In the Saddle Again...

Now that my snot is no longer vibrant enough to own a spot on the color wheel and I'm no longer in danger of expelling vital organs through my mouth in a fit of frame-wracking coughs, and now that the 20 loads of laundry I neglected are folded and I've graduated from a steady diet of marshmallows and chicken noodle soup (thanks, Tanya!), I feel that I'm ready to resume my practice of taking up your valuable time and my less-than-valuable time with blogging.

Ooooh. Lucky you.

So, besides making legions of white blood cells and hordes of antibodies and moaning about my surely impending death, what have I been up to?

Well, I took the babies on a germ-spreading operation grocery shopping trip:

 

  

...that was an utter disaster because we got stuck in line for about 20 minutes, leaving me no option but to take pictures of them and leaving them no option but to bitch at me about it.  However, the trip quickly turned around (for me, anyway) when I was driving home and realized I was behind this truck:

 

... *crickets*... Come on, don't tell me that's not funny.  I cannot be the only person in the world who nearly wet their pants laughing at this.  Fine, even if I am the only person who thinks this is hysterical, I don't care.  It made the screaming babies in the back seats tolerable.

Rod Erections.

Do it.  Laugh.  You think it's funny.

Ahem.  Moving along.  We played in the snow... 

 

Which was obviously more fun for some than others...

  

I call him Mutumbo and it was a fight to the (near) death with my toddler and husband to build him without being knocked unconscious by flying snowballs.

(Note: when one is suffering a deadly strain of bacterial sinusitis, it is not a good idea to go play in snow.  However, it never snows here and when it does it is never this quantity.  So I made a choice and suffered for it later.)

My hubby and I learned how to plumb a kitchen sink when the pipes under ours mysteriously blew apart and my landlord determined that it was our fault and wouldn't help us.  Turns out, it was the result of worn out slip washers (oooh, look at me being all plumbery) and I was able to flirt with a midget at Lowe's to get the new parts free of charge (let no one question my dedication to family finances).

Also during this whole black-out period, I realized that someone had broken into our house and left behind a small pile of crushed-up dog biscuit.  Which is creepy, but helps to explain the missing financial folders that I had suspected someone stole but couldn't quite back up with evidence.  So, if you see my social security number out there someplace, let me know; I'd like it back.

Shortly after that ghastly discovery, I broke this window:

 

in the bathroom next to the bathtub... WHILE Jack was in it... by fumbling a bottle of shampoo.  Luckily he wasn't hurt except for a small sliver of glass that got stuck in his toe and required a 45 minute screaming, crying, traumatizing wrestling match to extract.  However, while the guys were here fixing the glass, they noticed that my natural gas meter smelled like... well, gas.  Yikes.  So I called the company and they came out and confirmed that we had a serious leak and needed to have the meter replaced.  

Thank goodness for broken windows, eh?

Not only is that enough, but during one of the really, really cold nights we had recently, our furnace broke, forcing me to sequester the children and myself on the 2nd floor (which has a separate heater) for a night of cookies and movies in Mommy and Daddy's room.  Though that sounds pleasant enough, my quads and glutes will tell you a different story about evil stairs and too many trips between said 2nd floor and the kitchen. 

I've been baking healthy cookies and researching investments and working on getting out household ready for all the traveling and transitioning we're about to undertake and I've been pioneering a new (though, surely not) method of preparing and freezing finger-foods for the girls to cut down on chaos that occurs as I'm finishing dinner and trying to serve 5 people at the same time every night.  More on all the culinary stuff in later posts - I promise! - including more toddler food ideas.

And finally, I switched from disposables to cloth diapers.

 

 

And I have plenty to talk about regarding that, too.  In due time, my friends.  

SO.  

My zoo has been hoppin' lately and I've had to make some sacrifices to stay on top of things and maintain some semblance of order.  Now that you're all caught up on my world and the chaos I've been trying to control, I can finally promise you that I'm back in the saddle again and ready to go.  And what have you, dear Readers, been up to?  Do tell...!

I've Gone Dark

I know it's been awhile since I've posted anything quality.  And it might be another couple of days.  I am absurdly sick.  Shaking, febrile, mucus-y, cough-y, corpse-warmed-over-in-a-microwave sick.  What started out as a cold has progressed to a righteous sinus infection that has been kicking my jiggly behind for two weeks now.  I thought maybe SARS, but apparently that is sooo 2006.

And it's not just me; the girly twinsies are also sick, though, (hopefully) not as much so as I am.  Then again, I don't have someone feeding me anti-body laden milk every few hours.  I bet that'd help.  But instead I'm just going to have to struggle through my Z-Pack and hope against hope that my immune system crawls out from under whatever rock it has chosen to hide beneath and actually do something about this crappy illness.

