Okay, I know I can be slightly irritable when I'm eight months pregnant. Okay, that may be an understatement. There are men on death row who cry when they hear I might be around. That said, let's look at a few things that may be contributing to my wrath. People! Rude people are the few things that contribute to my current mood.
Since no one has apparently ever taught these people about common courtesy, I've taken it upon myself to do so. This post will remain here for a while, so those of you out there in cyber space who are contemplating saying something totally rude can come back and review the rules.
The first rule of thumb is to remember that I am NOT a walking pet. You do not have permission to walk up to me and stroke my belly before ever even telling me your name. It's not like I'm a public park. If you feel the need to rub something, go to the pet store. There are some snakes there who get very little physical attention. Leave my stomach alone.
The next rule is please think before you speak. Women who are roughly the size of a small planet don't need reminders from strangers or family members about how big we really are. We are sore and tired and nothing fits us anymore. It doesn't help us when you walk up and say, "You are so HUGE!! How long do you have left? What?! That's forever. You're going to be a whale!". Let me tell you something, people. Our bellies are not the only things that are suddenly changing. Our boobs have ballooned into something even Hooter's girls don't want. We have vericose veins in places we didn't even know veins existed. We don't sleep well at night. We have stretch marks that resemble maps of New York City. We DO NOT need you to point out what else about us is not as it should be.
Another very important rule: Do NOT ask us what we're naming our unborn children if you aren't 100% sure you have something polite to say about it. I had three dirty old men ask me what I'm naming this baby while sitting at a table near me. I told them, and they proceeded to reply, "Oh no! I wouldn't do that if I were you." Then, they carried on a very loud conversation about it. Newsflash, men! I never asked your opinion. I chose this baby's name with love, and I'd appreciate if you'd shut your mouths before spewing forth something so rude that I'm forced to unleash my wrath on you.
I'm sure there are more rules I'd like to share with you. But, this is a good start for now. Spend some time getting to learn them and live them. You will thank me later.
This is the wacky story of our wild and crazy lives with six insane kids. Two are Deaf. Two have had major health issues. At least one is plotting to take over the world. Two are the reigning princesses of the house. Read and laugh about our lives to feel better about your's.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Let's Talk Urine Samples
I'm a grown woman. I've developed a sense of balance and physical control over my body. I'm not obese (though I do currently resemble a beached whale), and I think I'm doing pretty well. That said, I'm also almost 35 weeks pregnant.
For those of you who have never been pregnant, allow me to fill you in on something. Every single time you go to the doctor, you will have to present the nurse with a urine sample. Those of you who are men and have your own hoses which you can direct any way you want won't see any big reason for concern here. But, we ladies know there is a HUGE concern with this.
Picture it: A woman the size of a small country walks into the dr.'s office. She's already very aware of her size before she's asked to step up on the scale and assess this week's damage. In her mind she's cursing the Hershey company up and down. It is, after all, their fault she ate all that chocolate this week. Once her weight has been announced loud enough for even the Deaf kid she's got with her to hear (yeah, I can say that. I really do have a Deaf kid. Dang, he's cute, though), she swallows her pride and just avoids looking the nurse in the eye. She figures all the damage is done, and is just glad to be over the horrible part. That's when it happens. This poor, sweet, very pregnant woman is handed a cup. I'm not even sure you can call it a cup. It's really more like a measuring spoon. Good grief! There are scientists with the world's strongest microscopes that couldn't see that thing it's so small. Is she being offered a refreshing glass of water to wash down the humiliation of having stood on that scale? No, that would be too kind. Instead, she's being told to take that teeny tiny teacup-lookin' thing and pee in it.
Okay, so she takes a deep breath. How bad can this be? Well, bad. She's also got her kids with her who feel the need to see and touch EVERYTHING that's happening in the restroom. Humiliated, she takes the cup and heads in. She drops her pants and sits down on the cold, already alarmingly wet seat. That's when it happens. She realizes she's too round around the waist to even see her woo hoo, let alone place a cup in just the right place to catch any of her urine. She does her best, but apparently that's not good enough. By the time she's done, there are three drops of pee that happened to bounce into the cup when it was rebounding off her hand.
