Wordless Wednesday.

Who wants a butt-rocket?

I can't wait for February to end.  There I said it.  I don't care if our TOR:CON index shoots up to like a five just because we live in Kansas.  I'll take that risk.  There's something about the promise of warmer weather with the coming of March.


















 

In case anyone's keeping count, that sleeping baby down there is winning.  Six to zero.  It wouldn't be so bad if she would only take her Tylenol by mouth.  But ohhhh no, she doesn't like the taste.  I've tried every flavor, every brand and even the chewable tablets.  Even tried hiding it in her cheese.

All of it comes back at me.

She had the same poor review of Ibuprofen.  All makes, all brands.

That's why I get the joy of shoving a suppository up her ass every four to six hours.  She thinks even less highly of that and pukes, I swear, to spite me.  

Let me tell you Gracie, I like shoving my finger up your ass as much as you like it there kid.

On the upside, it's making discipline a hell of a lot easier in this house.  All I have to do is pull out a suppository, show it to her and say, "Do you want this?  Do you want a butt-rocket up your butt??  No, I didn't think so."

Lord, that child will do whatever I ask now.

Only with both hands holding her bottom pretty tightly.

Tamiflu, get yours while its hot.

This will be my last post on The Sick.  Lizzy shared the disease with Gracie and the very next day my rump was back at the Pediatrician's office.  Apparently you get bumped all the way to the front of the cue really fast when you call and tell them the baby has a sustained temp over 103 and she's really sleepy.  Lord, they just tell you to come on in, STAT.


Yeah, it did cross my mind that that little nugget would have been helpful to know yesterday when we were living my worst nightmare.


Anyway, we dropped everything and marched in there, in full glory.  That consisted of my unshowered, unshaved, undeordized and puked on, pajamaed ass carrying a Rubbermaid.  Lizzy was in Disney princess pajamas and the baby was delirious in only a diaper.

Gracie-3, Mom-0.

I don't know if I mentioned this but where we live, in South Johnson County, it's the most stuck-up, prudish, money-centered, my husband makes more than your husband, place I've ever lived.


You guys know that's just not me.


I tell you that, to tell you this: Those bitches parted like the Red Sea when we walked in that doctor's office.  Our dirty contaminated asses were sniffed out as soon as we hit the door handle and my God, the look of horror on those women's faces were priceless.  A few even got up and moved out of our way so they didn't get a sent of our disease.  One dove in her purse for hand sanitizer and damn near bathed her kids in it.  


Call me Moses.  


After all that, we were seen and both girls tested positive for the flu.  My first comment was, "WTF?  We had flu shots and wait, why was Lizzy not tested yesterday when we were here?"


Crickets.


Suffice it to say I've bleached the hell out of the house and have never really put the Clorox down.  I knew it was all over when I saw Gracie eating lunch out of the same bowl as Lizzy and later there was a direct sneeze in her face.  For the curious, direct inoculation like that has about a twenty hour incubation period.  


At that point, all the bleach in the world wasn't going to help my cause.

Let's just say Tamiful is my new BFF, we practically have a "X" on our door and I'll not put the bleach down till we're all over The Sick in this house.  


I don't care if my hands have been reduced to bloody stumps.  I don't want to see Alex sick with this.  And the world will stop spinning on its axis if He Who shall Not Be Named got it.  I cannot let that happen.  For my sanity, it cannot happen.  


I'll dip them both in bleach nightly if I have to because they have to stay healthy.  


Now can someone be a good neighbor and get me some more bleach?  My stash is running low.  


I know beggars can't be choosers but I really like the Fresh Meadow scent Clorox has on the market right now.  

Somebody take me out back and shoot me, would you?

Yeah, we're sick again.  This time Lizzy got hit.  I swear at least one of my kids has been sick since November.  I made the mistake of going to the Pediatricians office for their walk in clinic and we were number fifty-three in line out of fifty-three.  

