The Third-Time-Around Hospital Bag

So. You may be happy to hear that I finally up and packed a damn hospital bag. (You may also be mildly ambivalent, profoundly disinterested, or experiencing nausea and dry mouth. Side effects may vary, please consult your doctor.) Packing the bag, I believe, is the sure-fire way to prevent a repeat of Tuesday's events, and guarantee that absolutely NOTHING of baby-and-labor-related interest happens until June 1st, when we are scheduled to go in and get 'im. 

The first time I packed a hospital bag I used one of those checklists from the Internet. (Many of which, I've noticed, still mention FILM. Like several times. Make sure your camera has FILM. Bring extra FILM. The hospital gift shop will overcharge you for FILM. It's like a glimpse into childbirth circa 1994!)

Anyway, the checklist I consulted was a very, very looooooong checklist, and I ended up hauling a tremendous amount of useless shit with me. And none of it was organized very well, and since we changed birthing venues multiple times during my labor with Noah (an extended stay in triage due to overcrowding, then a birthing suite, then the OR, then recovery, THEN my non-private, exceedingly small room), we ended up needing a hotel-bellhop-style luggage cart to haul all the various loose things we'd pulled out at various points in time but neglected to re-pack. 

By the time we made it to the recovery room, Jason was wheeling around a giant pile of Random Crap, with expensive electronics shoved in tote bags underneath a precariously-perched Boppy while various charger cords dragged on the floor behind him. Once we were in my room I kept finding smashed-up granola bars ("BRING SNACKS FOR YOUR PARTNER") in my nursing bras and rogue tennis balls ("GREAT FOR COUNTERPRESSURE DURING LABOR") in my toiletry bag.

And then! VERY MUCH WORST OF ALL, IN FACT THE WORST THING EVER! In an attempt to streamline and declutter my room later, Jason packed up a bunch of the Random Crap and took it home, but accidentally took the bag containing everything I needed for a shower. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, razor, deodorant, you name it. We didn't realize it at first, because post-c-section you aren't allowed to shower for quite some time. Which was awful. I felt disgusting. I LOOKED disgusting. Visitors came to see the baby and I couldn't stop thinking they were all staring at the oil slick on my head instead. 

So when I finally got the all-clear that I was allowed to shower, I practically dove in headfirst. Only to discover that Jason had taken my things and I was limited to the hospital-supplied products, which included a horrible combination shampoo/bodywash, a bar of antiseptic hand soap and...nothing else.

Jason had just arrived for the morning and said he didn't feel like turning right around and driving allllll the way home, so just to "deal with it" and he'd bring my stuff back the next day.

To this day, you guys, I am still SO SO SO MAD AT HIM ABOUT THAT.  

We were determined to Do Better the second time. Having the scheduled c-section meant we didn't need to worry about the tennis balls and squeezy stress fidgets or labor-coach snacks (plus I'd come to the realization that hey, Jason could PACK HIS OWN FUCKING BAG, IF HE WANTED ONE, WHY DID I CARE IF HE HAD FUCKING TRAIL MIX AND VENDING MACHINE CHANGE OR NOT, JESUS CHRIST). Plus -- with the exception of the toiletry bag, which I was determined to keep shackled to my ankle this time -- I'd learned that duh, you really don't need ALLLLL your things with you right from the moment you show up. Stuff can stay in the car! Or at home, even! Your partner will go home at some point, especially since you have an existing child, and stuff! 

And lo and behold! THERE ARE ALSO STORES NEARBY. STORES THAT SELL THINGS. 

This freedom -- this terrible, terrible freedom -- to not feel limited to packing One Hospital Bag To Rule Them All, did have its drawbacks. I did, in fact, leave everything in the car except for my purse and a camera bag. This meant we had no bag of our own to put our own clothes in, once I was in a gown and Jason was in scrubs. The hospital gave us plastic drawstring bags...one of which we lost completely between triage and the OR (Jason's clothes. They turned up HOURS later.) and the other of which contained my clothes but somehow was missing one of my shoes (MIA to this day). 

Plus, I hadn't done a very good job of making sure that if there WAS anything I really, really wanted right away, that it was in my purse, and not in the suitcase in the trunk of our car. Because apparently, "riding down the elevator and walking to the parking lot" was the new "I don't feel like driving all the way back home so just 'deal with it'" moment for which I still harbor a great deal of unresolved anger towards my husband. He was too preoccupied with the fact that we'd just had a BABY and look at the BABY and I want to hold the BABY and take pictures of the BABY to understand just how hysterical I was getting because I NEEDED MY HAIRBRUSH AND LIP BALM. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE GO GET ME A HAIRBRUSH AND SOME LIP BALM.

