Boo! (aka: Scary Parenting)

Happy Halloween! I love Halloween: the candy; the decorations; the candy; the costumes. Did I mention the candy? I am a sucker for any occasion that requires the donning of costumes. I guess I am just a frustrated thespian at heart (not to be confused with lesbian. I do have two kids, after all!).

This year, All Hallows Eve dawned with me struggling to finish Z's costume and not even having started Q's. Ah, procrastination in action! Not only did I have the costumes to complete, but I had to pack for my trip to see Sister K, pack for the kids' trip to the ranch with Grandma and GanGan, clean up all of the food the dogs weren't here to eat off the floor, and be ready to leave for Ginormousville directly from the Halloween carnival so I could catch my morning flight. Phew!

All progressed well in the morning. I got most of Z's costume finished by mid-morning. I finished Q's in record time, just in time to pick up Z from school. I picked up some extra-wide elastic for Z's wrist and ankle bands on the way home. Q fell asleep in the car on the way home. Sweet! With him asleep I should be able to motor through the rest of Z's costume and get our bags packed with plenty of time to actually bathe before it was time to head out. Yay!

Well, it didn't happen like that. Z woke Q up as we pulled into the garage. No biggie. I can usually get him back down without much fuss. I plop Q in his crib and head downstairs to get Z settled with a snack. Q lets out a howl that makes it clear that there would be no sleeping any time soon. Here's the weird part: when I got back to Q's room and took him out of baby jail, he didn't stop screaming. He seemed to be having some sort of fit. He threw himself on the floor and flopped around, bashing his head on his bookshelf in the process. I couldn't touch or comfort him in any way without sending him spiraling back into tantrum mode. Arg. I spent a couple of hours with this fun activity. Finally, he was so tired that he couldn't keep his eyes open and I got him into bed at last.

By the time I got Z down for a nap, it was mid-afternoon. Panic time! I managed to get both costumes finished and the bags packed. I did not manage a shower. I was pretty testy by the time it was time for the 'fun' part of my day to begin. Z was dogging my every step (pun entirely intended!) and Q woke up as cranky as he had been when he went to sleep. I had to bite my tongue to keep from snapping at her, but I managed it. It wasn't her fault that I had planned so poorly. I was sweaty and crabby and my costume shirt was made of polyester. Feh.

The good news is that once I got the kids into their costumes and out onto the street for trick-or-treating, they were so cute I forgot all about my foul mood and got into the spirit of things. We drove into town to a neighborhood where the houses are closer together. Z was the belle of the trick-or-treating ball. Everywhere we went, people wanted to take her picture because she was so dang cute. Q, too, but to a lesser extent. I was dressed as a French person (striped shirt, red scarf, beret), but most people didn't that or that I was supposed to be the poodle's owner.

My talkative tot had to be reminded what to say after she rang the door bell, but after that, she was off and running. To every group we passed, she said, "My name is Z. I'm three and a half. This is my brother, Q. I'm a poodle. My mama made this for me." She developed quite the fan club among the 'tween girls who were roaming the streets in packs. They called out to her as they passed and she would wave and say to me, "Those are my friends." It was adorable.

When we had collected an amount of candy bordering on obscene, we headed off to the Halloween carnival where Z won the costume for the fourth year in a row. Not that I'm competitive or anything. Actually, she won with her best bud Zeke. He was Indiana Jones. After the contest, they ran off to the bounce house for the rest of the evening, only taking breaks to come eat more garbage carnival food. Such excellent parenting: don't feed the children dinner then fill them up with candy. I rock.

After a hay ride and changing into pajamas in the parking lot (standing in a fire ant bed, no less), we set out for Ginormousville. The kids were asleep before we even hit the highway. Upon arrival, Z woke up just enough to tell Grandma all about 'trick-or-treats.' It was a close to perfect night. This is what parenting is about.

Off to the Pumkin Patch

Every year we make the photo-op pilgrimage to the Farmer's Market to buy pumpkins and capture our children's joy at the changing seasons in pictures.