If you work at a Pediatrician's office take note:  Next time a parent phones in and asks how long the wait is, don't lie.  Just tell her the truth.  That way she won't show up in her pajama's with no snacks, diapers or charge cords for the electronics.  As a bonus, she probably won't yell at you.  Just saying.  

Anyway, I'm guessing every child in South Johnson County was sick and at the same dang office with me.  That, right there, is my version of hell.  

Somebody shoot me.

Before the electronics died.  

We wound up making camp out in the hallway for over two hours and going home with a script for Amoxicillin.  I recommend paying the extra $2.50 and getting bubble gum flavor, heck any flavor.  That stuff tastes like shit otherwise.  

I did have a bit of a "moment" about ninety minutes in when all the electronics died and I went a tish hypoglycemic.  I'm going to gloss over that part.  

And then He Who Shall Not Be Named went out of town for business. 

And not to let any of you down, Lizzy went on a bender around 2:10 AM and was hugging the toilet for a good two hours.  Let's just say she's all ready for college--she's got the puking thing nailed.  Even asked for her hair to be put up in a pony tail so her hair didn't get dirty, poor thing.

Rubbermaid, more than just food storage.

Have I mentioned how sick I am of puke?  I have??  Oh well.

And.....I'm back.

So yeah, we got back in last night and it was great to see the kids.  And to be brutally honest, it was even better to have some time away.  Yeah, that sounds bad but I'm standing by it.

For four whole days I didn't have to worry about who was eating what, if the socks matched, if an appointment was missed, what the communication notebook said or if the plan was being followed.

For a few blissful days I was more concerned with the tides, the winds, the shells and if I brought enough clothes to brave the beach after the cold front blew in.

I did.

Its amazing in hindsight to realize how bad off I was and how bad I was really feeling.  And when you come back, the things that were driving you nuts are no longer half as bad.  That instead of looking down, things are looking up.

When we came through the garage door we were immediately told, "You have been gone for approximately twenty minutes longer than I thought.  And Grandma made dinner.  And I don't like it.  And she burnt the brownies.  Can you make brownies and not burn them?"

"Yeah.  Umm no, I'm not going to make brownies right now.  Did you guys have fun?"

"Well yes, yes we did.  Did you know Grandma fed Gracie a Kit-Kat for dessert on Saturday?  She was running with it and choked.  Then she threw-up.  Then I saw her throw-up and then I threw-up.  Then Lizzy saw it and she threw-up.   And Lizzy was the only one who made it to the toilet."

"Grandma said you owe her big-time and it was a good thing you weren't here because we were having a puke-fest.  Now can you make me brownies?  I really want some not-burnt brownies."

And that's how I came back home, to three kids wrapped around my ankles, giving me hugs, kisses and transferring all their viral cold germs from one end of me to the other.

And its good to be home.

What could possibly go wrong?

I am going to show you two pictures and if you can't figure out where I am then really, there's no hope for you.  I think my husband realized how bad it was when I damn near threatened to swan dive out an upper window.  And then we all got sick.  

Sanibel.

Dude, I'm in Sanibel.

Somehow we managed to wrack up a hell of a lot frequent flyer miles and we've cashed them in.  This time I really am taking a break, with no kids.

Normally I would say nothing could go wrong but we all know my luck.  And we're flying through Atlanta so that pretty much seals the deal.

And if you know us in real life we've told the kids we're going to Texas.  My daughter would have my hide for breakfast if she found out where we really were.

See?  What could possible go wrong?

Even porn sites have QR codes. Who knew???

So remember how I mentioned that Alex likes to scan bar codes for fun?  Well it's morphed into something better.  We're now scanning QR codes.  Yeah, I didn't know what one was either.  After I asked Alex I still had no idea so I Googled it.  And then I had Alex explain it to me again.  And again.  And then I gave up went to bed and tried again in the morning.

After several cups of coffee, I found out all about QR codes.  A Quick Response code is a type of bar code.  Go to Wikipedia and read all about it here.

