Saturday, September 29, 2012

The Metal Age

Today an extended (for all of us), expensive (for Mom and Dad), excruciating (for Derek, at times) journey finally drew to a close. With a momentous visit to the Orthodontist, my older son got to put his Era of Braces behind him. Believe me when I say this counts as a major life event--the kid has had some form of metal in his mouth since he was 7-1/2 years old. Husband and I always knew it was inevitable; after all, both of us suffered through the traintrack-years ourselves. And if we did harbor any doubts, they were decisively dispelled when the Pediatric Dentist warned us at a routine cleaning that Derek would be a likely candidate for orthodontic correction...and he was TWO at the time. It seems our child inherited his Dad's...rather large....teeth, and also his narrow face, so the poor boy was doubly doomed from the beginning with a severely overcrowded mouth.

Now, when people of my generation were growing up, and presented the Dental Professional with a profile of "too many teeth and not enough space", the standard response was to start yanking those suckers out to create room. Husband and I both "benefited" from this strategy, each having 4 of our pearly-whites removed in somewhat traumatic childhood operations. However, procedures have changed over the past several...decades...and the 21st-century plan of attack involves: palate expanders. The idea is that--if you start early enough (before age 10)--the roof of the mouth hasn't fully hardened yet, so you can gently push it outward to allow the teeth to fit in, without having to extract any. Thus Derek got a big hunk of metal glued to his upper teeth, stretching across the top of his mouth, moving things slowly across a span of many months. (Um...whoo hoo? Probably better than sacrificing teeth...but still not a whole lot of fun, yeah?) The Orthodontist then bracketed the front teeth only, to hold them in place while the rest of the late-eruptors showed up to the party.



When all of his teeth had at last made an appearance, it was time for the full-mouthful: brackets, wires, rubber bands, the works. We would dutifully make appointments for every 8 weeks or so, and the Orthodontist would poke and prod and tighten. Through all of this, Derek was an absolute trooper. He literally grinned and bore it, even though we got used to planning menus full of "soft foods" for a few days after his visits, since he was sure to have discomfort when chewing. He rarely complained; he followed the rules; and he was sooooo very patient. He even weathered a huge, disappointing "tease"--when the hardware was taken off (yaaayyy!) only to be replaced later for the mysterious "Phase 2" that we had conveniently blocked out of our collective memory way back in the beginning of the process. (boooo!) He stoically endured an extension of his treatment plan, as his original Orthodontist retired, and the doctor who took over wanted to "fine tune some things" before signing off on Derek's smile. During the final few months, he even dealt graciously with tiny rubber bands that he had to wear in triangles between the upper and lower teeth, and which had to be changed each time he ate. (ie: 5 times a day for a growing 12-year old...frankly, these looked like some kind of colorful-yet-sadistic dental torture devices to me, but what do I know? I just write the checks...)

And now, the payoff: perfectly straight, shiny teeth. During his appointment today, he practiced with his retainers...the ones he'd been allowed to design...one orange (Orioles) and one purple (Ravens). The education continued for me, as the hygienist explained that for the first 4 months post-brace, Derek should wear them for 12 hours...a night. I stared at her blankly for a moment while I processed that tidbit. "Um, and during the day?" She shook her head firmly, "No, only at night!" I nodded intelligently to show I understood, but in my head I was giddy with excitement: "You mean he doesn't have to wear them to school, and leave them in a napkin on the lunch table, and throw them away, and search the trash? Like we ALL did at least once during Middle or High School? Yippppeeeee!" It turns out the new recommendation is to wear them while sleeping...forever. Yep, those chompers remember their old positions, and keep wanting to move back, but evidently if you rein them in while you sleep, that's enough to protect your new grin. Okey-dokey, then, we're on board with that!

For the rest of the day, I frequently caught Derek wearing a little smirk, running his tongue over his smooth teeth. He admitted that whenever he ate anything, he habitually kept trying to pick food out of his nonexistent metal-food-trappers. I think it's safe to say he's thrilled to have survived the Metalmouth Years. Just in time, too...since Riley already sports his own expander, and next month will probably get fitted for brackets! Sigh. At least it's one down, one to go, right?


Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Boys in...Hoods

Ready for yet another entry in the neverending saga called "My Sons are Goofballs"? (If not, you've been warned: run away now!) So, last night they were goofing around together (NOT arguing or poking or tackling or shoving or any of the other obnoxious ways they interact these days...thus I seized the rare and delightful opportunity to just let them do their thing) when suddenly one of them decided it would be a splendid idea to put on fleecy winter hats. (Because, naturally, nothing really completes your...pajama ensemble...quite like a ski cap. Those boys, they sure do know how to accessorize, right?) Derek then proceeded to strut around, arms folded, chest puffed out (as much as possible for a boy whose ribs are countable...through his tee-shirt), and declared himself "Sooooo swag!" (For those unfortunate souls who are sadly deprived of a Middle School child in their lives, (you can borrow mine anytime...wait, was that out loud? oops...) this currently-popular, totally overused slang term simply means "cool".

