gonna put water in it and ruin it and I don't want you to buy me another one, ever!"

That got a threat of severe punishment.  That's what had killed her last Leapster.

"Then I'm gwounded fowrevewr!"

"No, just for today."

"Now I'm wreally mad!"

"Why are you mad?"

"Because you won't say I'm gwounded fowrevewr!"

"Because you're not. You're grounded today."

"But I want to be gwounded fowrevewr! I'm going to my wroom!"

I think she may have a career in the theater.

Myron

It occurred to me, as I was writing the last post, that I have not explained Myron.

As you know, I've been having some wrist issues, possibly related to the car accident I was in four years ago, possibly not.

X-rays and an MRI were inconclusive.

I waited weeks for the hand specialist to finally say he'd see me.  It took over a month between the referral and the call for me to schedule an appointment, and another week after that before I could be seen.

My appointment was last week on Wednesday.  I had the CD with my MRI scans on it with me, but none of the previous x-rays.  (Because I never had them, you see.)

I'd managed to forget the PIP exhaustion letter that my old insurance company had faxed to me.  Oops.  Thankfully, I'd called the adjuster from my cell phone and still had the number in the log, and they were able to fax another copy directly to my specialist's office.  Never mind that I didn't think this wrist issue, with its swelling along the outside of the wrist, along the pinky side of my hand, had anything to do with the dual break in my ulna from four years ago.  Just in case it was related, the office needed that PIP exhaustion form.

I have a love/hate relationship with insurance companies.  But I digress.

Dr. M came in, and I explained my symptoms, onset, and pain levels.  He asked about x-rays from prior to the MRI.  I said I didn't have those.  He sent me for x-rays right then, because he really needed to see those.

I did not enjoy the x-rays.  Holding my hand at a right angle to the table HURT.  Laying it nearly flat for the next view was marginally better.

I sat and waited in the exam room for another ten minutes for Dr. M. to come back.

And we have an answer.

He snapped the x-rays onto the wall lightbox.  "There's the old break here," he said, pointing to the healed break on the ulna.  "And there's an avulsion fracture."

The night before my appointment, I had been going through the paperwork they'd mailed me, hoping I'd remembered all of my major medical/surgical/hospitalization events.  So I made a list on my tablet (I love Wunderlist).  Being my mother's daughter, this sent me hunting through Wikipedia and searching through Google to find the right terms for my ankle surgery.

This led to me learning that a medical "reduction," in terms of fractures, simply means putting the bones back together the way they're supposed to.

I had a vague recollection of the twenty-letter term used for the type of injury my ankle sustained, and how they fixed it.  Ah-ha!  Yeah, that's it.  A bimalleolar fracture.  (And yes, how they fixed it is exactly how the article says such a fracture is treated, and the pictures are very similar to my own x-rays, except that I had a single screw in each side.)

In the process of finding all that out, I read about different types of bone fractures: linear (a break parallel to the bone's long axis); transverse (a break at a right angle to the bone's long axis), oblique (a break at a diagonal to the bone's long axis); open (compound), in which there's other wounds along with the fracture; closed (simple), where the skin remains intact over the break; complete (the break goes all the way through); incomplete (the break only extends part of the way through the bone); spiral (at least part of the bone has twisted due to the fracture); comminuted (the bone is broken into several pieces); and avulsion (where a piece of bone is broken off from the main bone).

So, when Dr. M told me I had an avulsion fracture, I knew exactly what he was talking about.  And the bimalleolar fracture in my ankle was really a pair of avulsion fractures.

That I had one in my wrist was news.

Not only that, it had been missed four years ago, and the piece of bone that was chipped off had never healed back into the ulna, from whence it came.  It was completely severed from the bone, and never did the twain meet again.  It was a result of the accident.

Dr. M drew a small circle around the spot on the x-ray, which previously didn't really show up (apparently) when the radiologist viewed it.  He explained that the small chunk of bone had traveled from the side of my wrist, where it had broken in the accident, up along the back of my hand, so that it now rested above the eight bones of the carpus but beneath the ligaments and tendons that control the wrist's movement.

He palpated the area of swelling on the side of my hand.  That was uncomfortable.  Then he gently pressed around the back of my hand and wrist.  I yelped loudly.  Yep, he was right on the money.  That spot brought serious pain, where the swelling was merely discomfort by comparison.  The ligaments and tendons were probably fed up with scraping over that piece of bone for, oh, close to four years, and thus, my wrist was swollen and in pain.

He asked why my previous orthopedist hadn't given me a cortisone injection.  I said that Dr. W didn't think it would be worth it.  Dr. M shook his head.

