Some are more critical than others

“It’s just so gross, Daddy. It’s tiny and gross and moves really fast.” This is how my daughter responded to an ant in my husband’s truck. When he told her that she had permission to squish it, she vehemently declined citing more disgust and outrage at the prospect of touching it with her bare finger.

To say she has certain expectations on the way her world should operate is obvious.

The child has a speech impediment and, rather than her feeling that she has to adjust the way she pronounces her words, she thinks we all have a problem with our hearing.

Last week, her universe crumbled when she made a miscalculation while exiting a vehicle. The result was slamming her left index finger in a car door. This was a major problem.

I had just finished a 12 hour shift in the ER when I came home to discover her swollen, purple finger. I packed her up and drove right back to work. Neither of us wanted to go, but I needed to be sure there were no broken bones.

Her criticism of the facility began immediately. She was hungry. The cafeteria was already closed which did not make her happy.

We had to sign in and take a seat for a while because the waiting room was full. “We have to wait? I just want to go home. Why can’t we just go home, Mommy?” She whined for a while until I emphasized the need for an x-ray, explaining it was a picture of her finger bones.

A baby was coughing across from us. The poor little guy sounded like he had a bad cold. “That baby just keeps on coughing. He’s been coughing for like 9 minutes now. He’s really cute though and his shirt looks nice on him.” I told her that the mother could most likely hear everything she was saying because the room was wide open and she doesn’t alter the volume of her voice. This didn’t seem to bother her in the least.

After being led into the back, we were placed on a bed in the hall because all the rooms were full. “Seriously? We’re not going to get a room? Let’s just go home. I don’t want to be here.” I told her that we were definitely not going home until we finished what we came there to do.

She showed me her temporary tattoo on her hand that said “Love.” She asked, “Mommy, what is that little word at the very bottom?” I told her it said “China.”

“Love China? What? Are you kidding? Why would it say that?” She then burst into a fit of giggles while repeating “Love China.” I explained that lots of things are made in China which is why it was in small print. This spurred a discussion on world manufacturing and made me feel guilty for not purchasing more American-made products.

At last, the Radiology tech arrived. The old x-ray machine had to be used because the new one was experiencing technical difficulties. “Yuck! I don’t like that one. It looks dirty.” We convinced her it had to be done regardless of her opinion.

The end result was a tuft fracture of the distal phalanx or, basically, she broke her finger tip. She has a metal splint to wear for a while which will, sadly, only aid in her finger-pointing abilities.

Maybe with the splint, she can feel less squeamish about squishing ants.

The best fed kid in school

I often tell people that I learn something new every day. With a twelve year old boy in my house, I can almost say I learn something new every hour.

I don’t know what happens to a person’s brain when they hit this magical age. I’m not sure if it is awash in hormone activity or they just get distracted with life in general, but whatever it is, in my son’s case, he seems to have lost the ability to think rationally.

His interest in girls has turned me into an undercover agent for Spy Moms, Inc. I don’t feel good about this, but I’m also not going to sit on the sidelines and idly watch while he attempts to make adult decisions with his kid brain.

Basketball was the best thing ever. Practice was after school and so intense, he was too tired to do much at all besides come home and lie on the couch exhausted. Girl problem solved.

Then the grades started to slip. Why wasn’t he doing his homework? Was basketball too much for him?

With all this going on, the last thing I thought I had to worry about was this kid eating lunch at school.

Last week, the coach pulled my husband aside and said he needed to know what our son was doing at lunch. What could he possibly be doing? Begging food from the other kids!

Yes, you read that correctly. Our son, this overgrown beast of a boy, had been bumming food from the other kids at lunch.

It had gotten so bad that another child’s mother sent in an extra lunch for our son and told her child to let the cafeteria people know to send a reduced fare form home for us to fill out so our boy could at least have nourishment every day.

To say we were livid is an understatement. All he had to do was let me know he needed lunch money and I would’ve given him the funds, but there was more to this story.

Rewind to October when he was slacking on his household chores and I said, “Listen here, if you aren’t going to do your chores, then I’m not paying for your school lunch anymore. So start packing your lunch from now on! Got it?”

When I asked last week why he didn’t just tell me he needed lunch money, he replied, “You said you weren’t going to pay for lunch anymore.”  Bingo! There it was: Mom is evil.

Why didn’t he pack his lunch like I told him which I had, by the way, totally forgotten about?

“Well, I take an apple, but a sandwich gets all smooshed in my backpack and I don’t want to carry a lunch box.”

“So you’d rather beg for food? Are you kidding me? Do you realize that the other kids probably tried to hide their food when they saw you coming in the cafeteria?” I shouted this and a lot of other things because I was irate and irrational.

I sent the generous mother who donated the lunch a message on Facebook thanking her and telling her the real story behind my son’s nonsense.

The good news is that there is now plenty of money in his lunch account. I think he’s set until February. The bad news is that I don’t think his brain functioning will improve any time soon. Lucky for him, his dad and I are here to keep him in line.

Taken out by strep throat

Working around sick people every day, you’re bound to catch something eventually. I had a miserable cold back in November and an upsetting gastrointestinal flu in December, but nothing prepared me for the misery I would experience earlier this week.

