And then I’ll have a day like today and know if I don’t find an immediate, albeit civil, forum for venting, my head will explode. (Has anyone studied whether or not the incidence of spontaneous combustion has decreased as blogging has gone on the rise? I think there’s a Nobel Prize in there somewhere.)
We started off the day with a thunderstorm. No problem there, except that it prompted a curious discovery: apparently, when ordering our phone service, I forgot to specify we needed the kind of phone service that works in the rain. Silly rabbit.
I also nearly destroyed our nice French-door refrigerator, which I adore, by pulling out a freezer tray too far and getting it jammed. As in jammed open, with fifty pounds of frozen food weighing it down and making it next to impossible for Miss Flabby Arms to lift and line up the right gizmos to slide it back into place. I got it fixed in the end. And if we had a cuss pot in our house, I’d be broke.
None of which has anything to do with the title. But venting is somewhat stream of consciousness, so just put on your big girl panties and deal with it.
Speaking of panties. Poop. Ah yes, poop. Our stock in trade. I will spare you the gory details (or photos) and put it this way. In our family annals of potty training history: “This is a day that will live in infamy.”
As far as the croup goes, one week ago, I took Tristan into the doctor’s office with a suspected ear infection. The symptoms weren’t glaring, just mild fever and not-so-mild irritability — to the point that the nurses gave me that “see-the-crazy-over-protective-mother” look. But I know my boy. Lo and behold: an ear infection.
Fast forward to Saturday: suddenly, the mild fever spikes to real fever. I took him back to the doctor on Tuesday, whereupon I was told he must have picked up a virus after coming in for the ear infection. (What are the chances he picked up said virus at the pediatrician’s office? Hmmmm. No comment.)
This morning, we aspired to labored breathing, barking cough and irritability with extreme prejudice. Back to the doctor we go. It’s croup —which every authority will tell you is supposed to get worse at night — but in some sort of crazy daytime version that allows my boy to sleep like a log but turn into Mr. Hyde during the day. Can we conclude my youngest son is a wee bit contrary?
As for the trifecta of my Wednesday, I vaguely remember a time when I wasn’t freaked out by spiders or insects. And I have no idea what happened. I guess I got old. And creepy-crawlies were a casualty of aging. Hate. Them.
Ewww. Yuck. Gag. Shiver. Retch.
I’m sure when they recruit people to go live in Antarctic scientific colonies, that’s a big selling point. On one hand: subzero temperatures. On the other: no bugs. Tempting, very tempting.
Oh, and I didn’t get a shower today.
Will somebody please call the wah-mbulance and give them my address? My phone’s still not working.
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