I was making my bed this morning - which in and of itself is a very interesting process, one which I often doubt any other family subscribes to (4 comforters, all in their own places, one quilt, atop it all - but that is another blog) and I was thinking about my mattress and how gross it is when suddenly it dawned on me. My mattress is not gross, it is a piece of us - of our family. The stains on our 7 year old mattress, upon examination, take one on an archaeological journey.
First and foremost there is pee. A lot of it and most importantly, in very odd places. Not only are there pee-stains in the expected places (2-3 feet from the head of the bed) but also around the perimeter, in random spots. What this tells the exploring mind is that our children sleep on this bed en mass and that they squirm all over, jammed into the crevices and the cracks of free space. And that they pee in bed because we want them free of diapers and that we are not all that organized about making them pee before bed and that we often forget to put down the water proof pad.
Then there are the blood stains. These stains are dear to my heart and I have done nothing to clean or remove them. They are from two home births on this mattress and their locations spark beautiful memories. I remember sitting on the very edge of the bed, about to push and the water proof padding was slipping around, and I didn't care at all and the blood was soaking through the sheets. And I remember the other big blood stain right int he middle of the bed, when I hemorrhaged and the water proof pads were spilling over with blood and leaking onto the mattress
Giving birth to my kids - those experiences - were the most transformative and profound and joyous moments of my life. I love those stains and actually I don't want a new mattress - even if I wake up every morning with a tingling left hand and a stiff-ass neck.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Link to photo of actual monster splinter
http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/profile.php?ref=profile&id=827934757
It isn't live but just cut and paste it into your address bar- well worth the effort.
It isn't live but just cut and paste it into your address bar- well worth the effort.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
The 2 year old fell off the bed and I am not jumping up to Comfort Him
That's right - you heard it here first. His dad is doing just fine. Poor 4th child. Seriously though, he gets way more than enough attention. In fact I think that is my problem as a parent, I try to give all my kids as much attention as the first one got - which is, of course, physically impossible and will lead to suicidal ruminations. Where the hell did this standard come from? It's really not fair to compare myself with my own mother - she had 2 kids, 11 years apart, very much on purpose. She's a planner. So, yeah, we - my brother and I got equal amounts - perhaps different but nonetheless, equal attention.
Tonight at wrestling (my 9 and 6 year old boys just started wrestling) my 9 year old, Edan, threw a classic fit - all because I brought his shorts and not his sweats. I am sure you will remember with horror, that my kids don't wear underwear...well this is one reason why they should. Loose, baggy shorts are embarrassing to wrestle in and I really didn't think of that when I grabbed them but MAYBE that is because in the 45 minutes leading up to leaving (5 minutes late which I hate - hate - hate, being late) my son stayed in the car playing his PSP and I, slave-girl that I am, literally did the following:
Managed to make a sort of dinner for myself and baby out of literally no food. Tried to communicate with my husband. Texted back and forth negotiating with my 14 year old daughter, making sure she was safe on the bus. Took all the soapy dishes out of the suddenly broken (but brand new!?!?) dishwasher, rinsed, dried and put them away. Did all the sink full of nasty, coffee ground covered dishes. Tidied up the house a bit. Cleaned poop up off the highchair as my 2 year old hysterically pooped in his underwear/diapers (see previous blog post) while literally eating my sandwich and then right when I am heading out the door with wrestling shoes, socks and appropriate leg coverings, my 6 year old has to...you guessed it! Poop! So, that took another million years.
So when my 9 year old freaked out about the shorts, well, I lost it. Suffice it to say, finger nails (mine) were dug into arms (his) and threats were made - mean, mean, immature threats and many tears were shed. His and mine. Amends remain to be made on either side. I have simply had it tonight. I have nothing left. If I had the money in the bank, I kid you not, I would go get a (nice-ish) hotel room, all to myself.
I went to the dentist today and let me tell you, it was the calmest, nicest part of the day. He told me he hears that all the time.