No, wait. That would be other people's children. Ours rampage through the stalls leaving destruction in their wake. I think Z dropped a minimum of a dozen assorted gourds and mini-pumpkins. She tried to pick up a pumpkin the size of a small car, but the sight of my head spinning completely around made her think better of it.

I was trying to photograph this fun little field trip with a camera borrowed from the in-laws. Let me just say, that Kodak Easy Share camera is the Worst. Camera. Ever. It has been temperamental for a while now, but I couldn't even make it snap a picture. Every time I hit the button, the lens would zoom in and out and the Easy Share screen would come up on the display. I poked and prodded, turned it off and on, toggled through menus, and mashed the shutter button in vain.

I looked up in time to see that Q had wandered back to the car and was leaning against it with his head. Just his head. The rest of him wasn't touching it at all. He had clearly had all the fun he could stand. Such stellar parenting!

Meanwhile, the Farmer's Market lady (the one with the ciggy hanging from the corner of her mouth like it was stitched there and a voice that sounded she'd taken up drinking brown liquor at a tender age) started following Z around with a plastic sack. At this point I realized that the picture taking venture was a colossal fail and that if I didn't get her out of there, Z was going to have the entire fall crop of (dropped/damaged) gourds in a sack on its way to the back of my car.

I let Z pick out a big pumpkin, or more accurately, steered her toward an acceptable big pumpkin. I picked out a lumpy, kind of purple-y boutique-y pumpkin and we had a white one at home already. Zoe got her bag o' gourds and we headed back to the house.

I had every intention of letting the kids decorate the pumpkins this afternoon, but being fine parent that I am, I got sucked into making Z's costume and completely forgot about the 20 pounds of pumpkin rolling around in the back of my car. Guess we'll do it tomorrow. I got these cool adhesive foam face pieces, so it will be interesting the see how Z puts them together!

Halloween Cuteness

Years ago, I purchased a sewing machine for the express purpose of making costumes. During college and my single years, I made some pretty amazing costumes. If I do say so myself!

The last one I made was for a space themed Halloween party when I was five months pregnant with Z. I went as Miss Piggy from Pigs in Space complete with silver boots, shiny purple dress, and silver lamé epaulets.

But today I have outdone myself. I am making Z's Halloween costume. (I know, I know. Nothing like waiting until the last minute. What can I say? I work better under pressure.) She is going as a pink poodle. I bought this curly/shaggy pink fleece for the furry parts. It looks like there has been a stuffed animal massacre in my kitchen. Man, does that stuff shed!

Essentially, I am making bloomers, a short vest, a bunch of wrist and ankle scrunchies and a headband with ears on it. It is the. cutest. thing. ever. When I started out, the bloomers looked like little furry hot pants, which totally cracked me up. Of course, once I added the elastic they turned into really fluffy bloomers. Too cute! She will wear the bloomers and vest over a pink leotard and leggings. She will have a black collar with white polka dots and little black and white polka dot bows at all of the appropriate places. I could just go into a sugar coma from the sweetness of this costume.

Wouldn't you know it? Precision Camera is still holding my camera hostage. So much for taking it to see Sister K next week! I will post a picture as soon as I am able.

Q is going as a tiny little cowboy. I found some faux leather and am making him a pair of chaps and a vest. He already has tiny boots, a sheriff's badge, and a cowboy hat. I am considering making some spurs out of fun foam, but I think he would probably just take them off and chew on them.

Z has already said that she wants to be a witch next year. So I will make her a cute/scary witch costume and - wait for it - Q will be her flying monkey! I am already scheming wings. Love!

Busted

I'm on the phone with my dad the other night. The doorbell rings and I exclaim, "Ooh! That's the pizza guy." To which my dad replied, "What are you doing ordering a pizza?" Ouch.

I have fallen off the wagon. I have fallen off so thoroughly that I can't even find the wagon (or, you know, the scale) to get back on. Blah. And all those doctor appointments? Started with the super fun visit to the weighs-heavier-than-any-other-scale-in-the-universe scale.

I will get back at it. I will do a weight report as soon as I locate a scale.

