Ignition. Clock starts
Multitasking killed my brain
Racing down the road
Road work. Halts. The Flow.
Blood pressure soars. A long sigh.
Late to work again?
Foiled at every turn
Short cuts turn to scenic routes
Rows of orange cones
On the open road
Aged drivers creeping along
I sigh, defeated
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
On your mark, Get set, PRAY!
One of the things that we do, as Christians, is pray. We routinely pray before bed and meals. One of the things that we do NOT do, as non-denominational Christians, is the sign of the cross, or genuflecting, or that sort of thing. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, I was raised with the sign of the cross… but if Elliott starts doing that, he’s really going to look like an oddball among his evangelical peers, and we prefer to conform. Ha ha.
Actually, it’s nothing I’ve ever given a lot of thought to, until now.
Living with my parents means family mealtime, and a big family prayer. Before last night, there was always comedy at prayer time, but it was usually because Michael tended to get the spot next to Dad, and then when everyone went to hold hands and pray, there would be that awkward moment.
Last night, Elliott watched my parents do the sign of the cross before praying, and decided to give it a try. (This should give you some insight as to what goes on in the mind of a curious four year old.)
He rapidly fanned himself while yelling “On your mark, get set, GO!” rattled out a prayer before anyone could say a word, and then smacked his hands together with gusto and shouted “AMEN!”
Actually, it’s nothing I’ve ever given a lot of thought to, until now.
Living with my parents means family mealtime, and a big family prayer. Before last night, there was always comedy at prayer time, but it was usually because Michael tended to get the spot next to Dad, and then when everyone went to hold hands and pray, there would be that awkward moment.
Last night, Elliott watched my parents do the sign of the cross before praying, and decided to give it a try. (This should give you some insight as to what goes on in the mind of a curious four year old.)
He rapidly fanned himself while yelling “On your mark, get set, GO!” rattled out a prayer before anyone could say a word, and then smacked his hands together with gusto and shouted “AMEN!”
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The One Thing I Didn't Realize I'd Need...
"Me time," something all mothers joke/dramatically complain about not having, is something I apparently had a little of, because now it's REALLY gone.
My place to scream, or sing along really loud to music. A time to be irrational and hysterical.
I don't really do the emotional thing because I find it embarrassing. Most of my meltdowns happen in bed, and there's no talking. Michael will feel the mattress shaking with sobs and wrap his arms around me.
This morning I woke up late, so the typical morning routine was severely compressed. Driving in to work, which is a 30 minute commute, I did the following things:
My place to scream, or sing along really loud to music. A time to be irrational and hysterical.
I don't really do the emotional thing because I find it embarrassing. Most of my meltdowns happen in bed, and there's no talking. Michael will feel the mattress shaking with sobs and wrap his arms around me.
This morning I woke up late, so the typical morning routine was severely compressed. Driving in to work, which is a 30 minute commute, I did the following things:
- Ate my breakfast
- Fed my son breakfast (a healthy breakfast, she added, patting herself on the back...)
- Fixed my hair
- Put on my makeup (with my eyes on the road, yes my mascara is frightening)
- Brushed my teeth
- Gave my son a nebulizer treatment for his asthma
- Picked a piece of apple peel out of my son's teeth
- Handed Elliott a toothbrush so he could brush his teeth
- Tracked the number of miles I had driven since the gas tank light came on.
- Dropped Elliott off at preschool
- Raced to work like a madwoman
- Sauntered in with my sunglasses on, just before 8:30
- Drive slowly
- Turn the music all the way up
- Scream loudly / cry hysterically / possibly swear a little
- Hyperventilate
- Wear sunglasses so my fellow drivers can be blissfully unaware of the full extent of my insanity
Friday, May 7, 2010
No longer a Modern Warfare widow!
Because my husband plays Battlefield now.
"Is this a different killing game?" I ask
"What do you mean, 'is it different,' it's totally different," he replies.
"What do you mean, what do I mean, you're dressed like an army guy and you have a big gun." I shrug.
I don't get it. Isn't shooting... just shooting? Come on. Someone tell me.