So! Good God. Hospital bag angst. The most first-worldy problem ever. Other than maybe your cleaning service forgetting to dilute the floor cleaner properly before mopping and LOOK AT ALL THESE OILY RESIDUE FOOTPRINTS WTF NOW I HAVE TO MOP GAH GAH BZZZZTTTT NESTING OVERLOAD.

(I mean, not that that last bit applies to me and my spoiled little life, or anything. Was just a figurative example.) 

So we have one final chance to Get It Right. I would very much like to Get It Right. Or at least not verbally abuse my husband in a drugged-up hormonal haze over some trivial item that I have suddenly decided is the most important thing in the world go get it gogetit GOGETIT.

Here's how the bag is shaping up so far. I think it's at least, a pretty good start, and acceptable should we have another rush-to-the-hospital emergency because OH, I DUNNO, I COULD PEE MYSELF AGAIN, OR MISTAKE GAS FOR CONTRACTIONS, ANY OF THOSE NOT-AT-ALL EMBARRASSING THINGS. 

In My Giant Ass Purse, On My Person At All Times:

Cell phone with all possible needed phone numbers, iPod selections, lifeline to Twitter, Google, blawwwwgs, etc. 

Flip video camera

Kindle (book selections still TBD)

Fancy outlet splitter with USB chargers for all of the above

Headphones

Lip balm, assorted varieties

Hand cream

Nail file (for me or baby, but probably mostly me because my beautiful pregnancy-enriched nails have a history of breaking into stubby, uneven shards within 30 minutes of giving birth)

Hair brush and small variety of hair clips/bands/restraining devices

Oil-absorbing pressed face powder, because I clearly have Priorities

Laptop. I think. Not definitively sure which bag this will get shoved in, but I solemnly swear to not deprive the Internet of a prompt, timely posting with a baby picture and name information, no matter what. 

*shakes fist at sky Scarlett-O'Hara style*

In Small Tote Bag, On Jason's Person At All Times: 

The "real" camera, the big SLR one

Zoom and 50mm lenses

Extra memory card AKA NOT FILM

Extra battery

Charger

Card reader

Room for those plastic drawstring bags of our clothes, provided everyone dresses seasonally appropriate and does not wear exceptionally clompy shoes. 

(Note that Jason has also been informed that IF we are heading to the hospital *in labor* and a VBAC appears to be at all a possibility, it is his responsibility to handle all the Labor Coach supplies -- tennis ball, bathing suit, snacks -- and also I am not reminding him about bringing his toothbrush or a change of clothes or whatever, YOU GO WITHOUT SHIT YOU WANT AND SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT.)

(Wow. I know! I should probably see a professional about this.)

In Small Suitcase, To Be Either Left In Car Trunk Or Hauled With Us, Depending On How I Feel That Day Oh Who Am I Kidding I Will Probably Tether It To My Ankle:

Bathrobe

Slippers

Nursing sleep bras

Lanolin, package of gel Soothies, small travel scissors for cutting said Soothies in half because those suckers are expensive and like, four times the circumference of my actual nipples, HEY-YOOOO. 

Mother's Milk teabags to kickstart boobs into production

Gorgeous embroidered shawl a friend brought me from India to use as an alternative to frumpy bathrobe and/or impromptu nursing cover in case of visitors. (While EXCEEDINGLY VAIN, I'm not particularly shy about breastfeeding, but still don't really want to make like, the husbands of my friends and/or Jason's coworkers or whoever else feel weird, but bringing an full-on classic "nursing cover" to the maternity ward seems kind of excessively fussy.) 

Coming-home outfit for baby. Okay, maybe two outfits. I haven't decided yet. Plus one is a newborn size in case of a 7-pound Ezra Variety of Baby, and one is 0-3 months in case of a 10-pound Noah Variety.

Soothies pacifers, because the ones the hospital offers are crappy and never work to stop the screaming and/or endless self-soothing on Mama's increasingly battle-scarred boobs.

Toiletries, including dry/powdered shampoo, actual shampoo and conditioner, body soap, razor, deodorant, toothbrush and toothpaste, makeup bag, all packed directly INTO the suitcase's interior pockets so there will be NO REMOVING ANY OF IT FROM THE ROOM WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE.

Outfit for me to wear home, UNLESS I happen to be wearing my black dress from Old Navy when we arrive at the hospital, because then I will just wear that home as well because it's my best option right now because it fits and it's black and slimming (SHUT UP) and comfy and every time I've tried to wear pants home from the hospital I've ended up kind of maybe crying over said pants and how they fit and look so FUCK IT, I'M WEARING A MUUMUU BUT WE'RE ALL CALLING IT A DRESS, OKAY?  

Ample extra space for robbing hospital room blind. Boo-fucking-yah, free diapers and disposable mesh panties for everyone!