Dr. M opted to try a cortisone shot.  I agreed, liking this guy even more the longer I talked with him.  He asked if I needed to lay down, or if I would be okay sitting up for this.  Given everything in my health history now, I figured I could handle this.  "I'll be fine sitting."

He chuckled.  "Usually it's the men who have to lay down."

"Oh, really?"

"Oh, yeah.  Eight to one, the men will faint before women."  We both laughed.  "A bit of a pinch here."  I watched the needle flex as he moved it around and winced repeatedly.  "Sorry.  I'm trying to give you good coverage all the way around."

"It's okay."  I can be pretty stoic about needles, but watching that sucker bend was really very odd.

"I'm not looking at giving you a cortisone shot every month," he said.  "Either this works or it doesn't.  Come back in 2–3 weeks, and if it still hurts, or if your symptoms have gone away and come back, we'll discuss removing it."

So...that's where I am, waiting once again.  But this time I have an appointment!  I was told it would take 3-4 days for the cortisone to really take effect, and a week or so for it to reach full strength.

By Wednesday night of last week, I had decided that my little traveling bone needed a name.  My friend Her Total Awesomeness has names for her medical additions.  (And, despite her warnings about me staging things so that I pull ahead in the Interesting Health Dilemmas Sweepstakes, she did say that only I could manage to have a migrating bone.)  The idea amused me.

I needed amusement.

And so...Myron the Migrant is my traveling chip of bone.

Things I must tell my children tomorrow...

...without totally losing my cool.

• Thank you, Large and Medium, for voluntarily cleaning "the kitty room" (the utility room where the litter boxes are kept).  It did need to be cleaned up.
• Moving the half-bath trash can into the kitty room was probably smart, to keep it close as you worked.
• However, my frantic search for that trash can, when I needed it, was not appreciated.
• Our toilet paper is supposed to be "the ideal balance of softness and strength," but I'm quite sure its strength properties were designed for personal means.
• Toilet paper is not an acceptable cleaning rag.  Not for floors, anyway.
• Plastering toilet paper to the bottom of the sink bowl to get it wet (so it can be used to clean the kitty room floor) is never a good idea.
• Forgetting that you've left it there, so it can dry and adhere to the porcelain, is an even worse idea.
• Mommy discovering this is the worst of all, especially when she goes to free the sink and the drain stopper and finds that the bathroom trash can has also been liberated from the bathroom.
• Having to free the sink, stopper, and the mouth of the drain from partially-dried toilet paper made both Mommy and Myron very irritated.  
• And an irritated Myron makes Mommy even more on edge, which is bad since her nerves are already shot about this being the last week before school starts.
• If you've moved it out, please move the trash can back to the bathroom once you're done "cleaning."

I'm not entirely sure I'm going to be able to accomplish this.

Mixed Movies (Sort Of)

As I was getting dressed this morning, Medium Fry came in to lodge a complaint.

"Mama, Duckie needs a cuddle."

I smiled.  The kids just love Disney Junior's Doc McStuffins, and the character Lambie is always ready to give a cuddle to help a toy (or a person) to feel better.

And it's usually Medium who needs a cuddle or whose toy needs a cuddle from Mommy.

I think it's adorable.

Indignant now, Medium went on.  "An' Lawrge Fwy won't leave Duckie alone!  She'll pinch his cheeks.  He hates that."

I had to stop a chuckle.

It's almost word for word what the grandson tells his mom in the opening scene of The Princess Bride about why he doesn't want to see his grandfather.

Which Medium has never seen.

"Mommy! Again!"

Yes, we have to watch this part several times.

And not just because the kids like it.

Because I like it too.  Because I can keep up with the bass's top notes.  Because I love doo-wop.

Because it gives me an excuse to turn on the TV's soundbar and pump up the bass.

Yes, I'm weird.

Trussed

Medium and Large did my hair today.

New Entry!

A friend posted a link on Facebook tonight, of a 14-year-old girl who is playing Vivaldi in a most excellent fashion...on the electric guitar.

The YouTube video was embedded in a blog written by GruntDoc, whose pixelated scribblings I hadn't happened across before.

This will be rectified, I assure you.

I'm pretty sure he's AD's kindred spirit.

Since the "about" page on GruntDoc's site intrigued me, I poked around in some of his favorite posts, and I came across this one and I laughed until I cried.

I think it might rival Lawdog's Pink Gorilla Suit and AD's chihuahua and hypotension call stories for sheer ability to bring tears to the eyes and stitches to the diaphragm (and possibly hiccups) from laughter.

I'm still giggling.

This one gets added to the Beverage Alerts sidebar.

You have to wonder about their hearing sometimes...

We're in the car, having dropped off Snugglebear (one of our youth group teens) and her younger sister after today's youth "group" pool fun (it was the two of them and the five of us).

We're listening to the Boyz in the Sink, by popular request.

