Happy Easter from my friend Dave
Friday, March 7, 2008
Monday, March 3, 2008
What To Do, What To Do
One of my least favorite parenting decisions: Is my child too sick to go to school?
The Senator was complaining of an upset stomach this morning. Since I grew up in a household where nothing short of a compound fracture or projectile vomiting gave you a Stay Home pass, I tend to view just about all health complaints with a big dose of skepticism. I attacked from all angles:
Now I'm suffering, wondering if I made the right choice. I have been hovering around the phone, waiting for the Call of Shame from the nurse's office. The afternoon bus just can't get here soon enough.
The Senator was complaining of an upset stomach this morning. Since I grew up in a household where nothing short of a compound fracture or projectile vomiting gave you a Stay Home pass, I tend to view just about all health complaints with a big dose of skepticism. I attacked from all angles:
Are you feverish?Since the answers to all of the above were answered, grudgingly, in the negative...I decided he could chew up a couple of Tums and catch the bus. "Buck up, Senator. If you start to feel worse, the school nurse has my cell phone number."
Do you feel like you're going to throw up?
Is there something at school you might be avoiding?
Does it hurt worse than the time you ran into the metal bar on the playground with your face?
Now I'm suffering, wondering if I made the right choice. I have been hovering around the phone, waiting for the Call of Shame from the nurse's office. The afternoon bus just can't get here soon enough.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Another Moment For The "Great Parenting" Archives
The Governor had his Valentine's Day...pardon...his Friendship Party at school last Thursday. Four mothers volunteered to come up with different games or crafts to entertain the little buggers for about an hour. Since we were also invited to bring a snack (because the candy attached to the Valentine's...pardon...Friendship cards might not raise their glucose levels high enough), I decided to combine craft with snack. I bought heart-shaped cookies, frosting, and assorted sprinkles. Assemble and eat.
The kids were divided up into smaller groups, and the teacher had them rotate between each station.
When The Governor made it to my table, he applied the frosting and decorations with gusto. He ate the cookie, drank the little bottle of water, got up out of his seat, staggered backwards, and declared, "I feel like I'm drunk."
When I was finally able to shut my mouth, I had to make the situation worse by hissing, "What did you just say?"
And, of course, he repeated himself even louder. "I FEEL like I'm DRUNK!"
I looked up to see the teacher (a substitute, fortunately. God doesn't completely hate me) staring at us with a grin on his face. "I have no idea what to say," I lamely muttered.
The Gov grinned and staggered on to the next station: Pin the Wing on Cupid.
Since I have yet to receive a call from Child Protection Services, I can only assume the young, recently graduated from college substitute thought The Governor's comments more amusing than serious.
I did have a chat with The Governor on the ride home from school. He couldn't say where he picked up that little gem, but he did promise never to repeat it again. But only after I waxed on about the appeal of boarding schools.
The kids were divided up into smaller groups, and the teacher had them rotate between each station.
When The Governor made it to my table, he applied the frosting and decorations with gusto. He ate the cookie, drank the little bottle of water, got up out of his seat, staggered backwards, and declared, "I feel like I'm drunk."
When I was finally able to shut my mouth, I had to make the situation worse by hissing, "What did you just say?"
And, of course, he repeated himself even louder. "I FEEL like I'm DRUNK!"
I looked up to see the teacher (a substitute, fortunately. God doesn't completely hate me) staring at us with a grin on his face. "I have no idea what to say," I lamely muttered.
The Gov grinned and staggered on to the next station: Pin the Wing on Cupid.
Since I have yet to receive a call from Child Protection Services, I can only assume the young, recently graduated from college substitute thought The Governor's comments more amusing than serious.
I did have a chat with The Governor on the ride home from school. He couldn't say where he picked up that little gem, but he did promise never to repeat it again. But only after I waxed on about the appeal of boarding schools.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Driving Lessons Start Tomorrow
Well, my sister has complained that she is tired of looking at Bambi threaded through the BMW engine, so I have a post for you. Big news. A new milestone has been reached here at The Outpost.
The Governor (age 5) swallowed a pill today. Whole.
Friday The VP took The Gov to the doctor to see how much of this "My throat is so sore it's gonna die!" theatrics was genuine. A lot, as it turns out. He was diagnosed with strep. I begged The VP to ask the doctor for pills instead of liquid antibiotics. Our last round with The Governor and medicine resulted in a twenty minute ordeal every dosing time as I would have to mix chocolate syrup with the medicine and feed it to him in smurf-sized spoonfuls. And the medicine didn't taste bad to begin with.