Here's what one looks like.  As a homage to my son, I made one and have it on my sidebar over there.  You get the RedLaser App and then take your i-phone and scan the QR code.  Both of these QR codes are a direct link to my blog so it takes you right there.  Cool, eh?  Now you can read me anywhere.

RedLaser, I should be getting paid for this.  

No reading me in the toilet.  The crapper's off limits.  I strictly forbid it.

So basically my kid's now scanning updated bar codes for fun.

He downloaded the RedLaser App for having a good OT visit.  Yes, I bribe my child.  I'm good like that.  We have a system.  He has a good session and he gets to download a free App.  Bad session, no App.

This was from Sunday's paper, Walmart ad.

Then we had the Thanksgiving holiday and a little time went by and Alex sent a QR code to my phone.  It was to Kink.com.  Now, I very intentionally DID NOT link that site because there is one teensey-tiny little problem with Kink.com.

Kink is a man-on-man porn site.

My kid sent me porn.  After I gasped and, lets be real here folks--looked at a few, I put on my mom panties and asked him what in the hell he'd just sent me.

"Uncle Jim sent me the link to go to Kinko's.  He wanted me to find out how much a ream of paper costs."

"So, um, did you find out how much a ream of paper costs?"

"What?"

"Eyes.  Alex, I need your eyeballs up here on my face when I'm talking.  Good.  Did you find out how much a ream of paper costs?"

"No.  I sent it to you so you could look it up.  I'm too busy, I'm looking up some new Apps."

A private moment here to thank the Sweet Baby Jesus for my small fortune that my son did not get eye-raped by viewing man-on-man porn.

"So, while we're talking about QR codes here, who else did you send that to?

"Dad's whole family."

A private moment to take back all my thanks to the Baby Jesus.

My kid sent my husband's family porn.  Hardcore, man on man, porn.

Are you crapping your pants now?  Cuz I was.

Suffice it to say we've had "the talk" about what can be sent, and what can not be sent, via the i-Touch.  Bottom line, in our house we now check everything he sends out and he checks his e-mail with either my husband or myself.  And we have parental locked his i-Touch so his on-line experience is limited at best.

And my husband made the call to his brother to ask what on God's green earth he had sent our to son.  Turns out he missed a letter in the web address and it all went horribly wrong from there.

And that is the true story of one thing that happened over the past few weeks before I threw the damn thing on the floor and broke it.  And even though this originated from Uncle Jim, I'm the one in the family who looks like the dirty girl who can't keep the kids off porn.

Good thing I'm writing this down for prosperity's sake.  Someday I'm going to look back on this and laugh.

I'm not laughing yet.

Still not laughing.

Yeah, still not laughing.


I'm over at SPD Blogger Network today talking about Alex's classroom desk.  Go, go, go!

My week off and what I did. And didn't do.

I took all of last week off from blogging so I could wrap my brain around what was going on in this house.  Aside from some personal angst, I've had the pleasure of trying to find a new Speech Language Pathologist and figuring out if we want to continue on with individual treatment or opt for more of a group setting for social skills.  Either way, I was given notice that our insurance has stopped paying and unloaded a $7,000 dollar bill on us as they seem to think all past Speech Therapy was/is unwarranted.

Thank you Cigna for your medical opinion.  And by that I mean Fuck You Dearly.

Yeah, we're fighting it.

Add to it, all the social skills group start at $50 per group.  That turns into $200/month to go weekly, which is recommended by our Child Psychologist, not our insurance company.  And, oh yeah, none of them take insurance because, as one lady said, "We decided it wasn't worth that fight a long time ago.  We take cash or nothing."

Yeah, we're so not going there.

Last I checked, I don't shit $200 dollar bills so I got a little overwhelmed.

And then I got sick.

Let me rephrase that.  Alex got sick and my last coherent thought before I came down with his infectious disease nightmare was, "I hate cleaning grout lines. Christ, is it hot in here???  I'm really hot."

And that is the last thing I really remember for the past six days.

