Holiday Commercialism and Totino's Pizza Rolls

A common theme voiced throughout the fall and winter months is that we're all sick to death of the commercialism that the holiday season brings.

So my question for you is this: What can you do or do you already do to counteract the commercialism brought into our homes via television, internet and written media? How do you make the holidays about something other than "what am I getting" and "I want that"?

I know for my family, we use it as a time (at least for our nuclear family) to be together, showing each other how much we value one another and enjoying the season for its beauty. We love the snow, the cold, the perfect blue sky (on those days when the sky is blue and perfect), the lights, the warmth of the house, seasonal foods, etc.

We have our own family traditions like lighting a red candle in the middle of the dinner table throughout December. While we enjoy our meal together, we go around and tell one great thing that happened to us that day or something that made us smile and made us feel blessed. This year we are planning to open any cards we receive at dinner as well.'

Each year my girls and I watch the movies I grew up with: all those wonderful Rankin and Bass productions, George C. Scott as everyone's favorite crotchety Ebenezer Scrooge and of course my Emmet Otter and his holey washtub.

We got hooked on The Polar Express a few years ago and every year we fall into making fun of the commercials we see. I guess that's our way of working commercialism in as a source of amusement. Last year it was an advertisement for Totino's Pizza Rolls. (Shut up, Nicholas!) It stuck with us all year long and still brings a laugh every time someone mentions them. So I guess for us, in a way, we prefer not to have our holidays commercialism-free, as some of our holiday traditions are the direct result of commercials!

While the holidays do find us huddled around the warmth of the flat-screen TV for a large portion of December, they also bring us together to be entertained and laugh with each other and that doesn't cost a thing.

What do you do to make the holidays more about family and less about the gifts?

Indecent Proposal.

This is an older piece, but it still makes me giggle.

At bedtime tonight my three-year-old says, "My bottom hurts."

Me: "It does? Why?" (I know the answer.)

Three year old: "Because I didn't wipe it enough."

Me, nodding, "Oh. Well, what should we do now?"

"Make it better," she says.

"Okay," I reply, "Can you bring me what I need?"

"Yes! Shoo-were! I'll get the Andy Owntment!" (That's A&D Ointment to anyone over the age of three.)

"Okay, sweetie. Hurry back."

Time passes and as I finish tucking the older two into their beds, Three-Year-Old enters the room without the miracle-working, bottom-soothing, baboon-butt cure-all.

Me: "Samantha, couldn't you find it, honey?"

Three Year Old shrugs and says, "Well, I found THIS."

*cue giggling from the other two*

I look at the older girls sternly for a moment and then back to Three-Year-Old.

"What will that do?" I ask.

"Fix it," she says, clarifying, "Tape it." (Her tone seems to imply that Mommy is completely daft...Really, Mother.)

*raucous laughter from seven and nine year old roommates*

"Oh, I see. Well, honey, we can't fix bottoms with tape...

(snicker)

...and that's a CASSETTE tape."

*sigh*

Ew! Mommy Nasty! - the holiday Kiosk Sniper Story

My kids still ask me to tell the story of "that one time at the mall."

I am only too happy to oblige, and it goes a little something like this:

I was at the mall with the spawn, heading toward the exit when a woman approached me. I know I never should have made eye contact, but she wasn't standing right near her kiosk, so I was caught completely off guard when this woman I'd never met before stepped out and asked me what brand of hair straightener I used. I had flat ironed my hair that day (a mistake I won't be making again) and I totally thought she was complimenting me for real. This woman then beckoned me over to her little shop of horrors.  I blame being hungry and tired on my inability to say no, because I followed her like an obedient lap dog.  You would have thought she had enticed me with a fistful of bacon. Mmm...bacon.

She led me to her stand, where I thought I'd hear a little blurb about how great this new hair straightener is and instead I found myself with a gigantic glob of Dead Sea Salt Exfoliant on my hand. 

"Let us rub that in", she said quickly.  

Holding my hand over a white plastic bowl, she played twenty questions with me, asking me my name, how old I was, if I had a husband, how long we've been married and whether or not I was gainfully employed while she exfoliated the everloving crap out of my arm.  Oh, she was good, this one.  She had me right where she wanted me: wet and trapped.  I knew she had a towel hidden there somewhere, but I couldn't see it and I wasn't too keen on the idea of walking off with one hand covered in this weird Dead Sea Salt scrub, so I remained her captive customer.  She then showed the children and me just how terrific this product was as she hosed my hand off with a spray bottle of water.  