So this time, I was determined to try pills.
The first six doses, I ended up breaking up the pill and hiding the broken shards in pudding. But this morning, I was set on making him try a full pill swallow. He was reluctant at first, so we did a trial run with a mouthful of juice sans pill. Fill mouth, tilt head, pretend to drop the pill in and let it settle to the back of your throat, and then gulp.
I offered him a second trial run, but he declined and went for the real thing. And he got it on the first try. I was prepared for gagging, crying, and possibly having to fish the pill out of a pile of vomit and trying again. But The Gov came through for me.
No more hiding medicines in ice cream and pudding. No more listening to "how much more do I have left?" Five second medicine distribution. I wept.
And such a milestone, small though it may be, brings him one step closer to being an adult. An adult that does not reside under my roof and doesn't wake me at three in the morning with a 103 degree fever and can drive himself to the clinic.
Life is good.
The Governor (age 5) swallowed a pill today. Whole.
Friday The VP took The Gov to the doctor to see how much of this "My throat is so sore it's gonna die!" theatrics was genuine. A lot, as it turns out. He was diagnosed with strep. I begged The VP to ask the doctor for pills instead of liquid antibiotics. Our last round with The Governor and medicine resulted in a twenty minute ordeal every dosing time as I would have to mix chocolate syrup with the medicine and feed it to him in smurf-sized spoonfuls. And the medicine didn't taste bad to begin with.
So this time, I was determined to try pills.
The first six doses, I ended up breaking up the pill and hiding the broken shards in pudding. But this morning, I was set on making him try a full pill swallow. He was reluctant at first, so we did a trial run with a mouthful of juice sans pill. Fill mouth, tilt head, pretend to drop the pill in and let it settle to the back of your throat, and then gulp.
I offered him a second trial run, but he declined and went for the real thing. And he got it on the first try. I was prepared for gagging, crying, and possibly having to fish the pill out of a pile of vomit and trying again. But The Gov came through for me.
No more hiding medicines in ice cream and pudding. No more listening to "how much more do I have left?" Five second medicine distribution. I wept.
And such a milestone, small though it may be, brings him one step closer to being an adult. An adult that does not reside under my roof and doesn't wake me at three in the morning with a 103 degree fever and can drive himself to the clinic.
Life is good.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Dammit, I Hate It When This Happens..
Well, here I was all set to ignore the old blog for another month (although I have been enjoying all the comments!) and I get an email from Matthew asking me what happened to Cathy in the Wright.
Apparently, Matthew, I'm going to starve it to death. But thank you for asking.
My sister was asking about my lack of posting, and I suggested to her that we put forth a joint effort. Now that she has finally rejoined the 21st century with an internet connection. She's a former MN state trooper and a mom...so she's got excellent stories to share. We shall see.
In the mean time, thank you all for stopping by to check. And Chris - the temperature today warmed up to -8 degrees when I took the kids to school this morning, so you and your over-worked furnace can [edited for PG content].
Apparently, Matthew, I'm going to starve it to death. But thank you for asking.
My sister was asking about my lack of posting, and I suggested to her that we put forth a joint effort. Now that she has finally rejoined the 21st century with an internet connection. She's a former MN state trooper and a mom...so she's got excellent stories to share. We shall see.
In the mean time, thank you all for stopping by to check. And Chris - the temperature today warmed up to -8 degrees when I took the kids to school this morning, so you and your over-worked furnace can [edited for PG content].
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Cue The Banjo Music
My husband bought a shirt the other day. The shirt does not have buttons. It has...snaps.
You will never know how hard it was for me to write that.
Snaps. I can only imagine what wardrobe horrors await me in the near future. I'm sure it will probably include jumpsuits.
There is no way I can let him out of the house wearing that shirt. And he's so damn proud of it, too. To prevent everlasting shame from descending upon the family name, I need to act.
I foresee a horrible accident in which the Maytag singles out and shreds the snap shirt.
You will never know how hard it was for me to write that.
Snaps. I can only imagine what wardrobe horrors await me in the near future. I'm sure it will probably include jumpsuits.
There is no way I can let him out of the house wearing that shirt. And he's so damn proud of it, too. To prevent everlasting shame from descending upon the family name, I need to act.
I foresee a horrible accident in which the Maytag singles out and shreds the snap shirt.
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