She's now soaked up to what feels like her neck in pee. In reality, it probably stops closer to her shoulders than her neck, but who's really judging here, right? She has to figure out how to dry the outside of the urine collection cup, clean off her hands, and still not get pee all down her legs when she stands up to do the desired task. In desperation, she uses some toilet paper to dry off the cup, then goes about taking care of herself. As hard as she tries, her leg is still nauseatingly wet. She makes sure she spends an abundant amount of time lathering up with that anti-bacterial soap that smells like a nursing home. Because she felt like she'd gotten pee up to her neck, she decides to just go ahead and wash her hair while she's in there. No sense taking chances, right?
Finally, feeling like a complete loser in whale's clothing, she waddles out to the nurse's station for her blood pressure and to be sent to a room where more humiliating exams will take place.
So, why do I tell this story? Because, ladies and gentlemen, this has been my experience for the last several visits to the doctor. Yesterday, though, I made history. Yesterday, I provided a urine sample in which the entire outside of the cup remained dry as did my arm and leg. Yesterday, my friends, was a red letter day...unless you count what the scale told me.
For those of you who have never been pregnant, allow me to fill you in on something. Every single time you go to the doctor, you will have to present the nurse with a urine sample. Those of you who are men and have your own hoses which you can direct any way you want won't see any big reason for concern here. But, we ladies know there is a HUGE concern with this.
Picture it: A woman the size of a small country walks into the dr.'s office. She's already very aware of her size before she's asked to step up on the scale and assess this week's damage. In her mind she's cursing the Hershey company up and down. It is, after all, their fault she ate all that chocolate this week. Once her weight has been announced loud enough for even the Deaf kid she's got with her to hear (yeah, I can say that. I really do have a Deaf kid. Dang, he's cute, though), she swallows her pride and just avoids looking the nurse in the eye. She figures all the damage is done, and is just glad to be over the horrible part. That's when it happens. This poor, sweet, very pregnant woman is handed a cup. I'm not even sure you can call it a cup. It's really more like a measuring spoon. Good grief! There are scientists with the world's strongest microscopes that couldn't see that thing it's so small. Is she being offered a refreshing glass of water to wash down the humiliation of having stood on that scale? No, that would be too kind. Instead, she's being told to take that teeny tiny teacup-lookin' thing and pee in it.
Okay, so she takes a deep breath. How bad can this be? Well, bad. She's also got her kids with her who feel the need to see and touch EVERYTHING that's happening in the restroom. Humiliated, she takes the cup and heads in. She drops her pants and sits down on the cold, already alarmingly wet seat. That's when it happens. She realizes she's too round around the waist to even see her woo hoo, let alone place a cup in just the right place to catch any of her urine. She does her best, but apparently that's not good enough. By the time she's done, there are three drops of pee that happened to bounce into the cup when it was rebounding off her hand.
She's now soaked up to what feels like her neck in pee. In reality, it probably stops closer to her shoulders than her neck, but who's really judging here, right? She has to figure out how to dry the outside of the urine collection cup, clean off her hands, and still not get pee all down her legs when she stands up to do the desired task. In desperation, she uses some toilet paper to dry off the cup, then goes about taking care of herself. As hard as she tries, her leg is still nauseatingly wet. She makes sure she spends an abundant amount of time lathering up with that anti-bacterial soap that smells like a nursing home. Because she felt like she'd gotten pee up to her neck, she decides to just go ahead and wash her hair while she's in there. No sense taking chances, right?
Finally, feeling like a complete loser in whale's clothing, she waddles out to the nurse's station for her blood pressure and to be sent to a room where more humiliating exams will take place.
So, why do I tell this story? Because, ladies and gentlemen, this has been my experience for the last several visits to the doctor. Yesterday, though, I made history. Yesterday, I provided a urine sample in which the entire outside of the cup remained dry as did my arm and leg. Yesterday, my friends, was a red letter day...unless you count what the scale told me.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
I'm putting out a single's ad
We have a family member who has been acting "different" since July. I know it's because his best friend died, and he's just been lonely. He's always been good to the kids, and even lets them call him Miztur Biggz. He's friendly, but very shy. I would dare to say he's actually painfully shy.
Anyway, since he's been acting so funny, I thought it was time to take him to the dr. He didn't want to go, but I tricked him into it. It had gotten so he wasn't even taking the time to take a bath, and something had to be done. So, the doctor looked him over and told us he's lonely and that's causing him to be depressed. He said we could put him on a lifetime of Prozac, or just help him find a companion.