Then...it got gross. And weird. And actually sort of rude.

She laughed loudly as she told my children, "Look how NASTY Mommy is!" and how "Mommy need a shower!", while surveying the depths of the white plastic bowl which was now full of water and my dead skin.  

Um...ick...and WHAT?!  Did she just say that, really? 

I think we were all more than a little taken aback that she actually said those words in her sales pitch.  "Nasty" and "needs a shower".  Yup.  Well, that'll sell a bundle of this shit, right?  Absolutely.  Give me 100 units right now!

I was offered a few backhanded compliments for my trouble as she lathered my arm up with her magical moisturizing lotion: "Your oily skin is a gift from God."   My what is a huh??    Lady, are you kidding me with this? 

Mesmerized by the audacity, I stayed planted on the spot to listen to what else she found hideous about my apparently troll-like skin and greasy, gunk-filled pores, while my children stood by and helplessly watched the drama unfold, their eyes big as saucers.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.  I had accepted her free presentation with good humor and didn't bloody her lip when she basically told me I was too grotesque to be walking around with normal people.  It was time to end this before one of us got hurt.  

In an effort to bring about the end of my Trial by Esthetics, I asked, "How much?"

I don't know how they train these people for this stuff, but they do have a knack for it. We got the rundown of a professional salesclerk and were told that the skin of a princess could be all mine for the "low price" of $250.  Jeez, for THAT, I could buy actual princess skin and make myself a princess suit!  

She sensed my apprehension and suddenly, as if by magic, the Discount Gnome came along and bippity-boppidy-booped the entire line of skin care down to $125.  I don't know how she did it!  Amazing!

Still too pricey for my blood, I declined to purchase her wares.  Maybe her brother needed a new kidney or maybe it was costing her too much to keep fuzzy Uggs on her little feetsies this winter, because she was not giving up.  She was so intent on making the sale, that she whipped out that magical Discount Gnome again and this time the price poofed from $125 to a mere $39.99 for two of the four miracle working products with the additional promise that I could come back tomorrow and get the other two for $15 off the price. 

Wait, what?  Was that $15 off the original price or off the discounted price? 

Ah, forget it.  Doesn't matter anyway.  Somehow I managed to peel myself from her evil clutches and escape with my children, my one soft arm and what was left of my dignity.  

Later, while I was at the grocery store, I bought a jar of really good-smelling dead sea salt exfoliant and a bottle of super-hydrating princess skin lotion (probably not made with real princesses). 

The price?  Just twelve dollars. 

Eff you, Kiosk Sniper.


(I should have punched her in the throat, right? Tell me the truth:
What would you have done if it was you?)

Delusions of Grandeur

This morning the microwave stopped working. Again. The NEW one. The one we got only five months ago. I managed to save my receipt for it this time and I lugged it out to the car, loaded it in the trunk and took it back to the dreaded Walmart from whence it came. Sadly, because I did not purchase the protection plan when I bought the food cooker, the store couldn't give me any credit toward a new model or even exchange it for the same one.

(Disappointment.)

As if that wasn't enough, there was an ugly moment between the clerks as they each advised me as to just what I could do with my broken kitchen appliance. I accepted the advice First Clerk offered, Second Clerk glared at First Clerk, I waved awkwardly to both and left with my cart full of broken microwave and a heavy heart.

Is that the end of my tale? Of course not. I still needed a new microwave for F%*$ sake!  

(Fast forward through me putting the broken microwave in the car and heading back inside to the housewares aisle and through the part where I put the container of fried chicken in the microwave and sent a picture of it to my husband to show him how spacious our new WORKING microwave would be.)

In the end, I was able to procure a new (slightly less powerful and smaller) microwave for around $70, this time opting to buy the extended two-year warranty so I wouldn't have to go through this again in another five to six months. 

(Go, me! Getting shit done!)

I got home with the new microwave, wrestled it out of the box, put it on the cart and plugged it in. And absolutely nothing happened. No light, no flashing clock. NOTHING.

And do you know WHY nothing happened? Because unbeknownst to me, the circuit breaker had flipped. Which means that was the problem all along and not the shoddy craftsmanship of the people at Panasonic!

So yeah. I took my microwave for a walk today and now it has a friend.

I didn't see that one coming. Fugly Sweaters and Power Tools.