In Secondary Shopping Bag, Out In The Car, And I Promise To Be Okay If These Items Are Not Within My Possession Within An Hour Of Giving Birth Or Maybe Even Two But Three Is Probably Pushing It OH MY GOD GO GET THE BAG JASON:

Nursing pillow. I gave away my Boppy but that's fine since I never particularly loved the thing, so this time I bought one by Balboa Baby. I bought it 100% based on the fact that the cover was cute. I know absolutely nothing else about it. It may in fact turn out to be the worst nursing pillow in the history of the world, but dammit, it's cute. I AM EDUCATED CONSUMER WHO MAKES EDUCATED CHOICES. 

Regular pillow.

Two full-sized towels, because the hospital only provides tiny little handtowels, which, COME ON, I need like 17 of those to properly dry off after a shower. (Why yes, I AM obsessed with the postpartum showering process a little bit). Both towels are old and disposable in case of horror-movie-like grossness* but still totally Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy approved.

Big Brother gifts for when Noah and Ezra arrive to completely ignore the new baby while we try in vain to take Incredibly Preshus Life-Affirming Photographs.

DVDs, because the hospital rooms do have DVD players but last time ours was missing the remote and didn't really have working external buttons that made any sense, so the DVDs we brought mostly just sat there taunting me. Except for Iron Man, which Jason managed to get to play at fucking 11 pm the first night while I was trying to sleep and was the reason I suggested that hey, I know we have a private room this time and all but I think it might still be better if you don't stay over again. Go be with Noah or something. I also fucking hate Iron Man to this day as well.

(Really, you do NOT want me to develop a grudge against you at any point during the immediate days postpartum. I will take it to my GRAVE.)  

*Okay, this might very well launch us into another whole blog entry here, or cause a significant portion of the reading audience to head for the fucking hills**, but OMG. The Grossness. The Bloooooood. I am guessing -- like everything -- the whole lochia thing varies from person to person, but I am a bleeeeeeder. Some of this probably has to do with having c-sections -- you are confined to bed with a catheter for quite some time afterwards, so I guess maybe it all just...pools and stores up more than for someone who is allowed to get up and out of bed right away? Because the first time I get up to use the bathroom and get cleaned up, it really, seriously is like a slasher film set in an abattoir. For this reason, I DO NOT pack my own nightgowns or underwear or maxipads or any of that sort of thing. I am a believer in the hospital-supplied Giant Mesh Disposable Panties and Two-Foot-Long Rectangular Pads. If my (cheap, cheap) bathrobe and slippers survive the stay, I consider that an unexpected bonus. 

**I'M JUST TRYING TO BE SERVICEY HERE! For anyone else packing a hospital bag! I was caught so unprepared the first time! Like this:

OH MY GOD, COMBINATION SHAMPOO AND BODYWASH?!?! WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS?!?! THE HORROR, THE HORROR!!

Just In Case There Was Any Doubt

Ezra's middle name is Harrington. It was his now-late great-grandmother's last name, and we chose it in her honor. Noah's middle name comes from my side of the family -- Corbin, the Latin version of Corbett. Though we found out this weekend at the memorial service that the actual last name Corbin appears a few branches up on the Harrington family tree as well. Huh.

We also discovered that while Ezra got the name, Noah got the genes. 

(Professional photos [I am sure you can tell which ones those are] by Kaileen Galhouse, Galhouse Photography)

I Really Hate Coming Up With Titles Some Days. (There. Done!)

And two days later...it's still a boy!

What? Not quite as exciting anymore? Damn these follow-up posts. They're such a letdown.

I spent all day yesterday in rapid reverse-gear, solely fixated on my older existing-model child and visiting our kindergarten options for next year. A variety of special education flavors and regular strength. I started off the day with a pre-existing belief in one of them, only to end up with that belief shaken and stirred and coming home to wail that I DON'T LIKE ANY OF THEM, EVERYTHING IS WRONG. One option is too this and the other is too that. 

I still haven't come to any great revelations about the day and the experiences and what I saw, other than to randomly decide that I think I'm going to sign Noah up for a karate class. That will solve...none of the big issues at hand, but it's a DECISION. About SOMETHING. Everybody golf clap. DO IT. 

Oh, and I bought like, five boxes of chocolate truffles. They were on sale, because they're tied up with Christmas ribbons, and they're practically PRESCRIPTION truffles. Because once again, I showed up at my OB appointment having gained zero pounds. The baby is growing just fine -- super more than fine, if the ultrasound measurements are any indication. His (HIS!) size puts him (HIM!!) about a week and a half ahead of his gestational age. So that's good! He's big and breech. Fantastic. Meanwhile, I can't even keep pre-pregnancy jeans up over my newly bony ass because the baby is getting EVERYTHING while I'm just trying to stay upright in the face of the never-ending preschool germ onslaught. 