Anyway, it took me a while to get a handle on my hysterical laughter--watching my suburban middle-class son, with his twinkling eyes, ear-to-ear grin, studious-looking glasses and small lock of hair escaping to curl innocently on his forehead...trying to promote his...I don't know...Inner Gangsta? Oh, it was QUITE the spectacle, I tell ya. I reached into my (very very shallow) pool of rap music knowledge and came up with, "What, you and Snoop Dogg are gonna hang out now?" (Yeah, that's all I could come up with...I'm not even pretending to know what I'm talking about, here...) But he instantly leaped to his feet and sprinted from the room, shouting, "Yes, we are!" I should have seen this coming...a moment later he returned, triumphantly carrying Snoop...y...Dog and wearing a pleased-as-punch expression. Sigh. You win that one, my son. Well played.



But hold on--the one that actually brought the house down was yet to come. I was still chuckling, teasing both of them about needing some serious work on their "street cred".  A few minutes later (of continuing to prance and parade around the house, acting utterly ridiculous for our entertainment), Riley announced with absolute conviction that he was busy working on his (Wait. For. It.) STREET CURD. That just about finished Derek--he commenced rolling around on the floor in spasms of glee, until he calmed down enough to interject, "Yeah, you like tofu...so maybe you have bean curd!" Which cracked him up anew, until Riley capped the whole preposterous discussion off by asking in exasperation, "Okay, then, what is it really? Street...crud?" Yes, my sweet child, that's exactly what it is, in this case. You and your brother are positively full-up-to-your-eyeballs with...street crud. (And I can only hope that comes off in the shower...)

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

The (Young) People Have Spoken...

What with all the political commercials and billboards and signs in people's yards these days, it seems that we've come to that very special time once more: Tune Out the Politicians Month....no, that's not it...oh, yeah "Election Season"! Tragically, you can't escape all the swirling debate and rhetoric, especially when they have the incredible nerve to air ads during sacred events like baseball games, for crying out loud. So the boys have unwittingly been exposed to lots of information--one sound bite at a time--which has led to an unprecedented increase in the political discussion around the dinner table in our house (since the "normal amount" is roughly equal to...NONE).

There has been some educational background-knowledge building, like when we touched on such topics as: the voting process, the rights and responsibilities of citizens to help choose leaders, the makeup of Congress, blah blah blah. (I actually had to jump up and leave the kitchen to Google "how many Representatives are there" because the number had slipped my mind. Utterly mortifying to have forgotten, yet instantly gratifying to locate the answer so quickly. I truly do not know how a fatally impatient--I mean "scholastically inquisitive"--person like me EVER survived without the blessed internet. "You can go to the Library tomorrow, honey, and look that up." Can you imagine? Oh wait...that was what my Mom told me a few decades ago...in the Dark Ages...aka "the 70s"!)

Anyway, we also talked a little bit about campaigning, and some ways the candidates might try to persuade you to elect them. Derek took this in a personal direction, turning to Husband and me and inquiring, "So, if you want the position of Preferred Parent, what can you offer me?" (Spontaneously applying a theoretical framework to a self-constructed hypothetical-real-life situation--I love my Middle School nerdling!) Husband sincerely and enthusiastically replied, "More televised sporting events on Saturdays! More salted-snack-chips on Sundays! And more grilled meat selections on Tuesdays!" Derek's eyes lit up as he contemplated life under Dictator Dad, but in fairness he turned to me and allowed me a chance to counter. "I will provide a consistent, early bedtime to ensure enough rest. A variety of nutritious and tasty meals. And (big finish) desserts on the weekends!"

Well...you can just imagine how well my platform went over with the electorate. Actually, Derek instantly turned to Husband and firmly declared, "I'm definitely voting for you!" Riley, on the other hand, came over to hug me and said, "I choose Mom, because she says she'll do the right things to keep us healthy!" Wow. He might have been sucking up (quite skillfully, I might add, as I bought it hook, line, and sinker), but I thought that was pretty darn insightful...for a 4th-grader. Husband then took the opportunity to explain to Mr. Impulsive Hedonist--I mean Derek--that people in the midst of running for office sometimes phrase their policies and promises in such as way as to make them more enticing...but they might also leave out or gloss over the less enjoyable aspects. (Yeah, try to explain the subtle difference between "lying" and "spin-doctoring" to 9 and 12-year olds...that was fun...) "For example, after I win the election, I might do exactly what Mom proposed, because it's good for you, but I didn't want to have to convince you of that until afterwards!"

