Good Enough

My husband said said it right, after I relayed the story. “So you had Beattlemania?”

In so many words, Mr.Good. Only I think it’s SoYouThinkYouCanDancemania!

Thanks to an amazing birthday gift from my little sister. Check out the link because I write in full detail at Seattle Mom Blogs!

After that night Buster’s health did not get any better.

He still had trouble uri*nating. He was moody. But after the hospital visit, Mr.Good was even more assured that nothing was wrong with our boy.

The next weekend rolled around, and matters became clearly defined.  Buster began throwing up and having loose bow*els by Sunday evening. I stayed up with him all night. He began complaining of intense stomach pains. I let him relax in the bath, where he could barely sit up straight. He was getting very weak. By Monday he could only sit on his little inflatable bed. We had to carry him around on it because he was in too much pain for us to touch and hold him directly.

Mr.Good left for work that morning.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I loaded up Missy and Buster in the car and headed to Auntie’s house. I would leave Missy there and take Buster to his pediatrician. I had given him some ibuprofen that morning and it seemed to help his mood. His pediatrician was, of course booked that day, we saw the Nurse Practitioner. I immediately liked her. She took me seriously, she was sensitive to the fact that we had no health insurance. Although Buster performed like a champ for her she was still suspicious. She poked his inflated tummy. He seemed to have a lot of gas, and said it didn’t hurt that much. She asked him where it hurt the most, he indicated to his right side. But even then, not that much, he said with his three year old wisdom. She asked him to jump up and down. He did. She asked if it hurt. He said no. He had a smile on his face.

This was a different boy than I had nursed the night before.

She suspected appendicitis. She said we should go to Children’s Hospital to be diagnosed. They had programs there for people without insurance. We would have to wait in the E.R. that was adjacent to the Regional Hospital. Everyone had to be admitted through there.

Picture the waiting room of the regional E.R. in downtown Anaheim CA. It was packed. We waited for four hours. I debated leaving. Buster seemed fine. Was it really worth it? He was smiling, laughing, walking around. After two hours I asked the admitting attendance. 

You should wait. She said. Even if you go back to his ped’s and he gets diagnosed with appendicitis there, he’d have to come back through here to be admitted. It shouldn’t be too long now.

I couldn’t help judging the people I saw as I sat there with Buster and his favorite blanky curled in my lap. No one really seemed as sick as he had. The little 11 year old girl across from us sat there with her father. She looked fine. She was being over dramatic to get out of school. That’s what I thought about her.

Then there was the little baby with a head wound. Why didn’t they make him priority?

It looks worse than it is. They told the mother.

I wanted to scream. IF MY SON IS HAVING AN APPENDICITIS IT COULD BE ABOUT TO BURST! DOES ANYONE CARE ABOUT THAT?

But we waited in silence. For two more hours.

What a relief it was for me when we saw a real nurse. She weighed Buster, took his temperature. It was high. We talked about his symptoms. He was admitted to a small room decorated for children, with a TV/Video on the wall. Oh joy of joys! He could finally relax. A nice Doctor came in and apologized for the wait. He was handsome. As far as I was concerned nothing else mattered. This man would tell me what was wrong with my child.

They started Buster on an I.V. drip. He was dehydrated. I told the nurse he only got one poke with Buster, he better get it right the first time. Buster was eerily calm with all that was going on. He didn’t seem to care. He kept his eyes on the movie. The nurse got it in right away. By this time Mr.Good and Grandpa Good showed up.   

They came and took our little boy in for an ultrasound. I remember seeing a technician and a doctor in the small room. They were shocked at what they were seeing. His appendix had burst, and been broken for many days now. Pockets of infection riddled his stomach. The largest one was covering his bla*dder and ure*thra.  Which was why he couldn’t use the toilet.

He is the bravest little guy I’ve ever met, said the Doctor. I can’t believe he’s not screaming in pain right now. 

So what’s next? I asked. Are you going to operate? I had visions in my mind of a quick, easy surgery, and Buster coming home in a few days.

Little did I know that the diagnosis was just the beginning. My husband and I had no idea what a nightmare that next month would be. The battle was far from over.