Large Fry is trying to communicate to us which song on the CD is her favorite.  She wants us to skip ahead to it.

It's not working.

"You know, the one!" she explains.  (And exclaims.)

Oh, that makes such a difference.

Our confusion persists.

Her frustration at our apparent stupidity persists.

"Which song, honey?" I tried again.

"Um...um...it's the 'Monkey Paducah' one!"

Hubby and I just looked at each other.

The light dawned a bit quicker for me.

Go on, check out the link.  See if you can guess which of the songs is the "Monkey Paducah."  I'll wait.

Got your guess?

Okay, good.

I tipped my head thoughtfully.  "Do you mean the 'Funky Polka'?"

"YES!"

Hubby's eyes went the size of saucers and he clapped a hand over his mouth in order to not laugh at all, and I had to look out the opposite window and not at him, or I surely would've lost it.

Ability to Handle Public Humiliation Required

If you're applying for a job as a youth pastor, and this isn't listed in the job description, somebody goofed.

You might remember last year's Pie Wars, the epic conclusion to our VBS program.  And my report from June regarding the results of this year's VBS fundraising rewards.

Zero hour came tonight.

And I was so disappointed that I just couldn't handle going.  I've had a rough week, pain-wise, mostly due to the impending storms that booming through.  My wrist hurt.  My head ached.  The thought of being in the presence of that many happy, screaming kids made me want to cry.  The thought of not going did make me cry...but the thought of going made me cry even more.

I stayed home.

However...

I have wonderful friends.

Within minutes of the hallowed event, Mr. D's wife had tagged me in a photo on Facebook.

Photo credit: A. Bostick

In fact, she told me, Medium Fry was one of the ones who got to slime him after the pieing.

I've never been so proud.

Yesterday's Quote

That grasshopper from yesterday?

I found out about five minutes ago that the twins had decided to keep it.

As a pet.

In their room.

Now, I held a baby Emperor scorpion when the Fries and I went to see the Bug Man at the local library in my folks' town, when we spent a week there while Hubby was away on his mission trip with the teens.  (Yes, it was kind of surreal.)  Large and Medium both held a rosy tarantula.  Medium also held a grasshopper...much larger than the one Small squealed about yesterday.

I'm okay with that.

It helped them to no longer shriek in high decibels any time they came across a bug.  And that's a very good thing.

You'll note I didn't hold the grasshopper, though.

They are fine bugs.  I'm happy to have them around.  They make the summer air sing.  They're quite nice...as long as they're not in my house.  (Or in a dissection tray in front of me, like in 10th grade biology.  *shudders*  Ew.)

I was not aware that the grasshopper had been kept as a pet (the poor thing), nor that it had spent the night in a box in the twins' room.

Or that the twins had named the grasshopper after Mitzy.  (Isn't she lucky?)

I did, however, immediately order the liberation of "Mitzy" from the house.

That poor grasshopper has to be so frightened.  The girls have placed her in a "house" they've constructed of flowers and grass and a bird's nest Hubby found in the side yard several weeks ago.  They're panicking because "Mitzy" is trying to escape.  I'm hoping that "Mitzy" will be able to get herself gone in a hurry when I call the kids in for lunch in a little bit.

Of course, there will be tears, but we'll always have the memories.  "Mitzy" is a bug, and bugs live outside.

*shudders*

Yeesh.

Oh, Medium wants me to take a picture of her holding "Mitzy."  Well, at least this way we'll have documentation.

Golly.

Better go get the camera.

Just now...

"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! I holded a gwasshoppewr! Wanna see?" ~Small Fry

This will be funny. Eventually.

The kids have been on a new syntax kick lately, which has been threatening to drive both Hubby and me out of our ever-lovin' minds.

Any time they want to get something, do something, whatever...it gets worded like this.

I really wish we could [insert desired thing here].

Case in point...

Doo-woppin'.

The kids have gotten hooked on Full House.  Addicted, really.  (My fault.  I admit it.  I wanted to watch "A Pox In Our House" from the first season, simply because it starts with this a cappella song,* and by now you should all be well aware of my love for a cappella music.  Especially when it's doo wop.  I watched it in front of the kids, and it was all over.)

So, it's not been uncommon to hear Large Fry say, "Boy, I really wish we could go watch Full House, Mommy!" half a dozen times in less than that many minutes.

Or, "I wish we could go to the Memorial Pool!"  Imagine that a dozen times between when Hubby left for work (taking our lone vehicle) and lunch.  When you're sick.  And feel like death warmed over a couple times, you know the kids know you're sick, and all you want to do is go back to bed and sink into blessed unconsciousness but you can't because you have to be vertical and take care of your kids...the first iteration is irritation enough.  Rounds two through seventeen are just gravy.  Which you then want to fling at your kids.  Whom you love.  Really.