Derek looked...perturbed...at being manipulated by a scheming, semi-truthful political figure. So I suspect that when the votes are counted (all two of them) I will actually win in a landslide. A mandate, if you will! Welcome to the Mom-archy! Now, in keeping with the agenda outlined in my campaign, I would like you all to: finish your lowfat, vegetarian lasagna; do your homework; and be in bed by 9. I'm your mother, and I approved this message!

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Fish Tales

So we're revisiting the whole "pet situation" (because I stalled and waffled and procrastinated and made excuses for as long as I could, but eventually my grace period ran out) and it turns out that Riley would be totally content with...(drum roll) a fish. Whew! Nothing complicated to set up, or expensive, or difficult to maintain...just a simple little fishie. How hard could that be, right? Everyone has memories of winning a goldfish at the local carnival, proudly toting it home in a bag, and gaining an instant pet. Oh yeah...I almost forgot that those "beloved companions" tended to suffer from an extremely short life span...about 3 days from "welcome to the family" to "unceremonious exit via toilet bowl" as I recall (or "backyard funeral", for the more sentimental...or classier...among us).

Nevertheless, we approached impending fish-ownership with great anticipation and high hopes. First we made an initial recon trip to PetSmart to scope out the options. After chatting with the knowledgeable employees, and educating ourselves a bit about tropical fish...we firmly decided NOT to go that route. Heaters and special aquarium lights and whatnot--no thanks! A nice, low-maintenance betta seemed a much better choice. (Heck, you can't even get two of them--they'll fight each other to the death!) But before committing to anything, we returned home to complete the very crucial next step: research! (Yay! Just call us the Nature Nerd Squad!) We combed the internet for information on bettas' preferred living conditions (besides the obvious "solitary"), nutrition, and care. We (okay, "I") printed the most legitimate-sounding articles, highlighted the important points (not kidding about that), and finally felt prepared to make the leap into actually establishing our betta habitat (which sounds much fancier and more involved than "fishbowl").

Back to PetSmart we went, armed with all of our newfound facts, and feeling confident. Riley quickly chose a small tank (2.5 gallons), some gravel for the bottom (plain black--for the fish with sophisticated, understated taste, apparently), and one decoration. (A ceramic turtle...so the solo inhabitant doesn't feel lonely? I don't know what the rationale was, there...) Then we snagged a clerk to ask some vital questions: are plants recommended? (Yes, and they like bamboo. Got it: two stalks, please.) Is it advisable and/or safe to have a snail in the tank, to help filter the water? (Yes and yes. Add one Ivory Snail to the tally.) Food flakes, water conditioner...have we forgotten anything? Oops, the FISH! Riley selected a red one, whom he immediately dubbed "Neptune", and our fishing expedition was complete!

Back home, we followed the detailed instructions for preparing the tank, which mostly advises allowing the water to sit for 24-hours before you plop the fish in and shock its fragile little system. In the meantime, we had fun arranging the rest of the decor. And since we were told the snail wouldn't mind tap water at all, we went ahead and slid him into his new digs right away. (It crawled up the wall to a spot near the waterline...and parked. This appears to be a permanent situation, but if he's happy, so be it.) When Riley arrived home from school the next day, we planned to ceremonially introduce Neptune to his ph-neutral, water-creature-supportive environment. Hmm...I suddenly noticed a potential problem as I glanced at the very small cup he was currently swimming in...how exactly to effect the transfer? I certainly didn't want to add the by-now-filthy water he came in to his fresh clean tank...but I lacked a small enough net to dip him out of it. After a few minutes of intense brainstorming, I decided to try a very technical, delicate procedure...using a wooden spoon from the kitchen. Well, you can just imagine how smoothly that went, yes? Oh, he got scooped up into my makeshift fish-relocation-device just fine...and then took an energetic flip-flop right onto Riley's dresser.

So to review: fish out of water, Mom standing by on alert wielding her spoon (staring quizzically at the blasted betta, wondering frantically what to do, but remaining remarkably calm on the outside, so as to refrain from alarming her sensitive son), Riley beginning to cry in despair behind me, certain that his new pet had met its untimely demise already, at the hand of his well-meaning but inept parent. (Yeah, "Mommy Fish Killer"--who needs that on their Parental Resume, as fodder for their child's future therapy sessions?) But not to worry--since I'd actually had the foresight (read: "dumb luck") to bring TWO spoons upstairs, I managed to gently slide the wayward creature onto my "sling" and drop his fishy butt into the tank where he belonged. Aquatic Crisis averted. Then we were able to relax and enjoy watching him glide around his watery home, checking out the scene, darting around the turtle statue, glaring at the snail (or that may just have been my interpretation). He appeared for all intents and purposes to be happy and well-adjusted...for a fish. (What do I know, I'm clearly not the Fish Whisperer...but we'll just go with it, yeah?)