A companion! Now why didn't I think of that?!?! It's true that he's lonely since his friend died, and he doesn't get out much. I mean, he goes out for fresh air, but never really leaves the area. I don't think he has ever been to Wal-Mart.
So, I took it upon myself to create him a Single's Ad. Here it is. Any ideas on how to improve it? I really want him to have luck in this area.
Hi! I'm a SWM with brown eyes. I'm physically fit, but somewhat larger than other guys like me. I love to run, but also love a lazy day of just hanging around with friends. I'm a little bit shy when I first meet new people, so it takes me longer to meet new friends.I love long walks, cuddling, and licking my privates. If I really like you, I'll sniff your privates, too. Some people say this is an unattractive trait, but it's just a part of me. I really am looking more for a long-term relationship with someone who is not interested (or able) to have children, but enjoys cuddling up and sleeping in my bed with me. I've included a picture. Please call if you're interested.
Oh, did I forget to mention that this is our Chihuahua, Miztur Biggz (his real name)?
Monday, October 1, 2007
It Takes Talent to Stump Poison Control
Our's is the only family I know of that can potentially leave poison control totally stumped...and live to tell about it. The good news is that every bazaar incident that happens in this house is just one more thing for me to blog about.
Last week, Number One was outside playing with the dogs in the backyard. You need to understand that the dogs' side of our backyard is really more of a jungle, and you can never be entirely sure what sort of deadly animals might be lurking there. Some of the weeds are tall enough that I often wonder if our chihuahua will ever find his way back to the door when it comes time to eat. Unfortunately for me, he appears to have an amazing sense of smell, and always returns without trouble.
Anyway, Number One had been outside having a lovely bonding time with his dog, Miztur Biggz (that's the chihuahua), and they wound up playing on the dreaded jungle side of the yard. Since he found his way back inside the door, I figured it was a bonding time without incident. About twenty minutes after he came inside, I realized that I was wrong.
I was sitting on the couch moaning about the pains of pregnancy (a whole other blog entry), and enjoying the peace and quiet when suddenly a blood curdling scream came from the playroom. The King figured Number One was just crying wolf, but the tone of that scream was enough for me to know something was clearly wrong and pain had somehow come into the situation. I threw my huge body off the couch and waddled as quickly as possible to the playroom. The King decided to sit back and wait it out until he was sure there was something involving blood happening.
When I got in there, Number One told me he couldn't move and it really hurt and pointed to his ankle. (This is the part where I realized I was right, and summoned the King to come in and offer his fatherly assistance). Apparently, some sort of crazed killer caterpillar had attached itself to Number One's shoe or sock while he was out in the jungle. This thing was bright green, and had spikes covering every inch of its body. Oh, and it had a bright red stripe on it's side toward the bottom. Whatever it was, I quickly realized I couldn't touch it because those spikes would wind up in me. Number One, however, had managed to make contact with it and his finger was swelling up as I watched. This made the King and I both nervous because we know Number One is deathly allergic to pretty much everything except chicken and steamed asparagus.
The King quickly ran and got some tissue to remove it from the sock and headed to the toilet to flush him. Being the quick thinker that I am, I yelled to him to put it in a ziplock baggie, so we could go to google images and try to identify what we were dealing with. Realizing that I must be a genius, the King agreed and followed my instructions. Before going to the computer, he was smart enough to suggest giving Number One some Benedryl. (Hey! He's gotta' be a pretty smart guy. He did marry me, afterall).
After a few minutes of looking, it was very clear that we were dealing with the Io Moth caterpillar. There was no doubt at all. Once we knew what this crazed thing was, we did a little more research to see if he was horribly dangerous. We quickly learned that each spike had poisonous venom on the tips, and that we should consult with Poison Control.
Here's a newsflash, people: Poison Control doesn't get many calls about venomous attack caterpillars sticking their spikes into small children. They were able to tell me that the spikes didn't have enough venom to kill him by entering his bloodstream, but that they did need to be removed from their skin or else it would feel like he had fiberglass under his skin and in his muscles. Um, that sounds painful.
So, we called Urgent Care and made an appointment to get the spikes removed. It's a good thing the venom wasn't spreading to his bloodstream because we had to wait almost an hour and a half after his appointment. And to top it all off, the doctor couldn't see the spikes in his finger anymore. So, she sent us home and credited our account.