Noxious Growth

For the last several months there has been a small knot on my scalp. The last time she was here, Sister K checked it out and decided that it was just another depressing sign of aging; yet another mole on Rae Ann's amazing Mole Farm. Then last week, it ballooned up into this huge painful lump. It was like a squirrel had burried an acorn under my scalp. OUCH!

Dr. Dad-in-Law looked at it and declared it to be a boil. A boil? I was horrified. I thought only dirty people got boils. I mean, I know my standards of hygeine have slipped, but a boil? Really?

I went to the dermatologist today. She said that it was a very irritated pilar cyst and referred me to a plastic surgeon to have it removed. Huh. Basically it is a pocket of the kind of cells like you have in the bottom of your hair follicles that has run amok. Blarg. The plastic surgeon will also look at/remove my witch's mole on my chin. Yay!

Dr. P, who is NOT the nazi some of her online reviewers suggested, said that my skin was "pretty good." And that she didn't say that to very many people. She was very thorough in her exam. She flopped boobs and checked creases with amazing speed. She said that I have some minor sun damage and, sigh, rosacea. And Rae Ann makes three: my sisters have rosacea, too. Damn genes.

I guess now I will actually have to take care of my skin. It figures. I had perfect skin as an adolescent. Now I get to fight it as an adult. Whee.

Bureaucratic Hoop Jumping

We are back from the ranch. In an entirely unprecedented event, I am in my big ol' house all by myself alone. No kids, no dogs, no husband. Very strange. But what is particularly bizarre is that with an entire evening ahead of me with absolutely no responsibility and a Tivo full of my favorite shows (Grey's Anatomy! Pushing Daises! Private Practice!), all I want to do is catch up on my blog. I watched Ugly Betty while I was scarfing my (illicit pizza) dinner and all I could think about was uploading the posts I wrote while I was at the ranch. Huh. I think I must be addicted.

Hubs is attending a week long training in Austin. The kids are with his parents because I have two doctor appointments here in Small Town and didn't want to track down child care - or worse, take them with me. Can you imagine my over-observant Z at an Ob/Gyn appointment? "Mommy, what's a speculum? Why is she putting that in your girl bits? I want to see!" My brain explodes just thinking about it. I have yet another appointment back in Ginormousville on Tuesday, so I will be back before my kids even have a chance to miss me.

Here is my little tale of bureaucratic hoop jumping for your entertainment: About three weeks ago I made an appointment to see a dermatologist. They pre-screened my insurance to make sure I was covered and discovered that I needed a referral from my primary care physician (PCP) in order to get the highest level of benefits.

I am the healthiest (fat) person you are likely to meet. Ever. I do not have a primary care physician because in the four years that I have been married, I have never been sick. I do have an Ob/Gyn (I did birth two kids in those four years), so I called her to see if she could make the referral. No dice. The insurance company says it has to be your PCP.

I call the insurance company to see who is available. First, I ask about my doctor back in Ginormousville from my teaching days. (Days spent in the company of other people's germy children did seem to produce trips to the doctor!) They couldn't find her, though I am certain that she is still in practice and accepting their insurance. Next I asked about the one general practice Small Town has to offer. They found a doc there and signed up with her. I was assured my new card was in the mail. Great!

I called the doctor's office to beg for a referral/set up an appointment so that I could beg for a referral, only to find that the doctor in question wasn't actually accepting new patients any more. Rather than calling the insurance company back (clearly they didn't know anything, anyway), I talked to the new patient department at the local practice. Turns out none(!) of the doctors there are accepting new patients. Ack! Panic! But the nurse practitioners are. Whew!

So now I am signed up with a NP with the incongruous name of Brandi and her supervising doctor will be the name on my new insurance card. Luckily, she had an appointment available tomorrow morning, so I should be able to get her to slip the referral in just under the wire. I am so glad that I get to spend $20 for a NP to tell me that I need to see a dermatologist who will get $30 plus procedure fees. Insurance is such a racket.

The Poop Scoop

WARNING: This entry has graphic details about things that came out of my son’s butt. If you are at all squeamish about bodily functions, do not read any further.



