Binkytown

Yawn. Stretch. How long was I out?

Ahhhh. I'm going to try and soak in this for at least an hour. I think I'm refreshed.

I took ten days off from work and at least that many from the blog. It wasn't intentional, it just sort of happened. You know how actors say they have to stop making movies and live life for a while so they have something to draw from when they go back to work? Yeah, I don't believe them either, but I do think the same principal applies here. I needed to clear out some clutter from my basement and spare rooms and my overburdened brain matter, it wasn't a grand plan, it was just time.

I layed down in my bed at three in the afternoon and woke up as the sun was going down and the heat was kicking in. I hung out with my son and played cars. I wore the same clothes multiple days in a row. We built a lot of fires. I ate a lot. I read Eat Pray Love while was on hiatus. I'm not exactly sure what I think on a grand level, but I do think, as someone coming off of too many months of trying to stick to a Weight Watchers plan, she's on to something that once in awhile you need to give yourself permission to pig out and the simple satisfaction of not being hungry for once, is really very satisfying. I kind of think she's nutty, but it worked out really well for her, so that's cool. Plus I love a good mantra, if only for a week before I forget it and lose my shit and she had some good ones in there. My favorite: I will not harbor unhealthy thoughts. (Food for thought. Cheesy, but I couldn't resist.) 

I have some great Thanksgiving stories. Like my mother in law telling me in far greater detail than one needs to know about my father-in-law's private business. Yes, that business. Also, how my father-in-law hatched a grand scheme because his wife apparently has been riding him about his shorts, to have each of his kids decorate a pair and give them to him as gifts on Christmas day. Only they weren't shorts, per say, they were a single pair of tighty-whiteys wrapped in a Shopko bag and left on the front seat of our car. 

I'm back to work today and pink eye is going around day care and I'm sure things are about to morph back into warp speed before lunch time, if not then, by four o'clock at the latest. I may not be in Bali, but I will try and breathe deep like Elizabeth Gilbert and I may not find enlightenment, but I just might feel alright. I can live with that.

         

Pssst. Pass it on....

I really wonder how many hours of my life I have wasted standing staring blankly at the rows and rows of mascara offerings at the drug store, or worse, at the cosmetic counter, where I was blindly led into purchasing a tube of something or other that cost my $50.00 with the promise of longer, darker, thicker, all-around-better-lashes.

To think, I didn't have to do that. Damn.

To read the rest of my review of Nadine Haobsh's Beauty Confidential, visit the Full Mommy here..

You choose

My neighbor, lets call her Susie, is really sweet. She's two houses down and a stay at home mom to a little boy only a couple of weeks younger than my own. Despite our close proximity, we don't see each other all that much because of different schedules. On the weekends I tend not to socialize or do playgroups because that's our time together as a family. My son stays up late, hers goes to bed early.

I like her, I really do and I can't figure out if it's her or if it's me. Which one of us is the competi-mommy.

The last four houses on my block, including hers and mine, are the same blueprint with minor cosmetic differences. I had orange Halloween lights. She had orange Halloween lights in almost the same location AND a big ghost. I felt outdone. Same goes for pumpkins, Christmas lights, etc. We don't really compare our children, but our lives. I always notice how thin she is and I always see her husband coming home from work (because he takes the bus and walks past our house) and I imagine how happy she must be, because he must really love her to leave her the car and ride the public transportation each day. Right?

On August 31, the day I blogged about having a very early miscarriage, I was outside when she and her son walked by. We chatted like we usually do and she noticed my puffy eyes- are you OK? She asked, sincerely. She got the abridged version: I thought I was pregnant but I'm not, I had a rough morning and even though I had no desire to, I teared up again. She was very kind, made some mention of doing some charting and was on her way.

We've waved from our houses and passed each other once or twice on the street since then. I saw her walking with her family the other day and I just knew it. I knew she was pregnant. She was moving differently, maybe her ultra thin frame had softened around the jawline, I'm not sure, but I knew. When I saw her at trick or treat I scanned her up and down: She had an empire waist sweater on but there was no obvious bump. I don't even know why I cared other than maybe if I noticed before she took me by surprise, that would lessen the sting just a little.

Over her fence last night she told me, by the way, I've been meaning to tell you, I'm pregnant again. Congratulations! That's great. (Just great, I thought glumly). How far along are you? Just out of her first trimester. Fantastic. I'm happy for you. I am, actually, I am happy for her. Only still a little sad. Maybe  not even sad, just envious.

I couldn't stop thinking about it last night. Just out of her first trimester- counting backwards: Mid November to Mid-October, Mid October to Mid September, plus a couple weeks. Huh. The last week in August.

Now I'm not completely nuts, I don't think this woman is making life choices based upon what I do (or don't do, as the case may be) but she said something as we parted yesterday about how she hoped I would 'crank another one out so our kids would be in the same grade together'. It was probably off the cuff, but was it? It struck me as an odd thing to say.

I feel like she has something up on me. I hate it that I do. I want to shine the joy she radiated from her smile when she told me right back at her, but my smile was forced. There we go- look surprised and delighted- make sure your eyes don't give it away. It should have been me, I think as I walk away, scolding myself for even letting those thoughts in.

She has the thing that I wanted. Not only does she have it, but it seems like she decided at the same time that I told her about my loss that she was ready and BANG she's pregnant. Just like fucking that. Maybe they had been trying for months, but I doubt it. She is a mommies-mommy, ready to swap breastfeeding and labor stories at the drop of a hat. If they had been trying and unsuccesful up to that point I don't think she woud have hesitated for a second to share it.