I know you're all wondering what happened to the spiked villain in this story. Well, I'll tell you. We brought him with us to the appointment so the doctor could see what she was dealing with. It was creepy crawling all over the inside of the baggie. Yuck!!! I think it might have flipped me the bird once, but I was fine with that. I knew I had the power to flush him at any time. I didn't have to flush him, though. He met a much better fate. I believe he was lovingly placed in one of those bright red biohazard trash cans. So, whatever happens to the contents of those cans is what happened to this bug. I don't feel bad. He cost me most of my night, caused my kid's finger to swell to the size of an overstuffed Polish sausage, and has forced us to consider weed whacking the jungle in the backyard. I simply repaid him the favor.
Last week, Number One was outside playing with the dogs in the backyard. You need to understand that the dogs' side of our backyard is really more of a jungle, and you can never be entirely sure what sort of deadly animals might be lurking there. Some of the weeds are tall enough that I often wonder if our chihuahua will ever find his way back to the door when it comes time to eat. Unfortunately for me, he appears to have an amazing sense of smell, and always returns without trouble.
Anyway, Number One had been outside having a lovely bonding time with his dog, Miztur Biggz (that's the chihuahua), and they wound up playing on the dreaded jungle side of the yard. Since he found his way back inside the door, I figured it was a bonding time without incident. About twenty minutes after he came inside, I realized that I was wrong.
I was sitting on the couch moaning about the pains of pregnancy (a whole other blog entry), and enjoying the peace and quiet when suddenly a blood curdling scream came from the playroom. The King figured Number One was just crying wolf, but the tone of that scream was enough for me to know something was clearly wrong and pain had somehow come into the situation. I threw my huge body off the couch and waddled as quickly as possible to the playroom. The King decided to sit back and wait it out until he was sure there was something involving blood happening.
When I got in there, Number One told me he couldn't move and it really hurt and pointed to his ankle. (This is the part where I realized I was right, and summoned the King to come in and offer his fatherly assistance). Apparently, some sort of crazed killer caterpillar had attached itself to Number One's shoe or sock while he was out in the jungle. This thing was bright green, and had spikes covering every inch of its body. Oh, and it had a bright red stripe on it's side toward the bottom. Whatever it was, I quickly realized I couldn't touch it because those spikes would wind up in me. Number One, however, had managed to make contact with it and his finger was swelling up as I watched. This made the King and I both nervous because we know Number One is deathly allergic to pretty much everything except chicken and steamed asparagus.
The King quickly ran and got some tissue to remove it from the sock and headed to the toilet to flush him. Being the quick thinker that I am, I yelled to him to put it in a ziplock baggie, so we could go to google images and try to identify what we were dealing with. Realizing that I must be a genius, the King agreed and followed my instructions. Before going to the computer, he was smart enough to suggest giving Number One some Benedryl. (Hey! He's gotta' be a pretty smart guy. He did marry me, afterall).
After a few minutes of looking, it was very clear that we were dealing with the Io Moth caterpillar. There was no doubt at all. Once we knew what this crazed thing was, we did a little more research to see if he was horribly dangerous. We quickly learned that each spike had poisonous venom on the tips, and that we should consult with Poison Control.
Here's a newsflash, people: Poison Control doesn't get many calls about venomous attack caterpillars sticking their spikes into small children. They were able to tell me that the spikes didn't have enough venom to kill him by entering his bloodstream, but that they did need to be removed from their skin or else it would feel like he had fiberglass under his skin and in his muscles. Um, that sounds painful.
So, we called Urgent Care and made an appointment to get the spikes removed. It's a good thing the venom wasn't spreading to his bloodstream because we had to wait almost an hour and a half after his appointment. And to top it all off, the doctor couldn't see the spikes in his finger anymore. So, she sent us home and credited our account.
I know you're all wondering what happened to the spiked villain in this story. Well, I'll tell you. We brought him with us to the appointment so the doctor could see what she was dealing with. It was creepy crawling all over the inside of the baggie. Yuck!!! I think it might have flipped me the bird once, but I was fine with that. I knew I had the power to flush him at any time. I didn't have to flush him, though. He met a much better fate. I believe he was lovingly placed in one of those bright red biohazard trash cans. So, whatever happens to the contents of those cans is what happened to this bug. I don't feel bad. He cost me most of my night, caused my kid's finger to swell to the size of an overstuffed Polish sausage, and has forced us to consider weed whacking the jungle in the backyard. I simply repaid him the favor.
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