I have come to the realization that I am not psychic.  I know it's true for a lot of people, but I never expected it to happen to me.   My psychic abilities begin and end with knowing just how full the kitchen garbage can get before it spills over into the cabinet under the sink.  And even then it's hit and miss.

But there was a time when I thought I could predict the future.  At least where the holidays were concerned.  I was clearly in denial.

Our first Christmas together as a married couple, I got John a cordless power drill. I was completely stoked and couldn't wait to give it to him.  You see, we are perfectly matched and because I LOVE power tools, my husband would undoubtedly love power tools too.  I knew this was the perfect Husband-y Man-type Thing for my beloved life partner.

I could see it all in my mind: he would open this fantastically shiny and useful tool and immediately declare that not only was this the best gift he had ever received, but that I was an even better spouse than he suspected I would be when he signed up for this whole crazy marriage thing.  I would smile sweetly, knowing full well the extent of my awesome as he bragged about this sweet drill that didn't even require an extension cord to use and me, his wonderful wife.

"Did you see what Erika got me for Christmas?!   Isn't it great?!  I'll be able to get shit DONE now!  How did she know?!  Man, she is the BEST. WIFE. EVAR!!"

That's not quite what happened.  Because I'm not psychic.

He opened it, looked at me and said, "Is this my real gift?"

Damn those delusions of grandeur!


Of course he didn't do any better.  One year I asked for a pink sweater.

Anyone who was psychic would have known that what I meant was that I would like one of those super-soft baby pink angora-type cardigans with the faux pearl buttons that were on all the mannequins at Braun's.  (Good God, whatever happened to Braun's?)

What I got on Christmas Day was NOT that.  At all.  Like, AT ALL.  It was indeed pink, as I requested, and made of yarn.  However.  It was Pepto Bismol pink with stripes of silver tinsel throughout.  And holy shoulder pads, Batman!  I could have played defense for the Steelers in that thing!

I suspected that somewhere a clown was naked and cold.

Now, I am not a completely ungracious receiver.  Please stop picturing Nellie Oleson.  I pretended to love the pastel holiday nightmare and actually wore it a few times. But it was hard to mask my disappointment that it was not what I thought I had so clearly asked for when I said "pink sweater".

I still futilely clung to the idea that one of us would be blessed with the gift of second sight, or at least a knack for insightful guessing.  I remember telling him that I didn't care what he got me as long as it was from his heart.  I said that he could get me a yo-yo and if it meant something it would always be special to me. Mistake.

That year I got a Duncan Imperial.

The lesson here, my friends, is that you must be specific.  Non-psychic spouses do not thrive on uncertainty.   You can't leave anything to guesswork.  Pictures help greatly.  Cut out photos and tape them to the toilet seat, and make sure you mark the exact color, size and number that you would like.  

Yes, it takes the surprise out of your holiday, but sometimes that's a good thing.   If you vaguely hint about something specific, and you and your gift-giving honey pie are as psychic as my husband and I are, you're probably gonna end up with a clown sweater.

Have you seen the children?

Why is it that whenever I pass a sign that very specifically states "Happy children at play" I never see any happy children about?  

Where are they? I mean, the abundance of happy children was obviously important enough at one time to warrant a sign, so what happened to them since its posting? Are the happy children missing? Did they grow up and move away? Am I the only one concerned about these children?

I drive past one of those signs at least once a week when I take my daughter to her friend's house and I've never seen even one child anywhere near that sign.

Wait, wait. I take that back. There was one time we passed a boy, about nine years old,  running through the grass with a large pair of scissors in his hand. HE looked happy. Deliriously happy, in fact. Until he saw us watching him, whereupon he stopped dead in his tracks and glared menacingly at us until we were out of sight.  

That was rather frightening.

You know, thinking about it, maybe that particular sign should be changed to "Unbalanced children with sharp objects". It would be more accurate at least.

And still I'm left to wonder what became of the other children. The happy ones at play.  

Have you seen the children??

ToeJam Sam and the Maxi-Pad Aisle

Hi, peoples.  I've got stuff to do today, so please enjoy this piece I wrote a few years ago while I try to find the top of my dining room table again.