Because things had been a little too “happy” around here.

Because We all know what happens when things feel too happy and perfect and life is just how mommy wants it.

Because I had recently declared to all friends, family, and neighbors that no more babies were in our plans for another year or so.

Because I almost fainted at the Hair Dresser’s.

Because some how this little pooch seemed harder to stuff into the jeans than usual.

Because a simple lesson in Fifth grade, and my last baby should have been an indicator at how easy it can be for us.

Because it is still hard to believe that it only takes one “oops.”

Because the stick said I am.

So I am.

And I couldn’t be happier.

Thanksgiving Eve started off with a bang, or should I say a chuck?

Upchucking that is. At 4 in the morning. Mr.Good and Buster came down with something that decided to visit for the holidays.

As I lay in bed, awake, and alert from soothing my sick son back to sleep I started to feel a little bitter. And then I remembered what we were going through three years ago during this very time of year.

Buster was only 3 1/2 and Missy was barely 1 year old. I didn’t think anything of it at first, when my son, who had been toilet trained for more than a year, began refusing to ur*in*nate. Our usual routine before we left for daily activities was to get up and use the bathroom right away. He started refusing to. He would hold it, going only once a day and even then it wasn’t without a fight. He seemed more emotional than usual. Buster is normally an easy going kid. When his friends were over he seemed more withdrawn, and he would ask that they be taken home.

I sensed something was not right, but I hesitated to take him to the doctor. We did not have health insurance.

Then he would claim he needed to go, and he would sit there, and not be able to. One day I took my daughter for her vaccinations. Buster said he had to go to the bathroom right when the doctor came in to the room to check out Missy. I had to excuse us all, and we went to the bathroom and waited for Buster to do his thing. He couldn’t. He was so frustrated and sad. It hurt my heart. When I finally herded us all back in the room I asked the doctor what her thoughts were about it. She said if he touched down there to often (as little boys sometimes do) that it could cause infection. A little Vaseline on the tip of the appendage should help any stinging he might be having. But she seemed concerned about it as well. She was not my sons regular pediatrician, and Missy was covered for a year under my old insurance. I didn’t feel like I could get him a full check up.

Thanksgiving came and went and Buster was still acting odd. I started to wonder if it could be a bladder infection? The only symptoms he had revolved around those toilet issues. I had voiced my concerns to Mr. Good. He knew our insurance would be reinstated soon and asked me to wait before taking Buster in. This was one of the most conflicting times of our marriage. I ached to take my son in, but my husband felt like his problems weren’t a big deal. I don’t want to make him out to be the bad guy in all of this, but poor Buster had to endure both of his parents begging, pleading, sometimes yelling at him to get over whatever it was and use the toilet. Thinking of this time makes a lump well up in my throat. I’m thankful Buster is a forgiving little boy.

One Sunday night his pain escalated. We were at his parents house which was close to a small hospital with an Emergency room that had always been good to us whenever we had midnight ear infections. This night I asked Mr.Good to take Buster in. I usually like to be the one at the hospital. I’m his mommy. I’m with him every day, all day. I know what is normal and what is not normal for my boy. I believed there was something wrong with him. I SHOULD have taken him in. Maybe the reason I sent Mr. Good with him was that I wanted him to see that there was something really wrong with him. My hope was they would diagnose a bladder infection and send him home with a prescription, and our problems would be over.

It couldn’t have gone worse that night.

Mr.Good came home more frustrated than ever. The nurses were rude and bullying. The Doctor was apathetic. Buster could not give a ur*ine sample. That was the problem. So of course they wanted to catheterise the little guy. When my husband questioned their method they told him not to be difficult.

I remember my first catheter. I was 21, and went to a local ER with one intense bladder infection. The nurse took one look at me and my boyfriend and I could see her opinions about us forming in her eyes. Then without warning she had jammed one into me. She pulled it out just as fast. Every time I pe*ed for the next week I felt exactly where the catheter had been.

And they did this to my little boy. Only they couldn’t get it in. They shoved and shoved and it wouldn’t fit. Mr. Good had to hold him down while he screamed. It is very hard for me to imagine that night.