But I digress.

I did tell you all this for a reason, though.

Due to our travel schedule this summer and Jester and Mitzy's own summer schedule, preparing for their wedding and getting Mitzy moved in down here, we haven't seen much of them.  The kids have missed them.  Last week, when I was finally feeling better, Mitzy asked if they could come over to deliver some little gifts to the Fries—wedding souvenirs and a framed photo of them on their wedding day (holding signs declaring that they love each of the Fries, by name; SO cute). I knew about this plan, so I said it was fine.  As I stood in the kitchen, preparing dinner, Small Fry pouted and said, "I wish dat Jestewr an' Mitzy could come ovewr fowr dinnewr."  Sigh.  I sent Mitzy a text, confirmed they hadn't eaten, and invited them for our exciting taco salad dinner as well as presenting presents.

Since that night, having the family together for dinner isn't enough.  No, we must have guests.

And, of course, since we saw Jester and Mitzy at church today (and because they're insanely loved by my kids), they're the ones that the kids wanted to have over.  They, however, had plans with Jester's folks for lunch, so Small's grand plan of having them come to GVD and have lunch with us got blown to smithereens before it even left her mouth.

Which it did.  More than once.  I kid you not, we had the same conversation at least three times between the end of church and when we finally got out the door.

"I want to have Jestewr an' Mitzy come to lunch wif us. An' I want us to go to GVD."

"They can't.  They're having lunch with Jester's mom and dad."

Small Fry was very put out by this news, and so was her lower lip.  She didn't want Wendy's.  She didn't want to go home.  She wanted Jester, Mitzy, and GVD.  Perhaps she thought they'd change their plans if she asked us enough...even after they'd left.

Hubby had a youth staff meeting/dinner this afternoon, so after my nap (that's an important detail), I came downstairs.  Small wanted to go play outside.  Sure!  Go, run off energy!  I shut off the tv and sent everybody outside.

Small then had a conniption about not being able to ride a particular bike; she wanted the one with training wheels.  Which, apparently, Medium either was or was not riding.  (It's a little unclear.)

"She gave it to me," Medium volunteered as I tried to sort out what was going on and avert catastrophe.

"Why?  You don't even need training wheels."

Medium shrugged.

As I was about to turn to Small and explain that she could ride the bike she wanted, words nearly exploded from her mouth.  "I wish we could swim in the pool!"

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to grind my teeth.  "Come in here and ask me nicely."

It took a couple minutes before she was able to understand what I wanted.

"Can we play inna pool?"

"Yes."  Oh, a thousand times yes.

I went out and added air to the second ring of our little wader pool, and then hauled over the hose so I could add more water.  (Which is when I learned our patio isn't level, but that's another story.)

The kids played semi-happily for about an hour.  Unless somebody got wet.  Or got splashed.  Heaven forbid, since they're playing in a pool.

Small came inside around 5:30 to get dressed, saying she was cold.  She joined me in the den.

I would love to know how many minutes it actually was before it happened.

"I wish we could haff mac an' cheese for dinnewr."

Sigh.

"We can have mac and cheese for dinner."  However, I wasn't going to make the box kind.  No, sir.  If we're having mac and cheese, we're having mood food all the way and I'm making it from scratch.  And baking it.  Yummmmm.  Crispy, cheesy goodness.  My mood was cheered at the thought.

"Yay!"  Small was delighted.

I put a pot of water on to boil.  When it was ready, I dumped in a box of penne rigate...Large Fry won't eat mac and cheese unless it's straight noodles, like the box kind.  So we compromise with penne, so that she'll eat it when I make it from scratch.  The penne holds the cheese better, I think.

"Dat doesn't look like mac an' cheese."

I wanted to bang my head against the wall.

Five minutes later...

"Dat doesn't look like mac an' cheese."

Gah!

I sat back down in the den, figuring I had a few more minutes before the pasta would be done.  Once again, a stopwatch would've been handy.

Harumph. "I wish we could haff someone ovewr for dinnewr.  Like Jestewr an' Mitzy." Small has perfected the art of whiny petulance in tone.

At least three times we'd had this conversation at church.  At least.

I completely lost whatever patience I had left.  "No!  We are not having them over for dinner!  They had other plans today!"

Why yes, I did shout.

I can't quite say that Small gave me a dirty look.  However, that kind of almost long-suffering, poor-me expression on a six-year-old would have been comical if it wasn't happening to me right then.

Her little eyes narrowed and she skewered me with this glare.

And then she proclaimed boldly, "You need a nap!"


*I proved once again that I can still keep up with most doo-wop basses while listening to this song. Ah, I love being a dramatic contralto.