But wait: we're not done with the melodrama just yet. Riley, feeling protective and nurturing toward the little guy who was now his responsibility, wanted to get started on a daily care routine. In a word: food. So he gently sprinkled a few flakes into the water and stood by...while Neptune completely ignored it. Eventually the soggy pieces sunk to the bottom and Riley became distraught. "He's not eating! He's going to DIE! I should never have gotten a fish! Let's give him to someone who can take better care of him!" (I am not exaggerating any of this--the boy can pitch a heck of a fit when motivated.) I did what I always do--tried to talk him off the Hysteria Ledge and back into Reasonable Land by suggesting that the fish is still acclimating to his new situation, or he's simply not hungry right now, or perhaps he doesn't care for the brand of freeze-dried...gunk....we bought and we can try a different variety, blah blah blah. (This all sounds quite logical and intelligent, right? I have no earthly clue why the silly thing won't eat, either, I'm just making stuff up as I go along...shhh!) I don't think I entirely convinced him, but if Neptune is alive in the morning I'll call that a "win" and we'll move on from there.

And this is the "easy, no fuss" pet we settled on--jeesh! On second thought, maybe it's just my precious child who's high-strung. (I could try giving BOTH of them different food...or sedatives...) Stay tuned for the continuing saga of A Boy and His Betta!

Monday, September 17, 2012

Plants vs. Riley


Remember oh-so-long ago (you know, like “2 whole weeks”) when I was lamenting the fact that in terms of health crises, "one occurrence can be considered a fluke, twice constitutes an alarming trend"? (I love quoting myself, as if I'm some kind of expert!) Well, under those parameters, it seems Riley's new "Fall thing" is going to be: Attack of the Wheezing. It happened last year--on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, which I wouldn't have recalled, until he adamantly reminded me, irrefutably proving just how much of a traumatic imprint it made on his memory. Now, that one was downright scary, as he struggled to breathe and we whisked him to the Emergency Room, where they medicated him and gave him breathing treatments to loosen up the gunk and open the passageways. Fortunately he responded immediately to the intervention, and continued to improve over the next several days. Since he'd never experienced any kind of lung issues before, we chalked it up to "random virus" and thought we'd never have to deal with it again. (Ha! Jinxed ourselves…) However, after  you’ve used a nebulizer machine, with the mask that goes over your face, they naturally give it to you to bring home. At the time, I looked blankly at the nurse when she held the box out to me, wondering "what the heck am I going to do with this contraption?" But, being the hyper-organized person that I am, I made sure the directions and all the parts were safely tucked in, and placed the whole thing in the Storage Room downstairs…where it would hopefully never be touched again.

And it really seemed that we were home free. We were cruising along, healthy except for the day-to-day allergy issues that are completely manageable (with OTC meds, that is), all the way to...September…again. (Sigh. At least it was two weeks after Labor Day this time, that counts for something, right?) One night Riley started coughing heavily, sounding congested and uncomfortable. In the morning, although his symptoms were nowhere near as bad as they were during last year’s episode, Husband and I just…didn’t like something about the sound of his breathing. (You know, Dr. Mom and PA Dad, the undisputed team of experts…at least in this house…) So we made the decision to keep him out of his soccer game (gasp!) and drag him to the (real) pediatrician instead. And whaddya know, she agreed with us—that although it wasn’t severe, there was some “tightness” in his chest, and nebulizer therapy would most likely alleviate it.

Well, good thing I carefully packed up the machine last year, yeah? When I went to retrieve it from the basement, I found even better news: not only had I stored all of the necessary pieces, but I’d kept the leftover Albuterol as well--no need to even fill the new prescription. This time we felt like old pros hooking up the apparatus and administering the solution…and once more the procedure eased Riley’s upper-respiratory distress. So what have we learned from this repeated sequence of events? First of all, Riley—although he’s never tested positive for a ragweed allergy--is evidently sensitive to the stuff, at least when it’s at peak production and swirling madly around outside our neighborhood. More importantly, next year we’re commencing a preventative extra-strength allergy drug regimen in August, and crossing our fingers that it keeps the stupid pollen dust at bay without having to resort to steroidal solutions. For now, everyone’s breathing easier (literally AND metaphorically) and looking forward to the more pleasing aspects of the Fall season, like cooler temperatures, colorful leaves, and crisp apples. We’re definitely not allergic to any of these!

