Rox and Roll

Getting religion

This evening's pre-dinner conversation:

Petunia: Mama, why did Jesus eat guinea pig?

Mama: Huh?

Petunia: There's a picture in my guinea pig book of Jesus eating a guinea pig.

Mama: Oh!  I think that painting is from Peru, where guinea pig is actually food to people.

Petunia: I don't understand why people would ever eat guinea pig. 

Mama: Well, many people in India don't understand why other people eat cow meat.  In India, a cow is considered holy.

The Guv: Holey?  Like with holes in them?

Petunia: Dad, you need to go to church.

Amen.

The guinea pig rescue mission

After deciding to add a pair of guinea pigs to our family, we trolled a few pet stores for a couple of weeks.  In some ways, pet stores are happy places.  No longer do you pass row after row of pet in confined spaces.  Instead, dogs are brought in for adoption on Saturdays.  A few cats linger each day, but they're rotated from a local shelter; a crew of elderly ladies come in each day to care for and hold them.  But, if you're looking for guinea pigs, the situation is a bit different.  The recommended space for these small, furry critters is 7.5 square feet for one-two animals.  Instead, at each pet store I visited, three guinea pigs were kept in a tank the size of a fish aquarium -- as in, less than two square feet.  They didn't have room to move at all, and most of them looked a bit deranged.  Reading the websites, it seems as though madness does set in when these animals don't have the room they need nor properly vented cages.

At one of these stores, I found a particularly knowledgeable employee who is a veterinary technician.  She gave me great advice about raising guinea pigs.  At the end of our conversation, I shared with her my discomfort about buying guinea pigs from a pet store.  She didn't get defensive -- in fact, I felt she was relieved at my concern -- and suggested that I contact my local vet group to see if there are guinea pigs available for "rescue."  Now, I've heard of rescuing cats and dogs, but guinea pigs? 

Lo and behold, there's a huge guinea pig rescue mission right here in NJ.  It turns out that last year, more than a hundred (many of that hundred pregnant) guinea pigs were rescued from a barn in Pennsylvania that was raising them for food, something common in Peruvian culture but illegal in this country.  Many places raising animals for food keep their animals in humane conditions, but this case was as far away from that as possible.  It didn't take long for me to contact the shelter about taking in some of these critters. 

The adoption application was long -- kind of funny, since pet stores require no information -- but I dutifully filled it out and was approved to adopt.  Petunia and I scrolled through the long list of available pets last night, and she chose a pair of males aged about 5 and 9 months.  They are somewhere in a classroom right now, so they are used to kids.  This is not necessarily the pair I would have picked, as I was drawn to the cute little fuzzier babies.  However, I think it's pretty cool that Petunia was okay with adopting non-baby animals.  (Is this a comment on baby Dash?  I'll never know.)  We should have the piggies by the weekend, and after stocking up on the goods yesterday, we are ready.  Pictures of our new furry friends coming soon!

The excitement is building!

Today, our family visited our local farm supply store to order a very large cage for the pair of guinea pigs that we hope to adopt from an animal rescue mission next weekend.  Petunia started a little bit of sniveling while we were in the store, then, upon our exit, the tears started flowing.  She quietly sniffed, "I'm just so excited, Mama.  I've waited more than seven years to have my very own pet."  She is such a great kid that I won't even call her a Drama Queen for the theatrical tears.  We're all excited!  So send the "good pet karma" our way!  

Been there, done that

Today, the Guv and I journeyed to New York City to see Rent on Broadway.  It was exhilarating -- the end of a long, long wait, an almost-twenty year wait, actually.  And the show?  It was worth the wait.  I would see it again, and again, and again, though not as often as Louise Woodward saw it. 

In any event, my expectations of a Broadway show were surpassed in some ways, but not in others.  I thought the theaters and theater-goers would be, well, fancy.  Not so!  As we had decided to walk from Penn Station to the show, I opted for cords and a sweater, and I was overdressed.  The theater was pretty run-down, and the seats narrow and uncomfortable.  But the music -- oh, the music! -- it was electrifying.  I was expecting Rogers and Hammerstein and ended up with loud rock music (thank God!).  Tamyra Gray played the role of MiMi, and the girl can B-L-O-W.  My favorite singer, though, might have been Michael McElroy playing Tom Collins; his reprise of "I'll Cover You" after his lover's death nearly brought me to tears.  Truly, I have never heard such singing nor seen such acting.  Now I know why the tickets cost so damned much!