After the catheter plan failed the nurses were at a loss of what to do and wanted to try again. My husband asked if they could try using a cup one more time. He took Buster in the bathroom and explained that the nurses would try to stick the tube in him again unless he could go into the cup. Buster tried very hard, and like a champ he finally went in the cup. They tested his ur*ine and sent them home empty handed. They told Mr.Good it was probably gas pains and that Buster seemed a little dehydrated. “Come back again if it gets worse.” The doctor told my husband.

You can imagine what Mr. Good was thinking.

He scolded me when he came home that night. He told me they never should have gone, that there was nothing wrong with our son, and he had to endure all that pain for nothing.

In my heart I felt it was the wrong diagnosis. I knew there were more trials ahead for us.

Tune in next time for more of the story. Good news, Buster lives. But just barely.

Yes it’s that time of year again.

I have a first grader. I’m a little depressed after my morning meeting with the teacher.

The upside is…the feelings of inadequacy I have about helping my son in school have spilled over into my achievements as a home-maker.  At least I have more control in this area. So this morning I’m going to clean my kitchen. I’m going to clean it till it shines. And then when Buster comes home we’ll sit down at the beautiful sparkling kitchen table and work on some homework.

That’s all I can do.

Have a good weekend ya’ll.

Why am I up cleaning the house, hanging streamers, making butterfly cut-outs in the Rice Krispy Treats only to have nine, that’s right, nine 4 year old girls come over and trash the place tomorrow afternoon?

That’s right. Wouldn’t You?

Happy Almost Birthday Missy. My only girl. I think I’m actually looking forward to this as much as you!

This is my veteran, my Grandpa Bud. My hero.
We celebrated his birthday last night.
My 6 year old son was proud to know that he had a veteran in the family.
“Grandpa, which war were you in?” I asked him.
“I was in World War II, on a ship called the USS Tucson.” said Grandpa
“Did your side win?” my son wanted to know.
Everyone laughed.
“Sometimes we did and sometimes we didn’t,” was his reply.

He told us some stories. He was in charge of payroll on the USS Tucson. “Were there any perks to that job?”
“Well, no one minded when I cut in first in the chow line!”

My Grandpa said the worst battle he saw was with Mother Nature. There were some storms that even the massive ship he was on could barely handle. He could literally see the ship bending in the storm. Other ships were not as lucky and didn’t survive.

Writing this today I realize there is still so much about my Grandpa’s life that I don’t know. He’s a quiet man, unless something is irritating him. In my 31 years knowing my Grandpa, I’ve known him to be extremely generous, a little intimidating, very tough and hard working, and the hugest fan of my Grandma.

My Grandparents have been all over the U.S. and I’ve been lucky to go with them on some of their travels. I have many wonderful memories of visiting my Grandparents, who spoil us because we are there only grandchildren. That’s why my mom had 7 children.

I’m so grateful to my Grandpa for his sacrifice for his country, as well as all the others that have before him, and those continue to do so today. And for the families that support these men and women. I know it’s selfish, but I can’t help hoping my children won’t become veterans as well. Yet if that is the road is the road they decide to travel I hope they will return home safely like my Grandpa Bud.

Thanks is not enough Grandpa! We love you, we appreciate you, and we’re proud of you!

I love this little blog for so many reasons…

the most important being IT’S MINE and I’m the boss of it and most of the time it does what I want.

Lately I’ve been neglecting it.

You see, I’m trying to be mommy, wife, party girl, and novelist all at once.

So what gives people?

The house work has already been mediocre, that’s a given.

And I’m afraid you’re next little blog.

Your content may become sparadic and unconsequential for awhile.

Don’t worry. My Nanna will still read you, along with a few loyal friends and siblings.

I shall do my best to post more often than I clean my bathrooms.

So I write a full report over here, but I think I can be even more free with my opinions on my own blog.

Believe me people I still have much to say on this matter.