Saturday, September 15, 2012

The Education Continues...

Aah, the beginning of another school year--the excitement of fresh pencils and notebooks (Hello, nice to meet you, you may call me "Office Supply Nerd"), the joy of new Fall fashions (oh wait, I have sons, who will continue to wear their Summer shorts and tees until Thanksgiving. Never mind...), the torture--I mean "enlightenment and entertainment" of Back to School Night(s). I've been dutifully attending these shindigs for 7 years now, and I have to admit that this year I thought to myself "Again? Really? Don't I know enough about Elementary and Middle School by this point to at least fake my way through? But the deeply ingrained Type-A Academic in me (you know, the one who always did her homework, never turned in an assignment late, and memorized her notes before tests) just wouldn't let me skip it. What if I missed something crucially important to my child's educational success? What if all the other parents got more brownie points with my kid's teacher by showing up? Ooh, and speaking of brownies: what if there were extra-stupendous snacks the one year I failed to put in an appearance? Clearly, I couldn't let this happen. So I heaved an inner sigh and resigned myself to nodding, smiling, and attempting to listen attentively to the spiel once more.

First up: Riley's BTS Night. And I must say, it went much better than I had expected or even hoped it would. You see, over the years I've picked up some valuable shortcuts...or sneaky tricks...hmm, let's just go with "Elementary School Insider Information". The first of these is: plan your arrival after the introductory PTA meeting. (Shh, you did NOT hear me say that!) During this time, the building is packed wall-to-wall with parental bodies waiting to visit classrooms. It's loud. It's overly-warm. It's simply too much of an up-close-and-personal crush of humanity for me to be dealing with. Secondly, now that Riley is my one child in this particular school, I need only sit through a single half-hour presentation instead of sticking around for both sessions. Thus by checking the schedule, I can ensure that I smoothly slide into my chair for the very last portion of the evening. Many people have vacated the premises by this point, so navigating both the miniscule parking lot and the narrow hallways becomes a breeze rather than a logistical nightmare. In short, my self-devised "BTS Night Surgical-Strike Operation" makes the whole process painless and pleasant. (And now I've given away all my secrets...drat!) Oh, and lest I forget: the actual meet-and-greet with Riley's teacher was informative and interesting as well! He should have a fun year.

Then there's Middle School. BTS Night for Derek's grade involves the delightful process of following a condensed version of your child's schedule. You find their classrooms, get introduced to each of their seven instructors, and hear a brief-but-fact-filled summary of "what they'll be learning/how they'll be graded/what I expect of them". Last year was my first shot at this, and I failed miserably at figuring out where the heck anything was located in that school. (Except the Gym, which was obvious.) I left at the end of the evening swearing (literally!) that the place was designed by...sugared-up gremlins...or something. C-Hall?  B-Hall? They all ran together in a great big circle. Fortunately the wise administrators, anticipating parents'...ineptitude? Helplessness? Confusion?...placed minions (I mean "students") at intervals throughout the school, calling out "Can I help you? What are you looking for?" Although it lent somewhat of a carnival atmosphere to the proceedings, I would never have found even one of Derek's classes without them. But that was last year. And although Derek continued to mock me for having such a hard time, and predicted I'd perform just as pathetically this year, I was determined to prove him wrong.

So, armed with the course list he'd written out for me, including the order of his subjects and the classroom numbers, I bravely set out into the wild, dangerous...Middle School jungle. Derek had also warned me that this year he had classes both upstairs and downstairs, potentially adding to the...challenge...adventure...recipe for disaster? But--shockingly--I managed to go straight to the first four periods without a hitch (one was PE in the aforementioned Gym, but it still counts). Meanwhile I was treated to a Lab Demonstration in Science, in which the teacher gleefully showed us how to operate a Bunsen burner...by torching a soap bubble as it floated toward the ceiling. Awesomely cool, yes...but this indicated two things to me: 1) that lady might enjoy her job a little too much and 2) our precious darlings are evidently authorized to play with fire this year. Let's see...twelve-year old boys--start with lack of impulse control, couple it with an excess of energetic goofiness...add open flames...does anyone else feel jittery about this?