Tonight at wrestling (my 9 and 6 year old boys just started wrestling) my 9 year old, Edan, threw a classic fit - all because I brought his shorts and not his sweats. I am sure you will remember with horror, that my kids don't wear underwear...well this is one reason why they should. Loose, baggy shorts are embarrassing to wrestle in and I really didn't think of that when I grabbed them but MAYBE that is because in the 45 minutes leading up to leaving (5 minutes late which I hate - hate - hate, being late) my son stayed in the car playing his PSP and I, slave-girl that I am, literally did the following:
Managed to make a sort of dinner for myself and baby out of literally no food. Tried to communicate with my husband. Texted back and forth negotiating with my 14 year old daughter, making sure she was safe on the bus. Took all the soapy dishes out of the suddenly broken (but brand new!?!?) dishwasher, rinsed, dried and put them away. Did all the sink full of nasty, coffee ground covered dishes. Tidied up the house a bit. Cleaned poop up off the highchair as my 2 year old hysterically pooped in his underwear/diapers (see previous blog post) while literally eating my sandwich and then right when I am heading out the door with wrestling shoes, socks and appropriate leg coverings, my 6 year old has to...you guessed it! Poop! So, that took another million years.
So when my 9 year old freaked out about the shorts, well, I lost it. Suffice it to say, finger nails (mine) were dug into arms (his) and threats were made - mean, mean, immature threats and many tears were shed. His and mine. Amends remain to be made on either side. I have simply had it tonight. I have nothing left. If I had the money in the bank, I kid you not, I would go get a (nice-ish) hotel room, all to myself.
I went to the dentist today and let me tell you, it was the calmest, nicest part of the day. He told me he hears that all the time.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
What's up with pooping in diapers?
So my 2 and 3/4 year old is pretty much potty trained - this is my 4th kid so I really didn't give shit whether or not he did this heroic deed early or not. My other 3 kids all PT-ed by 2 years which I took personal credit for until this one showed up and ruined my average. Anyway, he has an accident here and there but generally is doing really well. Except for pooping. He is all hung up about needing to be standing to poop which means no potty. I actually tried to convince him to stand on the toilet and just aim but he said "hell no" in Baby Coleman speak. Which is a loud, guttural yell. I ran out of diapers and I cannot bring myself to spend $15 on shit catchers, you know? I have been buying the organic, dioxin free type because his skin is really rashy but it seems really just plain old dumb to do that for a quick poop and toss kinda of situation. Then I got a mental block about buying anymore at all. It just seemed wasteful on so many levels. Plus, I thought that eventually he would get so backed up and so uncomfortable that he wold figure it out. Which I am sure he would have if it wasn't for his kind father who couldn't stand to see him suffer.
What happens is he feels the need to poop but maybe not, maybe just to fart because he hasn't pooped in 2 days - he isn't so sure - all he knows is that his stomach hurts. So, he panics and he yells, "pooooop". I put him on the toilet, he sits there (now he actually, I kid you not, from my midwifery coaching of him, says, "breath - good, in and out, just relax, you're doing great" or he sings the "everybody poops, sometimes" songs sung to the tune of REM's "everybody hurts.....sometimes, and everybody cries.....so hold on..." - you know that song that makes you want to slit your wrists? So, he is self-soothing and then, poof, "it's all gone momma" and nothing has happened. The gas has passed I guess. And he is off and running.
So, I had the brilliant idea of putting some underpants on him the other night and telling him they were like diapers, to go ahead and poop in them. You have to know that none of my kids wear underwear (well, Ellie, my 14 year old does now of course) - don't ask me why - they all reject them 100%. This worked like magic - I tossed the poop and washed the underpants and we were golden.
I am just starting to feel like this whole ritual is sort of enabling his inability to just bare down and get to it on the actual pot itself, you know? And what would a real babysitter say about having to deal with this method. I mean, Ellie is repulsed enough as his babysitting sister. For God's sake - we have to have some standards around here, right?
My sister in law had the same problem with my nephew but they worked through it together - right there on the toilet - the spot where most important and intimate things occur in all families but no one will admit it but me right here and now.
Now that I think about it - I have had the most profound moment of my marriage, right on the toilet, in labor. I actually became my husband, and I think (I'll have to ask him) he became me.
Ok, off to bed for the night.
What happens is he feels the need to poop but maybe not, maybe just to fart because he hasn't pooped in 2 days - he isn't so sure - all he knows is that his stomach hurts. So, he panics and he yells, "pooooop". I put him on the toilet, he sits there (now he actually, I kid you not, from my midwifery coaching of him, says, "breath - good, in and out, just relax, you're doing great" or he sings the "everybody poops, sometimes" songs sung to the tune of REM's "everybody hurts.....sometimes, and everybody cries.....so hold on..." - you know that song that makes you want to slit your wrists? So, he is self-soothing and then, poof, "it's all gone momma" and nothing has happened. The gas has passed I guess. And he is off and running.