So which one of us has the bigger brand of crazy? I don't know.

Holes

Where heat was radiating from his body, I now feel his ice cold feet, padding along the floor and hold him down to force his slippers on.

He's up off the couch, but tires quickly, pausing now and then to stop and lay his head down, but unable to stay still for long, he returns to his race track or his train table. Quiet except for the rattle of his chest now and again.

It's never that easy, the steroids seriously made him high and now he's like an addict wondering where his fix went. He's not himself. Twitchy, my husband calls him, unsettled in his own skin. Going through detox today, from the meds and the 18 hours of Lightening McQueen we've been subjected to. If I had to give them to him again, I would, fits and all. In a heartbeat. It was so much better to see him after the drugs took hold and opened up this throat, glassy eyed and smiling than curled up in a ball, laboring to get a breath.

I've been in my house since Tuesday. Starting to go a little crazy myself. I'm cold. Eating anything not nailed down. I'm going to regret this. Just polished off a really old and slightly freezer burned bagel coat swimming in butter. Just because. It was there.

If I have to do one more sink load of dishes my head is going to explode. Must eat off of paper plates from now on.

He just threw his arms around my neck from behind and asked sweetly, do you have a donut with chocolate on it? I don't, but that's as good a reason to leave the house as I've ever heard.

OK. This Time.

When I picked up my little man yesterday and saw his pale complexion and his sunken eyes, when I heard his scratchy non-voice which sounded like a sick seal trying to whimper and the cough, I reconsidered my bravado and whipped out my cell phone to call the Pediatrician faster than you can say Flip-Flopper.

I got my 4:30 appointment back and even though he touched every single toy in the sick child waiting area and then (shudder) put his fingers in his mouth, despite the fact that we waited almost 45 minutes for the doctor to arrive only to be met by a greener than green medical student who was so painfully awkward and slow I wanted to slap her, it was worth every minute of enduring my son whining, I want to go home.

The doctor gave him an oral dose of dexamethasone, a steroid that used to be used only in ER cases but now is apparently widely accepted as a treatment for croup to shrink the inflammation and allow easier breathing. The internets and I know each other fairly well but I hadn't ever heard of this? Every thing I had ever read about croup failed to mention this development. Highly skeptical I drilled the doc: Side effects? None. Hyperactivity? No. Completely safe? Absolutely.

It was a miracle. He slept all night. ALL NIGHT. I went to bed at nine thinking I'd hopefully try and bank a couple of hours of sleep before a coughing fit ensued. (Fully clothed so I could jump to action if need be and not freeze, even if I had to wrap him in a blanket and take him outside so he could breathe, as the Doc indicated I might have to.) At three AM I woke up and shot out of bed to check on him, feeling around for him in the dark so I could lay my hands on him and make sure he was still breathing.

He was, of course, and still is. He is awfully sick and very miserable, but I am thankful that he had a good nights sleep to help him recover.

Nothing like a shot of the juice to make all of us, mommy instinct included, a little stronger.

Maybe next time

Here's an understatement: Being a working mom isn't easy, so I consider it a perk that after working for the Company I do, I have a lot of vacation time alloted to me each year. Like, ALOT. Easily three times as much as most people I know who work full time. 

I have been scheduling vacation over the past few Mondays and keeping my son home with me. Yesterday was supposed to be a zoo outing, but based on the forty (40!) degree temperatures and the blustery winds, we decided to visit the public museum instead. Why? Because it's free on Mondays and somewhere besides a mall that we could run around. I purposefully avoided the Children's museum because, ewww. Winter Germs = Very Bad Illnesses.

Fast forward to today when I get a call from the day care saying my little man is so hoarse he can hardly speak and he's got a croup-like cough. Brilliant. Perhaps I would have fared better at the Children's Museum after all.

I called the Ped's triage line to see if you can give a child with croup cough medicine. ( I don't think so, but it can't hurt to ask, right?) The nurse, kind of alarmingly said We can see him today at 4:30. She baited and I jumped. OK. As she started to enter information into the computer I contemplated this. I have been so quick to over react in the past. Maybe I should hold off, I said, I haven't actually heard his cough yet, I don't even know if this is croup. Also thinking, can a Doctor do anything about that anyway, even if it is? She was all: We could listen to his chest and I was all: Oh, well, then, if he needs his chest listened to, I should probably have him seen. Then she threw down the gauntlet: Otherwise, you could wind up at Urgent Care tonight. Whoa! She's throwing Urgent Care at me! Now I'm Officially! Concerned! We'll see you at 4:30.

I hung up the phone and thought some more. Is it really worth taking him to a germ filled doctors office for something that is viral and needs home treatment? I have done my fair share of over-reacting and my experience has been that it usually brings me back to the Doctor's office with pink eye or something else we pick up along the way. It's a viscous cycle.

I would never ever deny my child medical attention that was warranted, even if it could possibly be warranted, but for once, my gut was standing up to my freakness. He'll be fine, it said. He needs some blankets and some Charlie Brown and a vaporizer and love. If it really is that bad, we live five minutes from a hospital and I have absolutely nothing else to do tonight besides care for this child so if after an hour I think a trip to urgent care might be a good idea, off we will go. This time, said my instinct, for maybe the first time ever, let's just see how it goes and not run to the Doctors office at the first sign of a cough.

I called back and canceled.   

I'm a little worried, but I think we'll be fine.

(Please let us be fine.)