A little history…

I’ve been through many a musician in my time. No one very successful, mind you, but some of them have been on small tours and played venues that were pretty packed. They could never get to the next level. Maybe my love, once forsaken, left them empty with nothing new to write about? At least that’s a nice way of looking at it. None of them made for good boyfriends. Although some had day jobs, one slept on the couch of his brothers condominium. A bit of an inconvenience when we were making out. It was that same one that would ask me for money when we went out to Denny’s after the shows. He was going nowhere fast.

Ben Lee looks like a Hobbit Rockstar. He’s very short, and has wild curly hair, but I don’t know how big his feet are. That being said, the guy must have an easy time with the women. I know if I was pre-Mr.Good I would become a groupie. Because when Ben Lee sings and plays his guitar…sorry, I spaced out there for a minute…where was I? Oh yeah, when he performs it’s amazing. That’s all I can say. Go see him when he comes to your town. It’s a beautiful thing.    

So let me preface with the fact that my youngest sibling is away at college for the first time in her life. I asked her if I could post SOME of her e-mail…she said yes. But I can’t post only SOME of it. I must post it all. I cannot edit this e-mail. To me it is TOO GOOD for so many reasons! I wasn’t sure how she’d take to college, she is brilliant so I knew she’d do well in her classes…but let me just say she’s a bit eccentric (the theatre type) and I was nervous for her and how she would relate to the minions. Plus she IS the youngest of six, and let’s face it…spoiled! There, now that the air has cleared…I’m sorry I doubted you Sis. I’m sorry that I’m so shocked your handling your roommate problems so well. And my heart is gladdened that you have grasped the concept of how sometimes motherhood can be so thankless. Thank you for thanking our mom. Thank you for realizing so soon how hard she works for us.   