But this simply means 1) my pregnancy cravings have been booted to the very top of the priority list, so all I have to do is MENTION that hey, Indian food sounds kinda good to me right now, and BAM, I am stuffing my face with all the Indian food I want, and if I want Chipotle for dessert, my husband is like, legally required to not judge me, plus 2) truffles, and 3) milkshakes. 

In fact, right after the ultrasound, Jason and I went out for breakfast (sausage, egg and cheese sandwich with a full-fat grande Cafe Mocha) and then hit the grocery story to pick out a celebratory dinner (filet mignon, creamed spinach). He's getting kind of worried about how his cholesterol is going to survive this pregnancy, but I'm sorry, honey, it's OUR BABY. SACRIFICES ARE REQUIRED. 

Over breakfast, we agreed that despite having the baby's name about 99% decided for sure, we'll keep it a secret anyway. You know, in case we change our minds or a serial killer with that very name suddenly starts dominating the newspapers for the next four months or so, and besides, we're still currently going back and forth on a middle name.

AND there's the little detail that the name we love and really want is technically a nickname for another name that we're just so-so about. It's a nice name, but not one I really see us ever using. So do we give him the full name, just so he has the option of using something less casual-sounding someday (and weirdly, it's a MUCH easier name to pair middle names with), or just skip the whole "formal name we never actually intend to use that just complicates the birth announcements and school forms" thing and just...name him what we plan to actually call him. 

This is all bothering me much more than Jason. AS USUAL. This was evidenced by him just casually dropping the name out loud while talking to him mother no more than an hour after we agreed to keep it to ourselves. And of course his mom HAAAAAAAAAATES it and thought he was JOKING, like you can't honestly be SERIOUS, you're not really going to CALL HIM THAT. Which wigged me out even MORE, because I thought the conversation would mean Jason would say we had to start ALL OVER, but then he hung up the phone and was like, "Uh, you realize the simple fact that my mother hates it just makes me like the name even more. You should probably get used to this concept at some point, what with having three boys who are going to become teenagers and adults someday."

I told him he was a jerk who should respect his poor, long-suffering mother's opinion more. Except this time, because she's like, totally wrong and stuff. 

Anyway! One last order of business and I'll free you from this meandering mess of barely-connected ramblings: We launched a fun sister site to Mamapop this week, thus expanding that haphazard empire beyond TV/movies/gossip and into the "LIFESTYLE" realm of blogging, which I think mostly just means "interesting shopping/beauty/health/techie/nerd crap that is not about TV/movies/gossip but we still really want to talk about." I dunno. I didn't read that far down the memo. All I know is, IT'S FUN AND I LIKE IT. Also, it's called Moxiebird, and I hope you'll check it out. 

Surviving in the Desert

I don't talk about my in-laws that much. I mean, do I? I don't think I do. FUN FACT: I have probably deleted all of about...three or four blog entries, tops, ever, since I started this site (counts on fingers...oh my GOD) seven years ago. But I still remember the very entry I deleted. It was about visiting my in-laws, and despite sound incredibly tame and ridiculously nice compared with the kind of screeds you saw flying across the average anonymous Blogspot blog back in those Wild West days, I deleted it at Jason's request. 

So I've been good, right? Other than occasionally holding them up as a case study for the Advice Smackdown, I feel like I've barely mentioned them. So I'm due! I can talk about my in-laws for just a little bit. It's my Christmas wish.

DISCLOSURE: This post is brought to you by XFINITY from Comcast. Watch all your favorite shows from anywhere with XFINITY TV. The views expressed here are solely those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of Comcast or its partners.

Post-Glurge

Well, hello! Everybody back to the grind after the hallowed day of national gluttony? Nobody got run over or squished too badly on the crazy batshit day of national consumerism-ism? Anybody want some leftover pie? I've got...three, I think, still. 

But not this one. 

Our holiday was fantastic, thank you for maybe thinking of asking, just now, once I said that.

The turkey was our most delicious ever, thanks to Jason's brine (he won't tell me what's in it, the bastard) and my basting (which I will tell you because I am giver AND a showoff; it's butter + thyme + honey + apple cider). He also made challah bread stuffing and homemade cranberry sauce (the secret ingredient to THAT is, no lie, vodka). I made a cauliflower and broccoli gratin with so much cheddar cheese and cream that I successfully destroyed the nutritional benefits of every vegetable from here to the White House garden.

Including the ones Ezra made. 

He then covered them in parchment paper and braised them in a little shitload of butter. He ate them too! Dipped in the vodka-spiked cranberry sauce, at least. He went really, really nuts for the cranberry sauce.

Damnedest thing, right?