When I finished my shift Sunday night, I felt too tired, so I knew other nefarious forces were at work in my body. I was in bed by 8:30, but didn’t stay there long because I was overtaken with fever and chills which I temporarily alleviated with medication and blankets.

I had convinced myself I had the flu so I called my doctor’s office and left a message essentially stating that I’d prefer not to come in, described my symptoms, and was there anything they could call in to the pharmacy?

Tamiflu was the drug of choice. By the time it was ready, I couldn’t drive so my mother-in-law, Debi, picked up the prescription and a few items from the store.

I was alarmingly weak and feverish. I knew I had to eat something and everyone touts chicken noodle soup and the miracle cure for everything that ails you. I detest that soup, but my throat was starting to hurt and I couldn’t imagine anything else tasting good so I slurped it down and climbed back in bed.

I wouldn’t let the kids around me. I just shouted orders from the bedroom until their dad got home.

My throat was on fire by that time and my temperature shot up to 104. This wasn’t the flu. This was strep throat. Wonderful.

Monday night was horrible. It was a game with my body of “How high can your temperature go?” and “How often can you safely take antipyretics?”

I called the doctor’s office first thing Tuesday and they got me in at 10 am. I looked in the mirror and my tonsils were disgusting and swollen. I blame my parents for not having them removed when I was a child.

I sat in the waiting room with my eyes closed and tried to concentrate on not producing saliva because every swallow felt like sandspurs scraping down my throat. It wasn’t long before they sent me home with a shot in the butt and a prescription for antibiotics.

At home, I segregated myself in the bedroom. The kids weren’t allowed near me and anything I touched, I took in the room with me.

My bedside table became my pharmaceutical haven complete with throat spray and drops, ibuprofen, Nyquil, and everything I had to take normally and temporarily. I barely had room for a bottle of water and my phone.

I felt as if I was alone on Leper Island until my husband came to bed each night only to face away from me. My daughter would blow me a kiss from the doorway or just stand there and look at me. It was like a mom encounter at a zoo, but I was the most boring exhibit ever lying there in my lazy house clothes with my hair not even brushed, moaning every time I swallowed.

The good news is that I’m better now and the ordeal helped me lose eight pounds. I was responsible in my sickness and told everyone in each public place I entered that I was sick and they should use hand sanitizer.

They say that which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Well, I just hope that eight pounds I lost wasn’t muscle mass.

A promise I think I can keep

It is a new year which means the masses have made promises to themselves that can be broken at a moment’s notice. I’m no different. Last week, I thought long and hard about what kind of resolution I wanted to guilt myself into making.

I chose to steer clear of exercise because that always turns into a failure of epic proportions. I figured I’d let potential body sculpting be a surprise gift to myself if I decide to partake in forced exhaustive aerobics. By December 2013, if I happen to be 10 pounds less than I am now, I’ll celebrate by gaining it all back with holiday gorging.

This year, I’ve decided to do something that I’d have to be a complete and utter jerk to not want to accomplish, but will also be within the realm of attainability: become a better mom.

I don’t want to say I’m a bad mom because my kids love me, but let’s face it, the last 3 years have been pretty stressful on the whole family and I’ve been tuned out when it comes to extracurricular activities that were not exactly necessary.

It isn’t like Child Protective Services is going to come knocking on my door, but I’m also not even close to being a candidate for mother of the year either. I guess I’m somewhere between Mommy Dearest and June Cleaver; wire hangers are acceptable, but my kids get McDonald’s maybe more than they should.

I started my journey to becoming a better mom last Saturday with my daughter who received a Fairy Princess scrapbook set for Christmas.

Let me interject that I thought I would dabble into the world of scrapbooking about 12 years ago when a friend introduced me to some adorable items. I then saw how incredibly expensive this lifestyle can become and how cluttered your house can get with all the accessories needed for this hobby.

No thank you. I’ll just buy a photo album.

So my sweetheart plops this scrapbook set on my lap and begs to put it together. There are literally hundreds of little stickers, glittery objects, and pieces of decorated paper. I felt my eye begin to twitch because every fiber in my body was resisting, but the guilt center of my brain responded to her sad, brown puppy eyes and my mouth said, “Okay, honey. Just let me finish my coffee.”

First, we had to pick some photos which only served to remind me what a horrible mother I am. Everything has become digital since she was a baby and we have very few physical pictures of her since that time.

Because the glue stick was a joke and our house scissors have seen better days, we made a trip to Michaels for a craft run and Walmart to print photos.

When we finally began, I was the project coordinator and she was head of artistic direction. I didn’t agree with some of her color choices. For instance, she frequently placed stickers of one color on the background of the same color.

“That’s not what I would’ve done,” I muttered under my breath.

“What, mommy?” she asked. “Nothing, sweetie,” I said continuing to cut and paste the next background.

Five hours later, we had completed thirteen pages in what would appear to be an experiment in offensively tacky artwork accented with photographs. Awesome! She was happy and I’m well on my way to fulfilling my new year’s resolution.

Mother of the year 2013, I’m coming for you!