Nevertheless, I was cruising along, gaining confidence as I tromped up and down the stairs with the thronging masses of Moms and Dads...until Math time. I knew exactly where I was going, sped calmly and surely to the correct hallway, looked up and down at the numbers...211, 213, 214,...um, my paper says "212"....which doesn't seem to exist. Now, that's disconcerting. (Maybe I should be looking for Platform 9 3/4?) Even more alarming, when I did finally spot a small sign on the wall with the correct room number, it was a (wait for it) depository for unused books. That's right, my beloved son wrote down that he studies equations and graphing and set theory...in a Storage Closet. Fortunately for me, the Principal happened to be standing there and noticed my confounded expression, so she snagged a Student Helper to guide me to the right place. As this girl and I chatted and walked, I found out that she knows Derek. When I told her about the schedule snafu, she laughed and commented, "He was joking about writing down the wrong classrooms this morning in homeroom!" That's it, he's officially grounded for life! But when I arrived home and confronted him about it, he sheepishly owned up...to being careless. "Yeah, I wasn't paying attention when I filled that out--so, sorry about that!" Okay you're forgiven...but still grounded!

The rest of the evening continued without embarrassing or confusing incident, thank goodness. But when it was over, even though I'd only been in each of his classes for a mere 9 minutes, I was as exhausted as if I'd slogged through an entire school day. Middle School, apparently, is not for the weary...or faint of heart...or directionally challenged! Oh, and Team Seventh Grade seems enthusiastic, bright, and wonderful, so Derek should have a nice year as well. Whew! I'm glad that's over for another year!

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Two Weeks Down...34 to Go


Today for the first time it actually feels like Fall. (I've also lived in this region long enough to realize this is only a temporary teaser, and we surely have more hot and humid days ahead before we slide into the true Autumn season. But I'll take it anyway!) In fact, when we all climbed out from beneath the covers this morning (yes, blankets!) the thermometer only registered 55 chilly degrees, prompting my warm-blooded children to resort to sweatshirts for the bus-stop walk. (I know: gasp! These are the same boys who try to get away with wearing shorts until Christmas, so this counted as quite a noteworthy Fashion Event in our house.) The nippy air instantly put me in the mood for pumpkins...perched on our porch, baked into muffins, stirred into lattes, infused into ales...mmmmm. It also prompted me to reflect on our "unofficial Fall", which of course kicks off with the school year, rather than when the calendar indicates the Equinox.

Let's start with Derek, my 7th-grader, whose gargantuan feet now measure about two sizes beyond mind, and who can look me directly in the eyes when standing nose-to-nose. (He does this on purpose, too, inching right up to me until I shove him away with the threat "Remember, I can still send you to your room!") Even more...interesting? Disturbing? Freaking-Mom-the-heck-out? is the fact that people have begun to mention that the pitch of his voice sounds lower. In fact, at his soccer game on Saturday a fellow parent who has known him for years glanced at him out on the field and commented, "Wow, Derek looks like a man these days, not a boy any more!" (Part of me agreed and thought "Yeah, pretty cool!" The other part went: "But that's my baby! Waaaahhhh!") Later in the game, this other mom also watched Derek dribbling smoothly down the field, controlling the ball gracefully, almost gliding across the grass, and turned to me to marvel, "It amazes me that he never went through an 'awkward phase'!" (Me: Hahahahahahahaha!) I had to regale her with real-life stories of our admittedly strong, fluid athlete...who routinely trips up the stairs...bangs his elbows into doorways...tumbles over furniture... Thus the background noise at home often includes: BAM. "Ow!" [pause, chuckle] "I'm okay!" [Followed by an explanation of what exactly he ran into/knocked over/fell on. He may be bruised, but his sense of humor and unselfconsciousness blessedly remain intact.] So it would seem he saves his most impressive physical feats to display in grassy areas with spectators--and gets all of his klutzy moments out of his system with his family. But even with all of this rapid growing and maturing and whatnot, this year he’s still been asking me for help with his homework. (LOVE that!) Especially since he's started taking Espanol, he'll inform me that "we need to have a conversation after dinner." This normally consists of something along these lines: "Hola." ("Hola") "Como estas?" ("Muy bien, y tu?") "Okay, that's all I've studied so far!"

Then there's Riley, tackling 4th-grade. Ever a study in contrasts, he reads Young Adult level books...while holding a stuffed frog for security and companionship. Just when I think my Boo Boo's moving forward on his own, I get a confession like "I almost cried in school today." My first reaction--"What? You're 9, dude, get a grip!"--was decidedly unhelpful and unsympathetic, so fortunately I stifled it and instead allowed him to share more of his thoughts on the subject. Being Riley, he naturally had a logical explanation, "It's because I was with you so much this Summer, and now I miss you while I'm in class all day." Awwww! Of course I reminded him that we all have our "jobs" and we'll be together in a few short hours, blah blah blah. (Oh, and also if you did stay home with Mom, you'd find out very quickly that it's not all snacks and television and games...more like Target and Giant and laundry...trust me, school is much more fun...hey, maybe I should come hang out in your life!) Then we reinstated our successful solution from last year, whereby he carries a small token in his pocket to remind him of home. After considering several options, he chose a keychain he bought on our vacation, "to remember the good times we had in Mexico." So far he reports that it's working, so we'll keep our fingers crossed that more drastic measures are not required (I don't even know what those would be--Mom visitations in the middle of the day? Home schooling? Heaven forbid! A nice souvenir should do the trick...) But then…he totally surprised us by pushing for his very first sleepover with one of his best friends from school...at his friend's house...all night...without Mom and Dad...suffice it to say we were braced for a late phone call of either reassurance or "come get me I've had enough". We waited, but it didn’t happen. He was apparently happy as a clam to hang out with some other family for the night. When I asked him the next day if he'd missed us he shrugged and said, "not really." Progress! Baby steps! Maybe by next Summer he'll be ready for sleepaway camp after all...