With regard to the show, I can understand why it is coming to an end, fantastic as it is.  The issues that it deals with are very mid-90s.  I kept thinking of my college years at Wesleyan during that time frame -- and it seems like the characters are people I knew.   Perhaps that's why I enjoyed it so much!  In any event, the show ends in NYC on June 1, so, if you haven't seen it, it gets my heartiest recommendation.  The subject matter is not appropriate for children or staunch conservatives, but none of those read my site anyway. 

And now, I can say that I've been to Broadway, and I'm going back... Mamma Mia, anyone?

A busy, eventful, strange day

Today has been a very strange day. 

For starters, I drove Petunia and Wally Cleaver to school with Dash tagging along, as au pair Maria is still under the weather and needed (at my behest) to sleep in.  After dropping off the big kids, Dash demanded to go to Wal-Mart.  Wal-Mart has never been a choice destination for me, but I go there a little more often since Target banned Salvation Army bell ringers three years ago.   Mostly, we visit the Wal-Mart store because it has a McDonald's, which is the only place that Dash eats regularly.  (In all seriousness, we are not evil parents trying to obesify our kid; we are under orders from a medical doctor to feed him McD's as much as he wants because he is so underweight and eats so little.)  So, when Dash wants Wally World, to Wally World we go.  And it's great that we did; he gnawed his way through two McGriddles and half a hash brown before we even hit the Matchbox car aisle so that he could pick a little reward for such good eating.

In any event, our Wal-Mart/McDonald's routine recently expanded to visiting the PetSmart next door.  The kids and I are fixated on getting a pet, and, since none of us are ready for a dog quite yet, we are visiting the store's guinea pigs regularly.  Today, I talked with a vet tech at length about guinea pigs, which are neither pigs nor from Guinea.  In any event, she plied me with pamphlets on these animals, which are well-suited for life with small children.  I'm still dragging my feet, but I think that even the Guv will go for a pair of these critters. 

The day continued with my mid-day tennis drill, after depositing Dash with a much-better and well-rested Maria.  At my drill, I was asked to join the USTA team for the club.  Since I was pretty much always the last picked in gym class, being asked to participate on this team means a lot to me.  But it's weird, it's weird -- athletic competition has never been my bag, but for this, I am ready.  Or I will be, come April, when the matches begin.

And then... I picked up Petunia from school to visit the Guv's far-away office with Girl Scout cookies in tow.  Her sales were outstanding, but we still have waaaay too many cookies left to sell.  Clearly, Mama had some sangria in her when placing the order.  So, we drowned our victory and our upcoming pavement-pounding-with-cookies in some Baja Fresh, which truly makes the world seem like a saner place -- an important thing after your seven year-old Girl Scout has spent the entire drive demanding to know why dictators kill people, why we are at war, why some people oppose the war, why 9-11 happened... hold on, need more sangria...

So here's my takeaway from this insane day: 1.) Guinea pigs rock.  2.) Dictators suck.  3.) Tennis rocks.  4.) Baja Fresh heals all ills, but the guac sure does come back on you.

To tube or not to tube, that is the question

Today, I took Dash to an ENT for a consultation on his many ear infections.  As luck would have it, Dash has another cold, and, of course, both of his ears were full of fluid.  The doc placed him on an antibiotic (FiFi medi again!) for two weeks, after which we return for a re-check and a hearing test.  If the fluid's still there, or if it's not and the hearing test is poor, the doc recommends inserting drainage tubes since this is the fifth ear infection of the school year.  Meanwhile, while we were there, the doc excavated a hunk of ear wax from Dash's right ear that was the size of my pinkie fingernail.  Quite frankly, that's the closest to vomiting I've come in a long time, both because the chunk was disgusting and because I couldn't believe he pulled such a huge thing out of my little guy's ear.  Needless to say, the little guy in question made no secret of his extreme dissatisfaction with this process, which must have hurt like hell.  He started screaming "I don't want this doctor!  Take me to Starbucks [next door] right now!  I want chai!  I don't want this doctor!"  repeatedly. 