"Is this a different killing game?" I ask
"What do you mean, 'is it different,' it's totally different," he replies.
"What do you mean, what do I mean, you're dressed like an army guy and you have a big gun." I shrug.
I don't get it. Isn't shooting... just shooting? Come on. Someone tell me.
Asthma
Still exhausted from 3 days in the hospital with little guy.
Not really sure how we ended up there, it started with a doctor visit. A quiet listen with the stethoscope. A breathing treatment. The doctor is saying "we can't do anything else for him here" and for some reason I tell him we are doing this Autism walk tomorrow, does this mean we can' t go, and the doctor is saying. "No. You don't understand." Next thing... I am sitting in a wheelchair, in the elevator, in the hospital, holding my lethargic child. A child who normally cannot sit still for a whole 60 seconds. But today, he just wants to be carried. I settle him on the hospital bed, and he looks at the nurse sadly, sighs, as she draws blood and inserts an IV. Falls back asleep, after protesting briefly about wearing pajamas (the hospital gown) during the day time.
Now it is the middle of the night, and I am listening to the IV drip like a freaking coffee percolator all.night.long. Phones ringing and machine dinging. Haven't left this tiny room except to move the car. Wrapped around his little body in a bed too short to straighten my legs. "We don't really encourage cosleeping" says the nurse, who doesn't push the subject after I say "Ok." and stay put. Michael won't leave either, sleeping in the pullout chair next to us. Something is still wrong with Elliott's sleeping. He breathes in quick little pants, not long, calm breaths. My sister listened to him, at home with a stethoscope, and said "asthma." I said no. This kid can run for miles.. but I took him in anyway, and now here we are.
I lay with my ear against his face, afraid to hear his breath go all fast again. It is still too fast for me to settle down and sleep. I lay still and stare at him. Smooth down his hair. Kiss his cheek. Rub his tummy. Check that his IV line is not tangled or caught on something. Rinse and repeat. Every time someone walks in I sit up tensely, and watch, asking questions. What is his oxygen up to. What are you doing with that IV bag. At 3AM, Elliott wakes up screaming and coughing in pain and fear. He is soaking and feverish. The nurse gives him tylenol, and I promise him that it will make him feel better. Then I pray to God that it really will make him feel better. In the back of my mind, I wonder if the insurance went into effect, like it was supposed to today, or if we will be paying for this for the next ten years. So I pray for that, too.
The next day is an improvement, except that Elliott can't wait to leave "the hossable." He is up at 6am singing at the top of his lungs. All of the other families smile politely and close their doors. We guiltily close ours as well, to lock in the happy shouts. A nurse comes by and takes him out of isolation - h1n1 has been officially ruled out and he is allowed to have a friend visit. Gwynnie comes by to play, our pastor's wife comes to pray.
We watch a million VHS movies and color pictures and play with trucks. My parents watch Elliott while Michael and I take a lunch break. During a meal I can barely eat, everything starts to hit me. Michael holds my hand and says a prayer, right there in the restaurant. My eyes continue to well up. No more sitting and feeling bad. It's time to go back and be a mom again.
In between The Little Mermaid and Arthur, Elliott gets a trip to the hospital playroom. It is a Big Deal. The nurses crack up as he hops out of bed in his little red sneakers, triumphantly pulling the IV pole. Michael discovers foam swords and cars. Joyful shrieks ensue.
The following night is better. Elliott's breathing is calmer. I sleep for three hours during the early morning.
The doctor comes in and listens to Elliott breathe. "I hear kitties and doggies inside you!" she says, in her perky I-work-with-kids voice. (I'm not judging her. I have one of those voices, too.) Elliott looks at her dubiously without commenting. Later, when the nurses remove the IV and say "Look what's going to come out!" he stares at the back of his hand like he just might be expecting doggies and kitties to come marching out.
We are released with a nebulizer kit and a book about asthma. I call the insurance company and, when I confirm that we are indeed covered, I profusely thank the customer service rep, who actually seems to care that my son is going to be okay.