ToeJam Sam and the Maxi-Pad Aisle:
I didn't know I wanted three children, but four and some-odd years ago, the urge to have just One More Baby gnawed at me until I finally shrugged, rolled over and ordered hubby to "just do it".   Bingo-Bango-Bongo, I got pregnant (yep, pretty much just like that).  I peed on a stick to be certain of it...on Mother's Day, no less.  Yepperooni.  Pregnant.   
Many moons passed.  Many many moons passed.  So many moons passed that I was beginning to think that I was living on the wrong planet.  This child was setting up shop in there for the long haul.  
I suspected that bambino knew it was wintertime and had hoped to hibernate until the weather warmed up a little.  I had visions of being pregnant forever with that kiddo all warm and toasty in the Womb For Went...*ahem*...RENT.  
So one day in January my doctor gave me a pitocin cocktail with an epidural chaser and a few hours later a very teeny person practically shot out of my vagina (that's "bajingo" for a few of you).  We named her Sam.  Our family was complete with three adorable little girls and the sky was full of lollipops and rainbows.  It was a Lisa Frank world.    
Let's skip a few pages of our story and bring us to the here and now.  We'll title this segment "Never a Dull Moment". 
Yeah, that says it nicely.  Sam is anything but dull.  She's the child who wants to name animals after breakfast cereals and body parts.  ("Cornflakes" was one and I won't say the other one, but it rhymes with Schmagina.) 
This is the same child that cannot watch a toy commercial without stating "I wanna buy that for my birthday" even when she's alone in the room.   This is the child that loves animals so much, she pees on their heads.  (I can just hear her some day, "Jeez Mom. I did that ONE TIME!!") 
The entertainment Sam provides us with is absolutely invaluable.   A trip to the grocery store is never boring.  Just this week, Sam was with me at Wal*Mart.   The surrounding area bustled with my fellow shoppers in search of their favorite shampoos, soaps and various scented shaving creams, when Sam's eagle eye spotted the familiar Always box.  Pointing, and using her I'm Outside And Just Too Doggone Excited About It voice, she exclaimed,
"MOMMY!  YOU BUY THOSE!  YOU PUT THEM IN YOUR UNDERPANTS WHEN YOU GO TO THE BATHROOM!!"  
Those are the moments that take my breath away.  Sometimes they take the breath away from other ladies shopping within earshot, whose shoulders hitch up and down as they try not to laugh loudly at what my daughter just said.  Bless their hearts.
Pardon me.  She just ran past the doorway...naked...with a can of Spaghettio's.   


Yeah, dull I don't get much.

White Sugar Bunnies of Christmas

As a latecomer to the 31 Day Blog Challenge, I guess I'll just pick up where the other, more timely bloggers are at this moment: March 4th.  Best Childhood Memory.

I have so many to choose from, it's embarrassing.  I suppose though, that my best childhood memory is actually more of a conglomeration of memories all lumped together into one giant ball of "OMG, I remember this song/feeling/candy/tv show/friendship pin/gold shoe/pair of earrings"...etc.

The memories that continue to make me smile come from that far away land of "The 80's".

I could go on and on with memory after memory, but since boring you to tears is not the assignment for today's blog post, I'll randomly select one from the file. 


White Sugar Bunny Ornament.


 There once was a bunny made of sugar that hung from our Christmas tree every year.  He didn't look Christmas-y at all, just a 3/4" thick cookie cut-out rabbit silhouette with sculpted eyes and a nose highlighted with pink paint, but the sugar looked like glitter under the multi-colored lights on our tree and I adored that ornament. I remember sitting under the tree looking up at it, mesmerized at the way it caught the light.  It was definitely my favorite.


And that brings the "favorite childhood memory" bit to a close. 

Since tomorrow doesn't appear to be "sad shit that happened" day, I'll tell you now that Bunny met his demise the year our beloved cat Mittens peed in a box of ornaments.  If you haven't seen what happens to a sugar ornament when it meets cat pee, you're better off.   Poor little bunny.  What a way to go.



What's your favorite childhood memory?  

 

Keeping it clean.

John's Uncle Jim asked the girls if they'd like to walk with him in a small town parade wearing his campaign t-shirts.  "Us?!  In a ...PARADE?!"  Of course they were more than happy to oblige.  They've already been helping out by putting together more than 600 yard signs for him.  Good kids, they are.  They probably would have done it even if he hadn't paid them.  But this...was a PARADE.  That's like Super-neatoriffic!  Hells, yes they'll do it!


Their job was simple:  Look adorable.

As their mother, my job was also simple:  Keep them clean until Jim got here to take them off my hands. 

Keep them clean until Jim gets here...  Keep them clean until Jim gets here...
*thinking*
How can we kill ten minutes and still keep them clean?
Hey, I know!  Let's take a few dozen pictures of them in the yard.  Where the dirt lives!  That's a recipe for success!