Aside from the obvious getting-a-two-year-old-to-cooperate issues, there are several things that more or less suck about the possibilty (which I think is actually a probability) of Dash getting tubed.  For starters, Dash received three rounds of anesthesia -- the max amount -- before an endoscopy a year ago and could not be knocked out.  While he was dopey for the procedure, he pulled the scope out himself at the end, "a first" according to the doctor.  Small babies, toddlers, kids and teenagers emerged from the same procedure sleeping and calm.  Dash came out screaming "Go home!  Get Vito's pizza right now!"  And he didn't even nap that day.  SO -- the prospect of him getting anesthetized, or not, again makes me rather nervous. 

What also rattles me a bit is that I really like this doctor -- and I am big on gut feel -- but he is old.  As in, his medical degree is from the University of Tehran, which means that he graduated before the Ayatollah happened.  Someone in the local apothecary today told me that she saw him when he was relatively new in 1976.  I was three in 1976.  That was a long time ago.  On the up-side, he is experienced, and, according to the NJ doctor list, he has no malpractice or other legal woes.  On the down-side, he does this procedure at a hospital in Trenton that I do not like at all.  It is an inefficient, dirty place with which we've had billing issues over basic ER visits.  To have an actual procedure that involves an operating room and an anesthesiologist in addition to the doc means that there's even more room for a lot of insurance coding errors.  Maybe we should just go to CHOP.  How do I decide?

In any event, it feels like Progress Is Being Made, even if Dash is still sick, au pair Maria is throwing up, and I'm coming down with yet another cold.  This is life, it seems, and life with kids involves things like endoscopies and ear tubes that I never could have predicted or can accept, really.  I sort of feel like I have some cosmic due for breastfeeding two babies for 18+ months each, and that the asthma, ear infections, and strep throats I'm getting aren't what I deserve after all of that.  BUT -- this isn't about me, this is about Dash, and, if ear tubes make him better, then ear tubes he will have.  Of course, that means that he has to let the doctor near his ears again in two weeks.  For once, I'm glad that I'm the mom and not the doctor!

Petunia's Dream

Petunia has been fascinated with Dr. Martin Luther King for the last couple of weeks.  We have read several books about his life, times and death, and we have read and recited his "I have a dream speech" dozens of times.  Sometimes it is hard to raise a child who is socially aware beyond her years, but it is also such a treat.  I don't think we work harder than most good parents to instill social consciousness in our children; Petunia just has the innate gifts of curiosity, concern and compassion.  Someday, she will use these gifts for a whole lot of good.

So today, I asked my little girl to write her own "I have a dream" speech.  And after giving me the perfunctory, "Mama, it's a day off from school" groan and eye roll, she engrossed herself in her speech.  Here it is:

I Have a Dream - by Petunia

That homeless people will have a home.
That Pete [a Marine friend redeploying soon for Iraq] and Aunt Sherry [in Afghanistan currently] are okay.
That people will have enough food.
That everyone is safe.
That everyone is free.
That everyone is happy.
That dinosaurs and magical creatures come to life!

(Well, she is only seven, after all!)

No more potty breaks

Petunia and the Guv are at tap dance, so Dash -- who is coming down with yet another cold -- and I are hanging together watching the Cars movie for the fiftieth time.  I took a very quick potty break, which is usually a safe thing to do when he's on the couch watching a movie.

Ha.

I emerged from the bathroom to see him jump off of the BACK of the couch onto the couch bed onto the cushions on the floor. 

He then looked up at my aghast face proudly and said, "HOLY SHIT!"

Oh, if there is a purgatory, I'm going to spend some extra days there for how hard I'm laughing right now.

Hell froze over, and pigs flew, too

No, the Guv didn't buy Rent tickets, though he did give me the green light.  Something more amazing happened:

DASH ATE DINNER.

Oh, the irony: this morning, I called CHOP's feeding program to schedule a follow-up for Dash, as his eating is backsliding and his weight gain has gone nowhere.  As in, the kid has not gained one ounce since March.  Not an ounce.  Not one.  He has grown in height, which basically means that it's very, very hard to look at him naked.  You can see every rib, every vertebrae.  Our behavioral psychologist at CHOP described him as stubborn, and she doesn't know the half of it.  Days have passed in which Dash has eaten fifteen Cheerios, a few cups of soy milk, and nothing more.  Total.  For days. 

I promised myself long ago not to freak out about his growth.  He is happy and is meeting developmental milestones.  He appears healthy to everyone, which, of course, is part of my angst.  When your friends and family tell you, "but he looks fine," and you know, as his mother, that he's pretty freakin' far from fine, despair results.  It's a lonely battle, but I know that it's worth fighting because Something Is Not Right. 