So my fellow people…here is the e-mail that made my chin drop… 

Hello Family,
So, for almost a week now, ever since the whole ordeal with [my roommate], I’ve been doing everyone’s dishes. All the time. Always. Every single day. I figured, “Hey, if they see me constantly doing their dishes, they’ll feel guilty and start cleaning theirs right away as apposed to filling them with water, laying them in the sink and thinking that counts for them doing their part.” MAYBE it would count if we had a dishwasher, cause all I would have to do would be to stick them in there. But no, I have to scrub them off, rinse and de-contaminate them with dish soap, and then dry them. Well, my act of charity, (if you could call it that, seeing how my intentions weren’t very Christ-like,) has had the opposite effect. Instead of encouraging them to clean themselves, they have either consciously decided to take advantage of my hospitality, they got the idea that a kind little elf magically makes their dirty dishes disappear, or they simply just don’t care. Because noow, they NEVER do their dishes. They used to every once in a while. We would kind of take turns. But now, no. Never. They know I’m going to do them. So why should they?
   I’ve been sick for the past three and a half days so I haven’t eaten anything at all. I can’t keep it down. And the things I HAVE eaten have come in disposable containers. So you can imagine my surprise when I’ll leave my bedroom for THE FIRST TIME at the end of the day to find a sink filled to the brim with bowls, plates, cups and silverware, most of which haven’t been rinsed, just WAITING for me to take care of them. I didn’ dirty one of those dishes, yet I’m the one who stops what I’m doing to make the problem go away.
   Now, might I say, after seeing that my plan for silently urging them into submission wasn’t working, I realized, “What kind of MORON am I?” I remember when mom used to gather all the things I had left around the house and pile them in front of my bedroom door, thinking that I would see them and put them away. No. One of two things would happen; 99.9% of the time, and I meant that statistic literally, I would simply hop over the pile and move on with my life. I would do this for days on end before she decided to shove them over the threshold herself. OR, I would push the pile in after a couple of days and just let it sit THERE forever. Mother never seemed to understand that I was not compelled to put things away by this particular tactic of hers.
   Well, this is the same kind of situation. And I am aware now that if I continue to do their dishes, I am going to continue to do their dishes. It’s not going to make them start doing their own. Guilt does not work on most people. I feel like an unappreciated mother. This is GREAT practice for being a mom in fact. They eat, I clean up after them, and MAYBE, MAYBE every once in a while I get a, “Thank you.” But it’s NEVER a , “Thank you for starting to do my dishes, but let me take care of it. It’s my mess.” No. They might SAY thank you, but they never ever offer to help. Some thanks… I would rather skip the gratitude and take the labor.
   What I’m excited for is Thanksgiving. Because I’m the only one going home for five days. My roomates are only leaving for the day of. So while I’m gone, the dishes are going to pile up to the ceiling and they will be so confused… And maybe, for one moment in time, they’ll actually appreciate me. But I, now being aware of human selfishness, know perfectly well that once I get back, they’re not going to act any differently. They’re not going to think, “Wow. She helped out a lot while she was here, maybe I should reciprocate the kind gesture.” No. HERE’S what they’re gonna think, “Thank HEAVENS she’s back. Now she can do her job again.”
   Regardless of that fact, I’m still going to do their dishes and take out the trash all the time. If I go the extra mile I’ll never have to feel like a bad roommate. And I can’t force them to be good roommates. The only one I can be sure to take care of is myself. So I will and be content with that.
   That being said, Mom? I want to apologize. I’m sorry for always leaving my bowls in the sink full of water instead of taking an extra two seconds to rinse it and stick it in the dishwasher. I’m sorry for hopping over the pile of my stuff that you always left in front of my bedroom door. I still think it was a pretty silly idea of yours that it would ever compel me to actually put it away, but still, I can’t fix your silly ideas. I can only fix my inconsiderate actions. And, I know I always said thank you for all the meals you made me, but I’m sorry that I never offered to help you make them. It’s the same thing with the dishes. They might say, “We appreciate it,” but if they don’t show gratitude, why should I believe them?
   Oh, and I’m sorry for not doing things right away when you told me to do them. One time, we were COMPLETELY out of toilet paper in this apartment, and I had to go really bad. It was [roommate’s] turn to buy it, so I asked her to go get some. Now, there is a grocery store IN the apartment complex. Not nearby, not across the street, IN the apartment complex. But for some reason, Sarah didn’t grasp the fact that it was a necessity to have the paper NOW. So when I asked her to go get some, she said, “It’s on my to-do list.” PARDON?! IT’S ON YOUR “TO-DO”?! WELL THAT’S JUST GREAT! I’LL JUST STAND HERE DEVELOPING A BLADDER INFECTION WHILE YOU’RE NOT GETTING TOILET PAPER BECAUSE YOU’RE BUSY DOING….WHAT? NOT THE DISHES! THAT’S FOR SURE! Yeah…it was then that I decided to do things that people asked me to do as soon as possible after they make the request. And if it has anything to do with urinary functions, I will get on it right away.
   It’s amazing that living in an apartment with two women my age is preparing me for being a mother. They’re teaching me how to deal with working really hard to make someone happy and then being unappreciated and yelled at. GREAT practice for raising teenagers.
   And apparently it’s only taken me eighteen years to learn that most people don’t want to better themselves. They just want to continue being the same immature, inconsiderate, rude, slobs that they are and tell themselves that everyone else has the problem. Because if they admit they anything is wrong with them, that means THEY have to fix it. That means that THEY have to feel guilty. Another thing, apparently people LOVE admitting that they feel guilty about something, but they don’t love so much actually DOING something to CHANGE what it is they did that they feel guilty about. “So,” they think, “why feel guilty in the first place? Why not just never admit or let it cross my mind that I did anything wrong.” So if nothing I am going to do is going to be fix them, I’ll just stop trying to come up with ways to fix their problems and only paying attention to what I’m doing wrong. I’m the only one I can attempt to perfect. I’m the only one who I can make be a better person. Took me a while to realize this… Even though I swear dad’s been telling me that same thing for years. I swear I listen to everything he says. I just really didn’t get the significance of that one till now.
   Meanwhile, I’m still sick. I’ve been sick for three days now. And I’m sick of it. Today is the worst yet. One side of my nose is stuffed and the other side is really runny, my throat is sore and I keep coughing and sneezing.
   I’m coming home in seventeen days.
   Just thought I’d share.

Hang in there little sister! We’ve all been through it! Roommates are such a necessary evil. And I’m wanting to know…fellow bloggers and lurkers alike…what are your pyscho roommate stories? Come on, you know you’re still bitter!