Sure, I remember some things:

• Gracie eating cheese balls, cookies and trying to drink diet soda for lunch.
• Alex puking.  And puking.  And puking.
• Me getting a little jealous my six year old was holding down her diet soda. Note: I normally don't let the kids drink soda.  Ever.
• Laying on the sofa watching something about the American Beaver for about six hours straight and thinking, "Hey, I wonder when the kids are going to figure out there is more than one kind of beaver...."
• Looking at the thermometer thinking, "101.4?  Really??  You can do better than that."
• Realizing that, if I did indeed die, my kids would not notice till we ran out of cheese balls and/or soda.

At some point in my fever induced haze, He Who Shall Remain Nameless thought it was a good idea to download Plants Versus Zombies for the kid's i-Touches.  Now Lizzy has established Base Camp next to our bed because she's afraid, "Zombies are going to cut open mommy's head and drink her brains like soda....with a straw."  Her words, not mine.    

Base Camp.

At some other point, Lizzy graduated from Base Camp and move permanently into Camp I.  Camp I is my bed.  It was formerly known as mom and dad's den of occasional sex but now its become the catchall for anyone and everyone who wonders in at night.

While the love's not dead the sex certainly is.    

At some other point during some other night, I told the kids to go puke in their buckets and leave me sleep.  I don't actually remember this, but He Who Shall Remain Nameless tells me it happened.  He swears by it.  I'd swear he was lying but then the kids started telling each other, "Oh, bloody hell, go away and leave me be," and I knew right then and there he was telling the truth.

And I'm not endorsing Tylenol PM here but man, that shit really works. 

Anyway, right when I started feeling better I took Alex's i-Touch down the hallway to be charged but I lost hold of it.  

I LOST HOLD OF IT.  

Now this is where I have to back the story up a bit.  See, Alex is a biter.  He bites things and likes to chew on things.  Anything he can get into his mouth, he'll chew.  At one point in my delirium I thought he'd make a perfect beaver the way he chews things.  Yes, my mind is that fucked up.  Hey, I was sick, remember?

Anyway, he chews his clothes, pencils, pens, erasers, box tops, whatever he can get, he'll chew it.  That includes, but is not limited to, his i-Touch case.  So when I lost hold of his i-Touch, it had a good portion of the case chewed off.  

Shirt sleeve, chewed.

And that little i-Touch in a half mangled case didn't stand a chance against the tile floor.  It hit in the bottom corner and the glass shattered into a million little pieces.

Cue impending horror and panic attack. 

Remember how I said Alex was sick?  Well, he was.  And you all know how our kids can get when they're sick.  Alex was really quite subdued, probably because he had his i-Touch.  That is, until I dropped that damnable, infernal, horrible, fucking little i-Touch. 

i-Touch, 0.  Tile floor, 1.

Then he became the devil incarnate.  I have not been forgiven.  He has not forgotten.  He will not forgive or forget.  The devil incarnate I tell you.

He's gone on a rampage that makes all others pale in comparison.  I'd swear the paint actually went a shade lighter when that damn thing hit the floor and shattered.  He morphed into his evil little twin, damning me straight to hell with every glance, every look and every move.  Every pore of his little body has been seething anger and venom at my lack of fine motor skills.

I'm thanking my lucky stars he's not yet built a ray gun out of Lego's because if he had, he certainly would have blasted my ass into dust without thinking twice.  I suspect this will not stop till I fix that damn thing and even then the residual, I-hate-you-for-dropping-my-i-Touch, effect will be felt for some time.  

And I can't say that I blame him.  I feel for him.  I broke his Holy Grail and now we're all suffering.

And then, because I've not yet had enough drama in the last week my uterus decided to get in on all the action and I started my period.

And that, right there, is how I took a week off, only to get further behind than ever before.


Note:  Yes, you are supposed to be laughing with me at this.  Through it all, I've managed to get some of "me" back, if that makes any sense.  I'm not as worn out and exhausted as I was.  I don't really understand it, but there it is.  I'm feeling better and I'm running with it.