And then, tonight, I made tacos for dinner.  Sitting in his high chair, Dash demanded a taco.  I had already put some chicken-flavored Uncle Ben's rice in the nuker, in hopes that he might eat a few tablespoons.  But I also always offer him what we're eating, so I dutifully prepared a taco, in a crunchy corn shell that immediately fell apart.  Dash expressed some extreme dissatisfaction with this outcome, so I whipped out some soft corn tortillas, which I softened under a damp towel in the microwave (else they break, too), and filled with cheese and meat.

And the child ate the whole thing.  The thing made of three ingredients that he doesn't eat: corn, meat, and cheese.  And then, he ate another half of one.  When I took him out of his high chair, I lifted his shirt, and his little belly, which is usually concave, was convex.  It was the most beautiful belly I have ever seen.

But the night of magic was not to end there.  As I laid down with Dash to put him to sleep, I gave him his usual kiss goodnight and told him that I love him.  And he rolled over, put his arms around my neck, and said "I love you, Mommy," gave me a kiss, and said, "I love my good mommy so much."

Since I can count on one hand the amount of times that Dash has told me he loves me unprompted, that was a pretty sweet ending to one of the best days I've ever had since he was born.  I wrapped my arms around him tight as could be -- something else he never allows -- and let him fall asleep like that, after he took my hand of his own accord.  Feeling his little fingers wrapped around mine, I just soaked in the wonder of it all.

P.S. Yes, I'm still going to keep the feeding program appointment because, sadly, I'm pretty sure that we'll need it.

Give my regards to Broadway, because I might not ever go myself

First, some background information: The Guv is a native New Yorker, born and raised in Brooklyn until schlepping off to prep school in 9th grade.  I am a native West Virginian, born and raised mostly in the northernmost town of Chester until I schlepped off to attend 11th grade at the prep school where I met the Guv.  I have been with the Guv for seventeen years, eight months, and four days.  We have been married for ten years, six months, three weeks, and four days.

Now, the complaint: I have never attended a Broadway show.  I rarely ask the Guv for anything, but I have asked him to take me to a Broadway show in New York City probably every year since 1990.  And the truth is, I could've been there by now.  I studied at Columbia for my graduate degree from 2002-2004, so I was in the City enough.  I've had opportunities to go with friends, and it just hasn't happened.  The Guv used to go to these things with school groups, so he's had his fill.  But me?  Nada.  My West Virginian cousin has been there, done that.  Our Austrian au pair has been there, done that.  I'm still waiting, because I want to attend with my husband.  I've dug in my heels.

And, the reality: The fact is, while he did manage to ask me to marry him all on his own, we wouldn't have children (well, Dash, at least) if I hadn't said, "Honey, it's time."  I will have to sway the decision of whether or not we move closer to his work.  I will find the schools and preschools.  I will decide whether or not to re-enroll Dash -- who seriously hasn't gained even one ounce in almost a calendar year -- in the Children's Hospital feeding program.  And I'm cool with all of that, because that's my job, and the Guv works hard to earn the money to pay for all of these things.  Hat's off to him for that.  BUT...

Guv, here's the deal: I worked hard in 2007 too, so I think that I, too, have earned a bonus.  I'll take payment in the form of two tickets to see Rent because it's closing.  And yes, YOU have to go with me.  A matinee will do quite nicely, since there's little chance that Dash will be sleeping on his own anytime soon, since I have to take care of that myself, too.  (That's my job, and I accept it.)  But, as the poster reads, "Your job is to focus on my personal happiness, she said, & I've got big plans, so break time is over."   C'mon, Guv, before we move far away from here... plee-wee-weez....

Dashisms

Dash was a one-man riot tonight.  He is feeling better enough to want to be hysterically funny to us all.  Examples:

Physical comedy: He stuck his skinny little arm in a roll of paper towels and used it first to beat us all up, and then as padding as he ran into the wall and performed various WWF maneuvers on the floor.

Physical and stand-up comedy: "I freakin' booted last night, man" followed by puffing his cheeks and fake vomiting.

Stand-up with an assist: The Guv: "Dash, can you raise the roof?"  Dash replies: "Not yet."

I'm fairly sure that if his career in extreme sports doesn't pan out, he'll make a most excellent frat boy.

Would run with scissors if allowed

Tonight's going-to-bed dialogue:

Dash: Mama, Daddy took my screwdriver away.