In addition to his cooking skills, Ezra also provided a festive centerpiece for the table.

Noah wore a tie for exactly how long it took me to snap this picture. But at least he ate something. 

Then all the vodka tryptophan kicked in right when it was time to do the dishes. 

Oh, and one more, because you've been so good. 

The first look at the beginnings of The Belly. And a possible hoarding problem.

I must say, I am INORDINATELY pleased with the timing of this pregnancy. There is seriously nothing better in the world than officially hitting the second trimester riiiiiiiiiight after Thanksgiving, so one is completely justified in going directly from eating stuffing and gravy for breakfast to the expansive, forgiving comfort of elastic-waist maternity pants. That stupid pregnancy newsletter thing says the baby is still only the size of a "medium shrimp" but whatever. There's placenta and accessories in there too. Plus pie. A lot of pie. 

PS Today's the last day to enter -- or boost your winning chances -- the Windows 7 phone giveaway. And the one at Mamapop as well. Comments will be closed tonight, winner selected and contacted first thing tomorrow while me and my busted-ass iPhone with the shattered screen sit in a corner and sulk. AT LEAST I STILL HAVE PIE.

Nerds on Parade

Halloween, take three:

Noah's struggles with Halloween and dressing up ebbed and flowed this year, with one costumed activity being a roaring success and the next causing a meltdown of epic proportions. It was like spinning the wheel in Sensory Roulette. So I had no idea how his classroom costume parade party would go on Friday. 

When I arrived with Ezra in tow (and in costume), Noah had steadfastly refused to put his costume on while his friends got dressed. But then another mother showed up with a tray of chocolate cupcakes.

"See those?" I fibbed. "Those are for kids who wear their costumes."

BAM. Obi-Wan Kenobi IN THE HOUSE. And on parade.

With his faithful sidekick Yoda, seen here shortly before losing a shoe in the parking lot at some point.

Other than some mid-parade WHERE ARE THE CUPCAKES ALREADY fatigue, he did great. 

Ezra did too, though he did tend to gravitate to some very non-canon props. 

And then: FEASTING.

Halloween, take four: 

Trick-or-treating. The main event. Noah not only agreed to wear his costume with absolutely zero protest, he even allowed me to put on the cheap-ass synthetic-fabric tunic and rubber belt portion of his Jedi outfit (over his regular clothes, obviously, because ITCHY). 

Get ready for his hit single I Will Do Anything For Candy (But I Draw The Line At The Polyester Pants).

Jason dressed as a prawn-armed Wikus Van De Merwe from District 9. He had a great official-looking MNU Alien Affairs badge too. It was awesome.

At first Ezra thought trick-or-treating consisted of grabbing candy from our bowl, piece by piece, and dropping it into his bucket...

...so there was some momentary distress when he realized there was actually quite a bit more to it than that. And also some tears when he learned he was not allowed to go INSIDE the houses after ringing the bell. Like OH MY GOD, these people keep BOWLS OF CHOCOLATE right next to the FRONT DOOR. Can you EVEN IMAGINE what they might have HIDDEN IN THE KITCHEN? WHAT THE HELL, YOU GUYS.

Checking out the loot between houses.

(LIghtsabers are actually safety LED glowsticks from Life+Gear, who sent me a truckload of them back when Noah's Star Wars fanaticism first dawned. Awesome for visibility at night AND because they were technically too short to cause damage to TV screens, precious Ming vases or each other's skulls. Shout-out! Woot!)

(And yes, fellow nerdlings, I know Obi-Wan Kenobi should have the blue one and Yoda should have green, and I swear that was the way they were dispensed back at the house but you KNOW whatever your younger brother has in his hand is immediately 500 times more awesome than what you have in YOUR hand, so there you go.) 

(This from the kid who, when I referred to him as simply "Obi-Wan" to another mother at school, testily corrected me because "I'm Obi-Wan KENOBI, Mooooommmmm.")

I was Jessica from True Blood. I'm crying blood because Jessica is always freaking crying. 

I ordered the Merlotte's shirt and apron before I found out I was pregnant, and I briefly thought I'd have to switch to Arlene, the OTHER True Blood redhead (who is currently pregnant with what may or may not be the demon fetus reincarnation of a serial killer), but it turns out I don't have the belly for it yet. So I got to traumatize small neighborhood children with bloody eyes and fangs instead.

Also, yes, I was really, really freaking cold. But I was even more committed.

We stayed out until the buckets got too heavy to carry and little legs got too tired to walk. Also we had to get everybody to bed so we could stay up late and watch that zombie show on AMC with the lights turned off and the sound turned up because I totally enjoy NOT EVER SLEEPING AGAIN.

And that was our Halloween. How was yours? 