Discharge involves dragging my son out of the playroom, where he is having a swordfight with 3 student nurses.
That was almost a week ago, and yes, it has taken THIS LONG to have a somewhat coherent accounting of it.
Not really sure how we ended up there, it started with a doctor visit. A quiet listen with the stethoscope. A breathing treatment. The doctor is saying "we can't do anything else for him here" and for some reason I tell him we are doing this Autism walk tomorrow, does this mean we can' t go, and the doctor is saying. "No. You don't understand." Next thing... I am sitting in a wheelchair, in the elevator, in the hospital, holding my lethargic child. A child who normally cannot sit still for a whole 60 seconds. But today, he just wants to be carried. I settle him on the hospital bed, and he looks at the nurse sadly, sighs, as she draws blood and inserts an IV. Falls back asleep, after protesting briefly about wearing pajamas (the hospital gown) during the day time.
Now it is the middle of the night, and I am listening to the IV drip like a freaking coffee percolator all.night.long. Phones ringing and machine dinging. Haven't left this tiny room except to move the car. Wrapped around his little body in a bed too short to straighten my legs. "We don't really encourage cosleeping" says the nurse, who doesn't push the subject after I say "Ok." and stay put. Michael won't leave either, sleeping in the pullout chair next to us. Something is still wrong with Elliott's sleeping. He breathes in quick little pants, not long, calm breaths. My sister listened to him, at home with a stethoscope, and said "asthma." I said no. This kid can run for miles.. but I took him in anyway, and now here we are.
I lay with my ear against his face, afraid to hear his breath go all fast again. It is still too fast for me to settle down and sleep. I lay still and stare at him. Smooth down his hair. Kiss his cheek. Rub his tummy. Check that his IV line is not tangled or caught on something. Rinse and repeat. Every time someone walks in I sit up tensely, and watch, asking questions. What is his oxygen up to. What are you doing with that IV bag. At 3AM, Elliott wakes up screaming and coughing in pain and fear. He is soaking and feverish. The nurse gives him tylenol, and I promise him that it will make him feel better. Then I pray to God that it really will make him feel better. In the back of my mind, I wonder if the insurance went into effect, like it was supposed to today, or if we will be paying for this for the next ten years. So I pray for that, too.
The next day is an improvement, except that Elliott can't wait to leave "the hossable." He is up at 6am singing at the top of his lungs. All of the other families smile politely and close their doors. We guiltily close ours as well, to lock in the happy shouts. A nurse comes by and takes him out of isolation - h1n1 has been officially ruled out and he is allowed to have a friend visit. Gwynnie comes by to play, our pastor's wife comes to pray.
We watch a million VHS movies and color pictures and play with trucks. My parents watch Elliott while Michael and I take a lunch break. During a meal I can barely eat, everything starts to hit me. Michael holds my hand and says a prayer, right there in the restaurant. My eyes continue to well up. No more sitting and feeling bad. It's time to go back and be a mom again.
In between The Little Mermaid and Arthur, Elliott gets a trip to the hospital playroom. It is a Big Deal. The nurses crack up as he hops out of bed in his little red sneakers, triumphantly pulling the IV pole. Michael discovers foam swords and cars. Joyful shrieks ensue.
The following night is better. Elliott's breathing is calmer. I sleep for three hours during the early morning.
The doctor comes in and listens to Elliott breathe. "I hear kitties and doggies inside you!" she says, in her perky I-work-with-kids voice. (I'm not judging her. I have one of those voices, too.) Elliott looks at her dubiously without commenting. Later, when the nurses remove the IV and say "Look what's going to come out!" he stares at the back of his hand like he just might be expecting doggies and kitties to come marching out.
We are released with a nebulizer kit and a book about asthma. I call the insurance company and, when I confirm that we are indeed covered, I profusely thank the customer service rep, who actually seems to care that my son is going to be okay.
Discharge involves dragging my son out of the playroom, where he is having a swordfight with 3 student nurses.
That was almost a week ago, and yes, it has taken THIS LONG to have a somewhat coherent accounting of it.
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