Mama: Dash, that wasn't your screwdriver.  It was Daddy's big and sharp screwdriver, and it wasn't safe for you to use.

Dash: That WAS my screwdriver.  I want it.  Super Bob needs a big huge screwdriver to do big man work.  [Super Bob, a fusion of Super Mario and Bob the Builder, is Dash's name for himself this weekend.]

Mama: Well, Super Bob, maybe we can find a good screwdriver for you tomorrow. 

Dash: No!  You punish Daddy!  I need my big huge screwdriver!

Mama, giving in: Okay, Dash, I'll punish Daddy later.  Now can you go to sleep?

After a few moments of silence:

Dash: Mama?

Mama: Yes, Dash.

Dash: You didn't punish Daddy yet.

Mama: Dash, as I live and breathe, you had better go to sleep right this instant.  We can talk about the screwdriver tomorrow.

Dash: Don't call me that!  I'm Super Bob!

Mama, stifling the urge to explode: Okay then, Super Bob, good night.  Sweet dreams.  I love you.

Dash: I love screwdrivers.

And then he falls asleep within seconds...

Our bodies, our selves

This morning, as Petunia was dressing for tap dance, she came into my room in tears.  I asked what was wrong, and she yelled, "Mama!  It's so embarassing!" with her arms crossed over her chest.  When I coaxed her into unfolding her arms and talking to me, the problem became apparent.  She had put her leotard on backward, and it threatened to reveal her boobs (her term for them, not mine!).  

Now, this is funny to me because yesterday, she almost left for school with an entire dress on backward.  Clearly, the child is having an issue with putting her clothes on properly.  So, I declared tomorrow to be backward day and suggested that we all wear our clothes backward.  The idea didn't fly -- she just gave me a deadpan look and said, "Mama, that would be SO embarassing."  Oh well.

In any event, as we corrected the Problem of the Backward Leotard, Petunia muttered, "I don't want to have boobs, anyway!" through her tears.  So, as much as it kills me to say "boobs" instead of "breasts", I gave her my own deadpan look and told her: "Petunia, someday, when you're a woman, your boobs will grow larger, and, one day, you'll have a baby.  And as you feed that baby milk through those boobs, you'll be very thankful that you have the power to nourish your baby.  Boobs may get in the way sometimes, but they're very important to the circle of life."

My motherly lesson was apparently riotously funny, and she spent the entire ride to tap dance asking me if I could ever picture her breastfeeding a baby and snickering.  But I couldn't help to think to myself that yes, yes I can, and isn't that the point of all of this: to raise a strong, independent woman who can give and nourish life just as I gave Petunia her life and nourished hers? 

In the midst of all of our recent sickness and chaos, sometimes I feel guilty that I wish (a little too often) that they'd grow up and take care of themselves already.  Then the guilt is supplanted by this realization that, when they do, it's because I ripped out my own heart, split it in two, stuck their little arms and legs on the halves and sent them to go forth into the world and do some good.  And when they hurt, I will hurt -- but when they are joyful, that's my joy, too.  It is my highest aspiration that their happiness and their success in life surpass my own.   So, again, yes, Petunia, I can picture you breastfeeding many babies, even though it's a little strange right now.  You'll make a great mom someday, and Dash will make a great dad someday, because the Guv and I are working hard to give you the toolkit you'll need.  In the meanwhile, let's work on figuring out how to help you dress yourself properly, so that your boobs are not a burden at age 7, and perhaps we can even avoid dressing in all pink sometimes... just a suggestion.

The return of Dash the Dementor, and some lights at the end of the tunnel

Dash the Dementor is back, and it ain't pretty.  This is ear infection #4 of the school year, and I think he's pretty crabby about it.  Of course, so am I, because when he is sick and crabby I spend the days getting screamed at and the nights getting vomited on and kicked.  In other words, I might as well be in prison, which on days like yesterday is a bit attractive because I wouldn't even have to cook.

In any event, progress is being made on the sickness front for all of us.  I learned yesterday that I don't need a tonsillectomy, and, needless to say, that's fantastic news.  Dash, however, goes for a consultation regarding ear tubes in two weeks, at which time Petunia will also have her strep throat history examined, as she is likely to require a tonsillectomy.  But if these things mean that the days of ear infections and strep throats -- and way too many antibiotics -- will stop, then these are the right decisions.