So, I'm not going to stress about blogging.  Or laundry.  Or putting dirty diapers in the pail where they belong... or wearing deodorant... or a bra, for that matter.  I'm just going to eat marshmallows and watch HGTV and sleep until I can at least SEE the top of the grave in which I feel I'm laying. 

I know, you hate me.

But I'm mildly delirious most of the time right now and I can't guarantee that I'd have anything coherent to write.

You'll forgive me, yes? 

That's why I love you. 

Not That I Want To Raise My Children In Bubbles...

... but I kind-of do. I mean, not the kind of bubble where they gain no worldly experience or anything. No, I mean those germ-free bubbles that keep someone isolated from all human contact.

Okay so maybe that's a little extreme, so maybe I just want to put them in Bubbles for trips to the grocery store. Or make them invisible... Better yet, perhaps I should just hire a babysitter for grocery outings. If I were a betting woman (and I'm not by virtue of having no money and any money I do get my hands on goes directly to my Starbucks fund and wouldn't be gambled away) I'd bet the farm that leaving the girls at home would get me in and out of the grocery store in HALF the time. HALF. That's huge. And I further guarantee that 80% of the illnesses my family contracts would be avoided entirely. See where I'm going with the Bubble thing?

See, I get it, Old Korean Lady. I do. Those girls dissolve my heart too. I can't resist them either. I nibble toes and rub noses and tickle cheeks and offer my finger at every opportunity I get. But it's okay for me to stop in the middle of an aisle to catch Jordan's eye, grin back at her and plant a smooch on her nose. SHE IS MY DAUGHTER. So, you see, I do understand that they're irresistible. I'd love to devour the sweeties in Jack's class and squish them all in giant hugs. But I don't because they're not my kids. Therefore, as far as understanding goes, I've got plenty of that. Patience, however, is a virtue that is in fairly short supply these days. I use it all up on my children, then my husband, and then, if they're lucky, customer service representatives (and usually they're not... lucky, that is). And I realize that you don't understand me when I plead with you to please leave us to our shopping so I can get home to feed them. I know you don't understand, "I'm in a hurry," because I don't understand the (very sweet, I'm sure) things you're saying to the girls while you grab their toes and touch their noses and giggle at their smiles. Please, Old Korean Lady, listen to your husband who is saying (very frustrated, I'm sure) things to you and pulling your blouse in the other direction. I'll betcha he's saying to you in your language what I'm saying in mine: "Please let them be!"

And you, Very Kind Not-Yet-Grandmother, I am very sorry your son is 27 and a total jerk and won't settle down and your daughter is a lesbian who doesn't want children... I am. But I can't fill that void in your life while we're standing in the baking aisle. I don't really want to talk to you about breastfeeding or whether I sleep through the night while I debate Betty Crocker versus Duncan Hines. I wish you the best... maybe get a few more cats? But I really have to get out of this store in under 2 hours...

The worst offenders are Moms-of-Older Kids who say rude things (but don't realize they are rude things) such as, "Look, 'Tween-Who-Should-Be-In-School-But-Is-Probably-Sick-So-Is-Staying-Out-Instead, why don't you go see those babies - aren't they cute! Look how sweet they are, go on, look," while urging said 'Tween to get as close as possible to inspect (and breathe on) the babies.

And yes, shockingly, two babies of comparable size in infant carriers, clutching corresponding blankets in the same shopping cart pushed by one person are (ready for this?) TWINS. Real, honest-to-goodness living and breathing twins.

Holy Moses.

Yes, I was pregnant with them. Yes, I gave birth to them. No, I'm really sure they're not identical. Nope, don't want to talk about lactation. Nope, not your business whether or not I can afford them. Yes, my hands are full, but they won't be if you move away from my cart so I can put my armload of garbanzo beans into it instead of standing here discussing birth-order with you.

And really, you don't need to get 6 inches from their faces to determine that their eyes are blue. And then tell me about it. I'm aware; I've seen them.

So what's a mom supposed to do? I see several options:

1) I could NOT go to the store and send Hubby... no, no not really an option.
2) I could ignore these people... but it doesn't matter if I say nothing to them, they'll still touch noses and tell their shopping partner about the "adorable little babies" they've just smeared with germs.
3) I could start wearing a sandwich board around with decrees posted about My Grocery Store Twin-Viewing Etiquette, but that would make crouching to get the better deals off the lower shelves pretty tough...
....which leaves me with option #4... The Bubble.

Anyone know where I could find them?

Not to Bitch, But...

... There are times when I just can't help myself. I'm so angry and I want EVERYONE to know how mad I am and why. There's no reason; it won't change anything and it probably won't even make me feel better. But I need to vent. There are just those times when you can't help it.