So, I had the brilliant idea of putting some underpants on him the other night and telling him they were like diapers, to go ahead and poop in them. You have to know that none of my kids wear underwear (well, Ellie, my 14 year old does now of course) - don't ask me why - they all reject them 100%. This worked like magic - I tossed the poop and washed the underpants and we were golden.
I am just starting to feel like this whole ritual is sort of enabling his inability to just bare down and get to it on the actual pot itself, you know? And what would a real babysitter say about having to deal with this method. I mean, Ellie is repulsed enough as his babysitting sister. For God's sake - we have to have some standards around here, right?
My sister in law had the same problem with my nephew but they worked through it together - right there on the toilet - the spot where most important and intimate things occur in all families but no one will admit it but me right here and now.
Now that I think about it - I have had the most profound moment of my marriage, right on the toilet, in labor. I actually became my husband, and I think (I'll have to ask him) he became me.
Ok, off to bed for the night.
Broken Bones
So my husband has been breaking bones for about 10 years now. Lots. Especially in one hand/wrist/elbow area. He recently broke his 3rd metacarpal (I think) on his pinky (which is essential the hand part of your pinky). This break is, in the radiology industry, known as a boxers break and although to me the xray appears as though it really should be a compound fracture, I guess that it might just heal up fine. Our neighbor is a radiologist and he confirmed this. The PA (medical speak for physicians assistant) at Alta Bates Hospital recommended that Nick go to Highland Hospital (the county hospital for uninsured - which is what we currently are) to get a 2nd opinion from a hand surgeon. Nick did not do this.
but
By week 3 the shit wasn't looking so good - this weird bump about an inch back from his knuckle (which no longer existed - his knuckle that is) wasn't going anywhere. So, he went and picked up the xrays and our neighbor checked it out in our living room. He said to keep the cast on for 10 weeks and it'd be fine. The PA said 6 weeks but whatever. Ok, all is well, right? No. Now Nick has decided at week 6 that he should start walking around with just the ace bandage and no splint (the other day he used a comb for a splint).
Here is the clincher: Tonight he is telling me how much prettier I am than someone I said had better legs than I did while complaining about how fat I felt and he comes in for a random hug/pat/bottom squeeze/reassurance kind of dealio and what do I do? I (he says) turn my head and look away while punching him in the 3rd metacarpal. I thought I just raised my arm to receive his sweet embrace. Either way he retreated in a cloud of 'fucks' and thinks I re-broke it. Maybe. And it sounded like he blamed me. 100 % - for sure.
but
By week 3 the shit wasn't looking so good - this weird bump about an inch back from his knuckle (which no longer existed - his knuckle that is) wasn't going anywhere. So, he went and picked up the xrays and our neighbor checked it out in our living room. He said to keep the cast on for 10 weeks and it'd be fine. The PA said 6 weeks but whatever. Ok, all is well, right? No. Now Nick has decided at week 6 that he should start walking around with just the ace bandage and no splint (the other day he used a comb for a splint).
Here is the clincher: Tonight he is telling me how much prettier I am than someone I said had better legs than I did while complaining about how fat I felt and he comes in for a random hug/pat/bottom squeeze/reassurance kind of dealio and what do I do? I (he says) turn my head and look away while punching him in the 3rd metacarpal. I thought I just raised my arm to receive his sweet embrace. Either way he retreated in a cloud of 'fucks' and thinks I re-broke it. Maybe. And it sounded like he blamed me. 100 % - for sure.
My Hubby's Splinter
I am the best-ever splinter-taker-outer. If I cannot remove Nick's splinter it is only because my tools are not high-tech enough. I have these kick-ass tweezers, designed specifically for splinters but their point is so fine, so thin, that when the splinter is deeply embedded the tweezers don't have enough grip. Currently, I have encountered a massive piece of wood that has, thus far, eluded me.
Well, Nick DID come home to me immediately upon encountering this massive piece of evil wood but i wasn't there - then he broke the damn thing (it went in one side and out the other - an inch apart) so as is our custom, i began the removal process upon his return from work. typically i am always able to remove even the wee ones and the invisible ... i specialize in pressure treated! anyway, i could grab and i could tug but i couldn't keep hold of this sucker! it was awful and boy oh boy did it hurt - i was deep in there! every time i pulled on the splinter you could see the wood flexing under his skin, an inch away. now it is swollen and blue-ish - poor guy. but we know, we have to now wait til it festers and the puss acts as a sort of explosive force to aid it the removal!
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