Friday, August 30, 2013

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.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

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. 


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, 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.

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

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.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013


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.

Monday, August 19, 2013

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.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

"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.


Medium and Large did my hair today.

Friday, August 9, 2013

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.

"'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'?"


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.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

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.


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.

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

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 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.



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


Better go get the camera.

Monday, August 5, 2013

Just now...

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

Sunday, August 4, 2013

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, gets worded like this.
I really wish we could [insert desired thing here].
Case in point...

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."


"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."


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.