Regardless, this is the year in which I focus on our family's health and wellness, to the exclusion of all else if necessary.  Clearly, where we are living in NJ is not a healthy place for us.  We've been considering a relocation to Main Line Philly, but I just learned that Philly is one of the top worst places to live with asthma -- so we're reconsidering.  I think that if we are going to leave our perfect little Norman Rockwell town, it needs to be for more reasons than just the Guv's job, though that is clearly important.  Our physical and emotional wellness (the former for the kids, the latter for me) is keenly important, too.  I'd love to be in a place where I have options, a lot of options, to pursue when I return to work.  So today, I woke up feeling oddly good, despite the Dementor keeping me up all night, even once attempting to kick in my teeth.  I realized that we are in our mid-30s, are flexible, mobile and willing to embrace change -- which means we can do anything, or live anywhere, once we fix our priorities.  Right now, mine's health, and the West Coast or Pacific Northwest is looking attractive again for that reason, even though I'd kiboshed the Guv's earlier leanings in that direction.  Who knows?  The next few years are going to be an adventure -- a fun adventure -- one way or another.

Why I support cloning

Today was one of those days that I really didn't think could happen.  Someone in our family seems to be ill all the time, but, usually, the kids' illnesses don't come to a head at once.

Today, that happened.

While we were in Vermont at Christmastime, Petunia had a nocturnal asthma attack for the first time ever.  While there's no question that she has asthma, it's always been mild and controllable -- think long coughs after illnesses, not paralyzing gasping for air.  This time, something viral -- the biggest trigger of nocturnal asthma -- hit her hard, exacerbated by some strong smells in her bedroom, and she had one of those paralyzing, panic-stricken, really-can't-breathe attacks.  We nearly called 911, but I had come prepared with a nebulizer just in case one of the kids developed a bad cough.  The neb worked, and Petunia didn't seem to have further issues.  Her asthma doc was in Argentina, but he suggested an appointment on the morning of his return, at 10:30 today at his office 40 minutes away.

And then Dash woke up in the night with another ear infection -- high fever, a little vomiting, smacking his head, his usual.  Since I didn't know how long Petunia's appointment was going to be -- it was, in the end, two hours because of delays and the thorough exam -- I didn't know when I could take Dash to the doc.  If I waited until a "safe" time, like 3 pm, he'd miss his nap.  Since both he and I were up from around 1:45 - 4:30 am, we both needed that nap. 

Fortunately, the Guv stepped up to the plate, without any hesitation or cries of martyrdom on his part, even.  He knew that Dash had to be seen this morning; any delay in diagnosis and medication means that Dash throws up more, which becomes a serious issue since he's significantly underweight.  So he took Dash to the doc at the same time as I took Petunia to her doc.  Not only that, the Guv even managed to get Dash to eat an entire slice of pizza after the doctor's visit!  This worked out fabulously well, but it's a rare day that the Guv will be able to step in like that.  I'm left to wonder how parents with MORE than two children -- like our friends in Utah who have six -- handle these situations. 

Meanwhile, both Dash's and my hands are looking a lot better, both kids are on antibiotics, and now we can focus on the bigger things.  It looks like Dash may need tubes in his little ears, and it also looks like Petunia may need to have her tonsils taken out.  Since I see the ENT on Wednesday morning regarding my own tonsils, I'm thinking of asking if he has a family plan.  Maybe 3 operations for the price of 2?  It's time I start working out some deals, because I'm starting to think it's families like mine who make health insurance so costly for us all.  And I'm sorry for that.  I'm trying to figure out where in this great country of ours we should live -- like perhaps Seattle? -- where we could all be healthy, all of the time.  Suggestions welcome!

Welcome to 2008, no different from 2007

I thought I'd be quicker to post in the New Year... and then reality set in.  And it's kind of funny to me at this point, so here's the story of the last few days:

On Wednesday, when I went to pick up Dash from preschool, his teacher came out with an Incident Report Form before I even saw him.  She started explaining that he'd injured himself by ramming a car into the back of a bike during indoor recess.  She basically needed for me to sign that she'd told me about his head injury, presumably so that I don't sue them if he has complications from a concussion in the night or something.  In any event, I saw the goose egg on his head -- not pretty, but definitely not the worst he's had -- and proceeded to give away my right to sue sign the form.  Later that day, I noticed that his hands had a bizarre rash-looking thing on them.  Both hands.  They looked as though he had the worst case of dry skin ever.  They didn't look like they'd been burnt or injured, but this was bizarre.  Did he stick his hands in some strong cleaning product in the school's kitchen when the teacher took him in there to ice his head?  Or was the oven on?  How would I know?  This certainly wasn't in the incident report form.  So I called a lawyer called his doctor.  After treating his poor little hands with bacitracin, hydrocortizone, and Aquaphor for days, and after his wearing socks on his hands -- on his own volilition -- they do look much better.