So that's the early-September scoop. Soccer, school, sleepovers--what other s-words can we fit in this month? For right now, with the nice cool temperature and earlier nightfall, it's going to be: sleep (zzzzzzz)! 

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Dr. House would have this solved...in an hour!

Let me start by stating that I recognize how lucky I am to enjoy overall good health. I try to remember to regularly take a moment to acknowledge and be grateful for this. That's why things like this "Infection of Unknown Origin" irk me so much. Not only is the condition itself painful, unsightly, and bothersome...but the doctor couldn't tell me WHY I had it. In general, I'm someone who prefers to know the reason for everything--so not knowing where it came from or how to prevent it from recurring really ticked me off on both a personal and an intellectual level. One incident you can write off--"eh, weird germs just find ya, sometimes". But when it happens again, 3 months later, on the other side of your face...that's just...unsettling. And frankly, kind of insulting as well--hey, rogue...bacteria...guys: stop picking on me! With each bout, the practitioners who evaluated me shook their heads sympathetically, admitted they were just as clueless as I was as to what it could be (um, not so reassuring) and prescribed an antibiotic. Now, don't get me wrong, although I don't take them very often, I'm a big fan of pharmaceuticals when necessary (like for example "to pulverize wayward microbes"). But just throwing pills at the problem to (hopefully) make it go away wasn't good enough this time. I also wanted answers, doggone it!

So, I set up a consultation with an ENT. (Because, it's near my throat, right? Maybe she'll have some super secret stockpile of diagnostic information related to the head/neck region? One can hope...) She palpated and peered and posed probing questions, all while nodding encouragingly and appearing thoughtfully puzzled. After our discussion, she decided that bloodwork was warranted (yippee, I just LOVE needles), as well as a CT Scan. Now that's what I'm talking about. Maybe we find nothing, but at least we're researching! (I know: nerd, nerd, nerd. I can't help it.) I figured it was best to just get this over with as soon as possible, so I headed downstairs to the Radiology Suite to soak up some rays. I've experienced x-rays and one MRI, but this was my first scanning. The technician first inserted a temporary line to inject the contrast dye. (More needles! Yaaay! But wait, it gets better: she was displeased with her first attempt, so took it out and did another one! Whoo...Hoo...) When it was time to slide me into the spaceship-looking-machine, she readied the  fluid that would be going in my arm. Then she warned me offhandedly that I might feel "a warmth in my throat." (Hold on--from stuff entering my ARM? That's weird...) "Actually," she continued, "it might spread throughout your body." She paused. "Sometimes people think they're peeing because of the sensation." She hastened to add, "Don't worry, you're not!" Gee, this sounds absolutely...delightful. Are we done yet?

After that wonderful setup, the actual CT scan took about 5 minutes and was completely easy. So just to keep the medical misadventure chugging along, I went straight to the Lab to let them stab me with a sharp object too. (Why not, I have another arm, yeah?) The phlebotomist here was so very practiced and smooth, I didn't even register that she'd pricked me until we were almost done. Honestly the worst part of the Lab portion easily had to be sitting in the waiting room watching the Front Desk personnel check in...one person...every 20 minutes. Watching your own hair grow has GOT to be more fulfilling and less frustrating. Oh, and how could I forget: hanging out with the numerous toddlers and preschoolers who would be involuntarily donating some of their blood. The amount of shrieking, protesting, and crying--before anyone had even approached any of them with a potentially painful sharp object--made for a tense, ear-splitting, and all-around unpleasant "When will it ever be my turn" period.

But, that's thankfully all behind me. Now it's just a matter of letting the professionals analyze the data, figure out what's what, and report back to me. Meanwhile I'll continue to dutifully pop my antibiotic (and probiotic, to counteract the...ahem...potential side effects) and keep my fingers crossed for good news!