Line up, girls! 

What's got six thumbs and just made it into an embarrassingly picture-heavy blog entry?

These guys.

Me: What other picture should we take?   Want to make a pyramid?
Lily:  Mom, that will get our shirts dirty.
Me:  Ooh, good call, Lily.  You're right.  Let's do something else.

Madison:  No, wait.  Let's do it this way.  Here, Sam.  Give me your foot...Lily, take the other one!  Now stand up, Sam...

"I can't stand up, you're gonna drop me!"

"I changed my mind. I wanna get down."

And then there was some discussion about Madison's belly button...

"It's an innie AND an outie, see?"

So the other two had to check theirs out as well. 

But Lily was distracted...

Uh...Lily?   Did you find something shiny?

 

She's busy.  We'll come back later.

What were we doing?  Oh, right.  Keeping the kids clean until Jim gets here.

Wait a second.  Where did Madison go?   She's in the Strawberry patch!  Why is she there?  Because nothing makes you hungry for red berries quite like a nice white shirt.   IT'S BERRY-PICKIN' TIME! WOOT!

After addressing Jesus by his full name, I asked if it was too much trouble for the girls to at least TRY to avoid All Things That Could Stain for the remaining eight and a half minutes until Jim arrived.

"I'm being careful, Mom.  Sheesh."
"I hope so, Maddie."
"Don't call me Maddie."
"Shut up and eat your berries, Kitten."
"Ha." *eyeroll*

"Madison!  Don't wipe strawberry juice on your pants!"
"What!  It's not on my shirt!"
"True enough.  Carry on."

They picked this one for me.  Um...thanks?

"Like my earrings?  They're real."

I'm gonna eat you!!

  

Get in mah belleh!

Then Madison got a hold of the camera...

...while Sam did a little pool maintenance.  The Starlings thought our pool was a giant birdbath last week.  Oh, and did you know that mulberries are in season?  Even if you suck at math, you'll know that equals, "Sam! Watch out for the bird poop!"

Against all odds, they managed to stay clean until Uncle Jim arrived.  I have no idea how.  Really.  None.

 

 It's up to you now, Jim.  Good luck, man.

How would you have made sure they stayed clean in those sparkling white shirts?  Tell me.  I can take it.

Are you SURE that's a vagina?

For those of you who are teaching your kids the generic "girls have a vagina" lesson, you ARE teaching them that the proper term for the entire outer package is vulva and not vagina, right? I mean, you know that the words are not synonymous, don't you?  

Just in case, let me give you a quick anatomy lesson. 

Vagina and vulva are not the same thing.  They are not interchangeable physiological terms.

The vagina is part of the inner workings, not the outer.


I asked this question on a social networking forum and got a variety of responses including this one:

"My child is too young to know the technical terms for her body parts." (Ignore the fact that the pet name we have created for her genitalia is four syllables long and she's already made up a song about it.)

And this one:
"Vulva is just a gross word."   (Vulva is not a gross word.  "MOIST" is a gross word.)  
  
And also this one: "It all means the same thing."

(To say that it's all the same thing is as inaccurate as saying that your hand is a finger and your finger is a hand and that's just plain silly.)

You know what this post needs?  Venn Diagrams!  (I know they look like crazy cartoon breasts.  Shut up.)

It's true that all rectangles are parallelograms, but not all parallelograms are rectangles.  
Likewise, all vulvae contain vaginas (or rather, the vaginal opening), but all vaginas don't contain the vulvae.

Yes, there is a difference and the difference is huge.  Vulva = clitoris, labia (2 sets) urethra, vaginal opening.  Vagina = the canal that leads from the vaginal opening to the cervix.   

Do you need another diagram?  Okay, here:  

So if you choose to shave your vulva, that's cool.  Get creative. Have fun with it.  However, if you choose to shave your vagina, it's not going to end well.  Don't use the good towels. 


Now, I know there will be someone who will get all worked up about this. Calm down. You can teach your kids whatever you want.  Don't sweat it because some stranger on the internet told you that it's the wrong word.   You're not breaking any law of child rearing.  No member of the Vulva Brigade will show up and ticket you for referring to your lady bits as your bajingo and hand you some reading material about the inaccurately named Vagina Monologues. I'm not going to take away your euphemisms.  Hell, euphemisms are fun!  Tell them it's a Harvey Wallbanger or a FlufferNutter if you like.   


I'm just saying that technically, it's incorrect.  


To recap:

The vulva is the correct term for the outside parts as a collective whole.