But then, what do you know, I seemed to have a similar thing going on with my own hands.  As luck would have it, the only dermatology group in the area that takes my insurance had a near-immediate appointment available.  The doctor, who looked like Andy Rooney's twin, proclaimed it to be bad eczema and sent me on my way with a lot of Eucerin Plus.   Case closed, I hope.

So the Guv and I made plans to frolic this Saturday, starting off with our usual hour of tennis at the gym and ending at King of Prussia mall so that I could start making plans to spend years' worth of Tiffany gift cards.

Sometimes I think we make these plans just to lament their being spoiled, as Petunia woke up with her umpteenth case of strep throat.  Fortunately, the pediatrician trusts that I know when my kid has strep throat, since she has literally had it more than a dozen times in the last two years, so we avoided a Saturday morning hospital trip and just started the antibiotics directly. 

In the end, the Guv and I still played tennis.  Crappy tennis.  I blamed it on my fingers, numbed from eczema, and on the fact that snowboarding did nothing for my arm strength.  But the truth is, I feel like crap.  I head to an ENT on Wednesday and am expecting to hear the same diagnosis I heard five years ago: I need to have my tonsils out.  And this time, I think I'll take it seriously, because I'm sick of all of this sickness.  Wellness has to start somewhere, and it might as well start with ridding myself of the sinusitis/tonsilitis that I've had since November 8.  Seriously.

So... 2008 is definitely not getting off to the strong start I planned.  Ever the optimist, though, I'm looking at it this way: Even feeling like crap, I learned to snowboard.  Even with a pretty bad case of mommy martyr syndrome, I managed to meet my own needs by leaving the kids with our capable au pair today to squeeze in tennis.  After coming home to check on things -- finding Petunia fast asleep on the couch and Dash miraculously leaving her alone -- the Guv and I even had a gluten-free lunch at P.F. Chang's.  I am learning balance, and no one's suffering for it, including me -- so that's a good thing, even with raw hands and sore tonsils.  And there's always 2009 to look forward to....  

Seeking inspiration

One of the popular mommy blogs that I read asked for readers to post their new year's resolutions on-line.  The blog received two responses from its tens of thousands of readers.  I'm unsurprised, as I've never been a big fan of once-annual resolutions myself.  Seriously, if you ask someone in August what her progress is on her new year's resolution, you're going to be met with a puzzled expression and a "huh?"  I am big on goal-setting throughout the year, though; specifically, I like to set goals with measurable progress and a definite outcome.  For example, last summer, I decided to play tennis again.  My goal was to be able to play at a low-intermediate level (USTA ranking 3.0) by the end of the school year; I've now expanded that goal to a desire to play at a 3.5 (high-intermediate level) by the end of this calendar year and, with the Guv, to win the mixed-doubles championship at our club in Vermont by the time I'm 40.  These are measurable, attainable goals with an end point.

But because people ask, and it's common mommy-waiting-for-school-pickup chat, I'm sitting here stewing over what I should say my resolution is.  Right now, I'm going with "Be excellent to each other.  Party on, dudes!" (from the sages Bill and Ted, of course).  Because all of the usual other resolutions -- dieting, exercising, volunteering -- don't suit me.  (I'm not being rude; I eat healthfully, exercise, and volunteer already.)  All kidding aside, I'm thinking that perhaps the best resolution I can set -- not just for the new year, but ongoing -- is to live in a way that I would want my children to live at 34.  Try new things (snowboarding!).  Make time to be kind to ALL people (take a moment to chat with the elderly lady that asks Dash's age in the grocery store; ask if she has grandkids!).  Accept change readily and with a smile.  Turn a negative into a challenge if not a positive.  Give more when you feel like giving up (apologies to Martina McBride).  Spend more time having experiences together and spend less money on "stuff."  Be less crabby, and smile more.  Yell less, and laugh more. 

In other words, be excellent to each other!