LET'S GO MURDER A TRUCKER. AND THEN CRY ABOUT IT.

Subplot

So let me tell you what else was going on last week, now that I can. Now that I'm no longer curled up in an unwashed little ball under the covers. I mean, I'm still unwashed, but it's still better because at least now I'm sitting upright, on TOP of the covers.

You may remember -- or not -- that I casually mentioned awhile back that Jason was sick. A weirdly persistent sore throat turned into the most vicious acid reflux I have ever had the privilege of hearing about over and over again. Having never even HAD heartburn before, he woke me up in the middle of the night to describe his symptoms to make sure that's actually what he was experiencing. I muttered something about having it for nine straight months, grarrrrr cranky smash, and went back to sleep. Since we were at his parents' house, which hasn't contained so much as a single Tylenol caplet since the mid-1990s, he had to go out in search of a 24-hour convenience store in order to find some Tums and Zantac. 

They didn't help, so once we got home he went to the doctor. By this point, he was having trouble swallowing and some mysterious back pain at the same time. His doctor didn't like this combination of symptoms and sent him off for an abdominal ultrasound and a chest x-ray. These were scheduled for Thursday, Noah's birthday.

He went first thing in the morning, but around lunchtime they called because OOPS, they accidentally did an abdominal x-ray instead of his chest. OUR BAD, LOL. Come right back. He did. Then I went to get my hair done.

When I came back, he was sitting on a chair in the living room. Ezra was on his lap, Noah was playing with his Legos and being AWFULLY patient for a kid who hadn't gotten to open his birthday presents yet. But judging from Jason's face you would have thought the boys spent the last hour and a half screaming non-stop and attaching fireworks to the dog's tail. 

He walked me to the kitchen and delivered the news: There was an abnormality on the x-ray, behind his esophagus. 

***

Usually, I'm good at times like these. I'm good at staying positive. That bad things aren't going to happen because bad things aren't going to happen. Because they aren't! They just. Aren't. I won't let you dwell on the what-ifs. I won't let you talk about how bad the general prognosis for esophageal cancer is because...SHUT UP, that's why. 

This time I just sat down and cried. 

***

We took Noah out for pizza and cupcakes, as we'd already promised, trying so very very very hard to focus on his birthday and block out everything else. A simple "How's everyone doing tonight?" from our waiter made me laugh, right before I fought the urge to slide under the table in a pile of boneless goo. 

How were we doing? Which disaster do you want to hear about first? Or can I just order the pepperoni?

***

The next morning, Jason got up and went for a CT scan. He came back and I hadn't moved out of bed. The sitter was with the boys, I was supposed to be working, but I couldn't. He didn't want me to write about him until we knew more, so I just laid there, occasionally fielding text messages from my mom about my dad. Still in the ICU. More tranfusions. It's pneumonia again. Antibiotics aren't working. Diverticulitis in his colon. Congestive heart failure causing too much fluid in his stomach. 

She needed me up there, but understood that I needed to stay put. At least until we got the next phone call. We should know something by noon, I told her.

***

I gave up on working or doing anything remotely useful or productive. I fought the visions of doom and death and widowhood as hard as I could, but I failed most of the time. Cancer was officially coming to decimate my entire family, to trample everyone I loved. It was unstoppable and it didn't matter if you were a good person or a bad person or young or old or had babies or dreams or plans or someone who needed to not ever be left behind. It didn't matter, it was fucking cancer, and it was goddamn everywhere. 

***

Noon came and went. No phone call. Jason called his doctor, then the radiologist. Then we waited another hour before he called again. 

"The worst," he said, "will be if we have to wait until Monday to get the results."

"Your worst is better than mine," I thought glumly, but did not say. 

***

Finally, at 4:45, the phone rang. It was neither the doctor nor the radiologist. It was a random receptionist at Georgetown University, calling to let him know that some radiology lab was faxing over his medical information to a doctor that no longer worked there? Over and over again? FYI, and stuff. You should probably call them and make sure they have the right fax number.

"WHAT THE FUCK?" we both screamed in the general direction of the ceiling fan.

***

A few frantic phone calls later, the doctor had his results. It's a cyst,, she said, a congenital thing that's just gotten really big all of a sudden (six centimeters!) and is pressing against his esophagus and causing all these weird problems. It will need to be looked at with a scope and removed and all that, but. BUT. It's just a cyst, nothing more. 

Jason looked at me and gave me a thumbs up. I decided it was okay to leave his side for the first time that day and take a shower, finally.

***

The next morning we were packed up and in the car, back on our way to Pennsylvania to visit my dad again. During our visit, he stablized, moved out of the ICU and was given hope to go home either today or tomorrow. He's doing better, save for...you know, the dying of cancer bit.

Yesterday was their 35th wedding anniversary. 