Saturday, September 1, 2012

What a Week it Was

Sometimes, when the day-to-day routine is just humming along, seemingly on its own, without any extraordinary effort or unusually stringent supervision on my part, I forget to notice and be grateful in-the-moment for such periods of tranquil and unstressed living. Then, the Universe notices that things are perhaps flowing a bit TOO smoothly, and sends a ripple or two, in an attempt to tilt the harmonious scales back to a more neutral crazy/calm ratio. (And probably chuckles with cosmic delight at its own manipulations. Or, in the case of our week at Casa WestEnders, points its finger, sticks out its tongue, and shouts "Nah, nah--take that!" At least that's the tableau my overactive imagination cooks up...)

It all started when Husband--who you'll see is the beleagured recipient of the lion's share of the Bad Luck--engaged in the frequently-necessary, terribly fraught-with-peril chore of...helping the boys search the patch of weeds adjacent to our lawn for their lost baseballs. (The overgrown plot of land is owned by the county and not maintained, thus it resembles a small jungle each Summer...and tends to voraciously gobble up any baseballs/lacrosse balls/footballs lobbed in its general direction.) As happens once or twice a year, Husband came away from this task with a case of poison ivy. (Luckily, he seems to be the only one in our family sensitive to the three-leafed monster, but I swear he gets it just by looking at that blasted plant.) He immediately went into his usual drill, dousing the rash with alcohol to dry it (I know: OW...but he maintains that it's the best treatment) and calamine to tame the itch. Normally this is effective...but this time, the inflammation just continued to worsen, until his entire forearm was swollen...and oozy...and, well, you get the (icky) picture. Long story short: he ended up missing work for 3 days and having to obtain 3 prescriptions from the doctor to knock this sucker out.

On Thursday, when he was finally ready to face the outside world again, he was downstairs preparing breakfast for Riley. Suddenly I heard a loudish noise from the kitchen, followed by Husband calling, "Um, don't come down...just yet!" Turns out that in struggling with the toaster oven--whose hinges on the front door had been acting all uncooperative for about a week--Husband had pulled the handle (as one will tend to do when one wishes a toaster oven to, I don't know, OPEN and allow you to place food inside) and shattered the glass. All over the tile floor. No one was harmed, but the appliance obviously met its unceremonious end...and Riley did not receive his Aunt Jemina toaster pancakes. Meanwhile, remember that weird, fluke infection I suffered in my jaw in June? The one that the doctor was unable to explain or provide any reasonable insight into, other than "well, the antibiotic cleared it up, so that's good!" Later that same day I noticed an unpleasantly familiar swelling sensation...on the other side of my face. Reallllllly? Once is a "health...stuff...happens" kind of occurrence, but twice? That's an alarming trend, if you ask me. (And even if you didn't, since it's my...mysterious....thing we're describing.) Bright side: it appeared much less severe than the first incident. Black cloud: once again the doctor admitted to being stumped and could offer no further information or advice. My gut tells me something else is going on here that needs to be figured out, but apparently it's going to be up to me to do the research and/or act as my own Health Advocate until we get to the bottom of this to my satisfaction.

But, enough about me--finally Friday arrived, and we breathed a collective sigh of relief that we could put this crazy week in our rearview mirror and bid it "so long and good riddance" while waving a not-so-fond goodbye. Husband survived his commute home before the long holiday weekend, so we crossed our fingers that things could be turning around. As I threw dinner together, he took the countertop compost-scraps to be emptied into the larger outside bin. However, when he returned, he looked more considerably more shaken than a casual stroll in the backyard would seem to warrant. Almost as if he couldn't believe what he was saying, he told us that as he'd approached the house with the now-empty metal pail, he'd been swarmed by a mob of angry bees. You have got to be KIDDING me with this! He held out his hand--where thank goodness he'd only been stung one time--as proof of his misadventure. And then we looked at each other, our mouths hanging open in identical expressions of stunned disbelief...and burst into hysterical laughter. I mean, c'mon, the absurdity of the situation was just too much at this point. I couldn't even make this stuff up, I tell ya. (I did have to disagree with him on one minor issue, though: bees don't act that way. After examining the belligerent creatures--from inside the family room, with a nice solid pane of glass between them--and doing some apiary fact-checking on the internet, he concluded that they must be yellow jackets. I felt 100% reconciled to having him blast them to Kingdom Come, as long as they're not  endangered honey-makers...)

Now let me take a second to point out with abundant thankfulness that none of these harmful events affected the kids. They skated through this minefield...unpoisoned, uncut by flying shards of glass, uninfected, and unstung. Evidently Husband and I had been the recipients of an unknown amount of extra good karma lately, and the equilibrium had to be restored. Heading into a brand new week, I fervently hope things are evened out now! And I'm perfectly willing to sacrifice some poison ivy...or yellow jackets...if it will help in any way...