So last Friday I woke up at one point during the night with the girls and realized my eye was disgusting and messed up. As soon as I could that day, I went to the eye doctor and got drops for bacterial conjunctivitis. Gross - I despise eye infections. But whatever, I got my drops before the weekend and it wasn't a big deal, really.

Well, that cleared up pretty quickly, thankfully, but sometime during the night between Sunday and Monday I noticed that one of my breasts was absurdly sore. Great. Mastitis. A nursing mom's favorite malady. But this was a little different from other bouts of mastitis I've had (and in 16+ months of nursing, I've had a good -very good - number of cases of mastitis) in that there wasn't the open sore that transmitted bacteria from the baby's mouth to my body, and there wasn't the tell-tale lump to indicate a blocked duct. I figured that the bacteria that had infected my eye probably moved deeper into my body and hit the next best target. I kept nursing and pumping through the morning until I could get in to the OB/GYN clinic to get antibiotics (not my favorite option... hello, thrush!) knowing I needed to keep the milk ducts clear.

Well, at 2:30, after calling Justin home from work to sit with Jack during his nap, I packed the girls in the van for a 3:30 appointment (yes, it takes that long to get someplace that's 10 minutes away after I get the girls loaded, drive there, unload and assemble the stroller, unload the girls and navigate my way to the clinic.) I get there and see (of course) a doctor I'd never seen before (which, after the amount of time I spent there, is slightly surprising) so I had to explain my entire medical history before she even looked at my chest. At this point, I felt like death, by the way. Well, once she examined me and determined that she couldn't feel a lump or notice any redness, she said she needed to consult with her supervisor, the one, the only, Dr. Ayers (crotchety old bastard that told me I would deliver the girls in one contraction in the van and they'd perish if I didn't stay in the hospital... you remember that story...) Doc comes back in and says, "Well, since you don't have a fever or a lump, we're not totally convinced it's mastitis."

Me: "Um, then why does it feel like the other 50 cases of mastitis I've had?"

Doc: "Well, we aren't sure... maybe it's a yeast infection."

Me: "Uh, how did the yeast get in there if there are no lesions?"

Doc: "Well, sometimes.... well, sometimes... Yeah, we just don't want to give you antibiotics if it's not mastitis and it doesn't really seem like you have a lump."

Me: "I was actually trying to prevent it from getting to that point. For once in my life I'm not being stubborn and waiting until a condition is unbearable to seek treatment... I figured preventing a fever and blocked milk duct and absolute misery would be the prudent choice since I am raising 3 children essentially alone because of my husband's work schedule... but if you say so..."

Doc: "Well, if it gets worse, we'd like to see you in 48 hours to change treatment."

Me: "Oh, goody. So I have to suffer for the next 48 hours before someone will actually treat me."

Doc: "No, we're prescribing an oral antifungal medication for your yeast infection."

Me: "WHAT yeast infection?"

Doc: "Yeast infections sometimes mimic mastitis in the early stages."

Me: "*sigh* fine. Losing battle."

............fast forward to me at the pharmacy window...

Me: "By the way, I'm nursing."

Pharmacist: "Oh, okay hold on." (Pulls out several books and flips through them.) "Ma'am, I have to tell you that this medication has never been studied as to its effects on lactation or it's effects on babies of lactating mothers. If you notice these side effects, call your pediatrician immediately... (long list of awful-sounding shit)"

Me: "Oh, okay that's fine, thanks." (Saying to self: "Fuck this shit, I'm not taking a single one of these pills.")

Who in their right mind prescribes a medication that may or may not be safe for lactating mothers and breastfed babies to a lactating mother who is having a lactation-induced problem? For a yeast infection that doesn't exist? It makes my head hurt.

...........Fast forward to me getting home after a stop at WalMart (sorry, Justin!) to buy golf-balls and tees for my husband...

I was home for about an hour before I noticed that the pain had increased significantly in my breast AND I was developing the lump AND a red spot over the lump AND I had a fever. And the way I was feeling was getting (if possible) worse and worse.

AWESOME.

That was the exact scenario I was trying to avoid. I'm not fool enough to think that it wouldn't have progressed to that point if they had given me antibiotics in the first place, but at least it wouldn't have progressed to that point and continued to worsen because I'd be able to knock it out immediately.

So now I'm left in pain, exhausted, sick as a dog, with only my bullshit antifungal medicine (it's in the garbage) and homeopathic mastitis remedies to prop me up until I can, on Wednesday, during Jack's nap, haul all 3 kids to the doctor with me to finally say, "Once again, assholes, I know my body better than you do; can you please treat me accordingly now?" get my medicine and hopefully be back to my status-quo of sleep-deprived, stressed-out normalcy by this weekend when the Gallagher family comes down for the girls' baptism festivities.

Yeast infection? Maybe next time I go in they'll diagnose me with an enlarged prostate.

Yeah, they're that ridiculous.