I don't know what he'll decide to do about chemotherapy, though we had a long, good talk about it and why it's okay to stop. He asked me to promise to take care of my mother and burst into tears, right before his heart went into tachycardia simply from the thought. I held his bruised hand as hard as I dared and crossed my heart with the other. 

Trees, Knees and God-Knows-What Else (Nonsensical Bullet Point Edition)

I am feeling much better today, thank you. 

Not so much better, mind you, that I am capable of delivering a super-coherent blog entry or anything. I've yet to venture beyond Saltines, white rice and strawberry Jell-O, which means the best I can do for you today are some semi-deranged blood-sugary bullet points. Aren't you excited NOW.

1. Remember the tree that fell down after The Tornado That Apparently Happened While We Were In The Mall? This is what it looks like today:

 

IT'S ALIVE!!!!

No, actually, it's really not. A crew came by last week, hacked off all the branches, removed a couple of smaller trees that this one had taken out on the way down, and then just...propped it back up. And left it. You can still see the separation all around it on the ground, like a giant Christmas tree skirt, the only indication that this tree is NOT ACTUALLY ATTACHED TO ANYTHING, like it used to be. You know, like it was on the day it BLEW THE FUCK OVER. 

Things That Could Possibly Go Very Wrong Here:

     a) Another storm.

     b) Another EARTHQUAKE.

     c) Some goddamned wind. 

     d) Passing texting/drunk/mascara-applying drivers and/or bicyclists.

     e) Birds. Fat ones.

     f) Vicious regenerating zombie trees of the apocalypse.

Things That Could Possibly Go Very Right:

    a) FRIENDLY regenerating zombie trees of the apocalypse.

Moving on.

2) I got a mosquito bite that looks like the devil. Or possibly a very angry bull.

 

Oh, come on. Don't pretend like you don't see it. Just ignore my alarmingly knobby knees and turn your computer screen upside down. It'll come.

3) Robots, take note. You are NOT WELCOME at Noah's summer camp.

 

4) Blogher. I KNOW. The pre-conference freak-out posts on other blogs start earlier and earlier each year, usually ending just in time for me to realize that:

     a) Oh shit, it's Blogher! and

     b) There are Christmas trees at the mall already, MY LANDS.

In honor of our 12th wedding anniversary, I am dragging Jason (hereforeafterever known as Poor Jason) with me this year, and to several of the parties. If you see or approach us, please to be prepared for:

     a) Me to hug you, only in a horribly spastic way that might trigger your instinct to protect your head, and...

     b) Jason to look at you with wide eyes full of terror, and possibly slip you a note promising you one (1) slightly used purse dog or child (your choice) in exchange for safe passage OUT OF THIS CIRCLE OF SOCIAL HELL.

"But it's our ANNIVERSARY," I said to him several months ago. "We CAN'T spend it apart. Blogher will be FUN. You can learn about ISSUES. And MONETIZING. And WOMEN." 
 
I won that argument, so he's coming. Poor Jason.

5) I don't really have a number five. Here is a picture of my baby going down a slide.

I feel like there used to be a lot more slide, and I don't quite know where it went. 

Area Woman Demands Medal For Heroic Rescue of Disgusting Thing She Totally Hates

Jason Storch, Mouse Trapper M.D., caught himself another one this morning. He was quite proud of himself. The dog and the cat, on the other hand, were all nonchalantly hanging around the trap, waiting for me to put their kibble down, COMPLETELY UNFAZED by the live mouse SITTING RIGHT THERE in a clear plastic box, and did not seem to be all ashamed of themselves and their utter uselessness. 

Also! This: 

 
Is EVEN MORE BULLSHIT.

That's a dishtowel covering up today's Gladware-encased rodent offering, on the front seat of my car, as the whole "release" bit of Jason's catch-and-release plan fell to me this time. ME! 

Technically, Jason offered to take care of the mouse...later. Like, "I have to go somewhere around 4 p.m. so I'll do it then" later. I pointed out that while it's fine and great that he's so determined to trap the mice humanely and all, there's something about keeping the things trapped in cheap plastic containers all day --wallowing in piss and shit and probably terrified out of their feeble stupid tiny poop-pellet-sized disgusting brains -- that strikes me as kind of cruel. 

(Also cruel: My suspicion that he likes keeping the mice around because he thinks the look on my face and the involuntary creeped-out shoulder-spasms I get each and every time I walk into the kitchen and see the container on the counter are really funny.)

And so that's why I -- the sole non-lunatic in a household of males that have all been completely brainwashed by the Disney animation establishment -- ended up taking responsibility for freeing the awful creature in a field near Noah's school. 