Seriously. Come back tomorrow.



I mean it.



Okay, you asked for it. Q has poop issues. The poor little guy has been constipated pretty much since he started eating solid foods – last January. We were completely baffled when the problem started, because he was on the all fiber and breast milk diet. Breast milk is a natural laxative, so his difficulties were a real puzzle. I made enough milk to feed small third world countries, so it wasn’t an issue of dehydration, either.

Eventually, after his poor little abused sphincter started bleeding because he was pooping ROCKS, I consulted the pediatrician. He suggested glycerin suppositories (been there, done that. No luck), prune juice, apple sauce, and pureed prunes. Failing the dietary changes, he suggested giving Milk of Magnesia in increasing doses until we got the poop soft and kept it soft. I made a calendar to keep track of his excretion schedule.

Even following this regimen, Q was only pooping once or twice per week. When he did poop, he did this heart-breaking poopy dance and wailed as if his heart (or butt) was breaking. We had been using the Milk of Mag hardcore for about six weeks and had added Benefiber to pretty much every beverage that went in his mouth when we finally got him on a decent non-painful schedule.

Then he got pneumonia.

The infection and/or the antibiotics gave him the trots, so we quit all poop-softening rituals. After he recovered, we were pleased to note that he seemed to be doing okay with only the prune juice and Benefiber. Yay!

Then when I took him in for his flu shot on Tuesday, he did the poopy dance and squeezed out a hiney-ripper of a turd. Poor little guy! This was the first time that the doc had witnessed exactly how much distress Q was really in when he pooped. He pretty much told us to give him Milk of Mag until the end of time. So we got back on our all fiber and Milk of Mag routine.

He hadn’t pooped in a couple of days, but I didn’t think anything of it, as he often goes days between stinkers. He hadn’t been sleeping through the night and when he woke up, I could hear him making grunt-y pushy noises. I knew he needed to go, but he had pooped on Tuesday, so I wasn't really worried. He was a little crabby after we got to the ranch, but then he didn’t sleep in the truck and he is often out of sorts when we travel.

By that afternoon, I just didn’t know what to do with him. He wanted to be held but cried when I picked him up. Nothing made him happy. Finally, he started doing the poopy dance and I got a clue. Oh, he needs to poop! He swayed and cried and I rubbed his back and his belly… for a really long time. I kept checking his diaper, but he was making no deposits. After a while, my abs hurt from sympathy pushing!

Finally, I checked his pants and could see a little turtle sticking out its head. In a move only a mom could make, I reached in a pulled his little cheeks apart and a tiny little poop came out. On the next push, I could see there was a giant poop in there, but it couldn’t come out. My god, it looked like it was going to rip him in two!

Luckily, I was in a hunting household and there were lots of surgical gloves around (for cleaning game). So I snapped some on and took Q to the changing table. I was going in.

I was horrified by my little boy’s cries of pain and anguish as well as the train-sized poo trying to exit his rectum. It looked like something out of a birthing video. I guess there is no limit to what a mother will do for her child because I took my gloved hand and squeezed the muscles around his butthole.

This was a thing nightmares are made of. It was like popping the most disgusting zit in the universe. A giant plug of rock hard poop was followed by a man-sized dookie that was easily a foot long. But wait! He wasn’t finished. He did two more giant poops before we could even get the first one cleaned up. He must have produced at least two pounds of sh!t. I’m pretty sure he was pushing so hard that he had pushed out part of his colon.

Before the day was over, he had produced two more overflowing diapers. Good god! Where did he put it all? He must have had poop backed up to his uvula.

Interestingly, once he was finally cleared out, he ate like a linebacker. He must have been feeling pretty empty.

This morning his rear looked like it had been through a war, but he was in much better spirits. Until it was time to poop again. He was all, “There is no way I am letting anything pass through my abused rear exit!” But eventually the prune juice and Cracklin’ Oat Bran prevailed.

The good news? I could totally identify everything in his poop, so now I know he is completely cleared out. The bad news? My brain needs an enema to rid it of the horrific image of poopzilla exiting Q’s backside.