(The whole drive there, Noah kept trying to understand WHY I don't like mice, mostly by asking me if I liked mice or not over and over and over again, trying to wear me down and get me to say that I did. And wear me down he did, because I finally gave up and told him that yes, I like mice just fine when they are OUTSIDE, but that I don't like mice in my HOUSE. Or CAR. Or FOOD STORAGE CONTAINERS.)

(This half-truth is still probably better than the colossal outright lie we tell him about "sending the mouse back to his family" when we talk about setting them free, because I know full well that the mouse's family [and likely a litter of blind naked mole-rat dependents] are totally back at our house, inside of our wall.)

So after dropping Noah off at his classroom I snuck over to the edge of the parking lot with my dishrag-covered offering and set the mouse free. I watched it sit there for awhile before bounding (BOUNDING, HE HONESTLY BOUNDED, IT WAS GROSS YET ADORABLE) over to a tree to clean itself off. 

 

Freedom! Terrible, blinding freedom!
 
I drove off and then found myself worrying about the mouse -- God, maybe I should've walked over to those bushes so it wouldn't be left so far out in the open? Or over there, where it wouldn't be so close to the street? Quick, scan the sky for hawks! Should I go back and try to like, corral it someplace else? 

The mental image of myself, running (OR BOUNDING) through a field by the side of the road, trying to ensure the relative safety of a MOUSE, possibly while banging the lid and bowl of a thoroughly befouled Gladware container together, snapped me right back to curmudgeonly reality, which was: That thing should count its goddamn blessings already. 

 

FUCK YOU, MICKEY. GOOD LUCK NOT BEING EATEN.
 

Medicinal

WAIT WAIT ONE MORE, just because I cannot believe I missed the middle finger bit yesterday:

 

Seriously, I'm SLIPPING, you guys. 

Ezra's face is just fine today, and he is currently coated in three (3!) different bug-repellant sprays of various natural and toxic varieties. This is how I tackle problems: I just throw the entire medicine cabinet at them. 

We did visit the doctor yesterday -- technically we were already scheduled to be there anyway for make-up vaccines* but of course I managed to squeeze in a little conversation about OH HEY LOOK AT MY DISFIGURED CHILD. He's fine, though I recommend everybody go ahead and buy stock in Zyrtec and Benadryl this summer. 

And speaking of medicine cabinets and doctors' offices, indulge me while I engage in a few rants about the scintillating topic of children's medicines:

1) First up, thanks so much, TYLENOL, for the recent refund check we received from your recent recall. We chucked about $50 worth of your products -- including the hard-to-find dye-free versions because your Red #40-laden regular versions make my preschooler go apeshit, which is always a great combination with already-generally-sick-and-jerky-acting. It was especially awesome to toss out the almost-empty bottles that I'd been generously dosing everybody from all winter.

2) But actually that really doesn't have anything to do with anything else in this entry.

3) Just about every bottle of medicine we own (other than the infant versions, which are pretty much limited to acetaminophen and ibuprofen) does not list a dosage for a child Ezra's age. No weight guidelines, no nothing, just "do not use" or "consult a doctor." I know this is technically in response to a number of parents incorrectly dosing their children and causing a lot of inadvertent harm. And harm is bad! I am not a fan of harm! But can anyone honestly say that removing ANY recommended dosage from the labels is actually a BETTER idea? 

4) Because you know when kids get sick or swollen or asshole-y? After hours. When there's no one answering the phone at the doctor's office, and it's 2:15 in the morning and you're blearily staring at a bottle of never-used-but-about-to-expire Benadryl, wondering if you really do need to call some after-hours hotline or clinic or ER to find out how much you can give a 23-pound 19-month-old. For his mosquito bite.

5) And you know what? People don't call. I mean, I'm sure some do, but plenty don't. They Google. Or they totally guess. Which: Jeez, nothing bad will ever come of that, Children's Medicines Industry, oh noooo.

6) That said, the Internet told us a half teaspoon was a safe dosage for his age and weight, but Jason still insisted that Ezra sleep with us just so he could sit there all night watching him breathe because we are all so going to die of either mosquito bites or Benadryl overdoses, because my husband is kind of a total freak when it comes to his babies, IN CASE YOU HAVEN'T NOTICED.

7) But then, at the office, the doctor was all, "Bitch, please. No wonder he looks like Eric Stoltz from Mask. Give him the whole freaking teaspoon, it's fine." 

8) *throws hands up in air, gives up*

*Hey! Did you know there's a well-baby visit at 15 months? And then another one at 18 months? And if you only remember the one at 18 months everybody glares at you because your baby needs about four frillion shots and like, is so going to get fucking polio now or something? It is true. I know this because I am a parenting expert on the Internet**. Also, because I forgot about the 15-month check-up and totally got glared at. 

**Which is to say: Do not use, consult a doctor.