The vagina is the correct term for the "collective hole".  

What's your favorite euphemism for the VULVA?

  

  

Double Coupon Day Comes for Jose and the Prophylactics.

It was a Friday night, the young'uns were at a sleepover and The Man and I had the house all to ourselves. I got a phone call on the way home. It was The Man. He asked me to pick up a few things for our evening without the kids. No problem, said I. I'm a grown-up-type person. I can buy stuff.

I normally don't get embarrassed about buying the more personal items. I buy maxi-pads and toilet paper all the time and I'll bet a million dollars that the ladies behind the cash registers have used both at least once. (I can't speak for the gentlemen.) 

It's easy when these products are put on the conveyor belt with a few friends to keep them company. I tend to have about a dozen other things on the belt that help draw the attention away from the economy sized package of birth control. "Let's see, I need eggs...milk...flour...new socks...(this giant box of rubbers)...and Pez! Yep, that's all for today."

It works for me. The box doesn't call attention to itself and practically sing to the rest of the store, "Guess who's getting lucky tonight?!"
However...

When you show up with Trojans, K-Y, and a big bottle of Jose Cuervo, at the checkout, everyone KNOWS what you're doing with your Friday night. Of course, when you make this purchase at the express lane, the question that begs to be asked is "Will you be able to wait until you get to the car?" 

The Barely Legal To Drink kid standing next to me with his OWN prophylactic/alcohol power duo in hand, caught my eye for an instant before he resumed his intense study of the floor tiles. I wish I could say I was cool enough to at least wink at him and tell him to have a great night. 
Alas, I was not. I merely turned six shades of red as I made my purchase, remembering my frequent shopper card and a "$5 off a $25 purchase" coupon. (Score!) 


That's dead sexy.

This post originally appeared two years ago today, but it's one of my favorites.  Happy Anniversary, Jose and the Prophylactics.

 

She did it again!

Our winter holidays started out as normally as they could have, considering who we are.  We had our annual dinner and gift exchange at the in-laws' after church on Christmas Eve, which is always a great time; dinner was wonderful, conversation was even better and there was wine.  Yay, MOSCATO!

It seems like every holiday, something happens that I simply MUST write about because...(because I'm an obsessive over-sharing maniac) because I'm a blogger.  Sharing the mundane stuff like this is my life, my passion. 

This year, Christmas was full of blog-worthy stuffs to relay to you, gentle reader.  Sadly, the majority of it was lost on Christmas morning because that is when tragedy struck.

I'm getting ahead of myself (again).


A Holiday On Hold
The girls each got a new pair of warm, fuzzy, stay-at-home-socks in their Christmas stockings from jolly old Saint Nicholas.  They love All Things Soft and Fluffy, so of course they put them on immediately.   This is important.  Trust me.

After the last present was opened, the plan was for the kids and The Man to clean up the mess from Unwrapaganza while I started a lovely Christmas breakfast for everyone. That plan was rudely interrupted when I heard Lily yell something that derailed our lazy Christmas morning and sent it careening off into a ditch:

"MOM!  SAM GOT A SPLINTER!!"

Sam ran through the dining room in the slippery wood-collecting-socks that evil bastard brought for her and when she skidded to a stop, yes indeed, Sam...got a splinter.  

If you are a regular reader of my family's tales, you will remember that this has happened before.  Many of you are already aware that I have a child who is a magnet for splinters and when she gets one, she doesn't mess around with the tiny stuff that can be gotten out with a simple tweezers or the aid of a needle.  No way, no how!  When Samantha does it, she goes all out - sliding across the hard-wood floors, yards at a stretch, to see just how much flooring she can strip off in one go.  "FIND ALL THE SPLINTERS!" she cries.  She also gets these enormous planks embedded so deeply and so securely into her skin that it requires medical attention to retrieve them.  THIS was one of those times. 

Yeah, that's not gonna cut it.

After last year's ordeal (which I will link again, because it's just that incredible), we knew not to waste any time waiting for an army of white corpuscles to stop what they were doing and meander over to the foreign body that had taken refuge in the sole of her foot, for she was likely to lose the entire appendage by the time they cooperated enough to force the splinter out.  It was time to get dressed and head to the Convenient Care Clinic.  *nodding*  No Post-Gift Exchange Nap for you, Johnny-Boy.  No waking up to the smell of maple bacon crisping in the oven.  Coats on, everybody!  Let's move out!

The Waiting is the hardest part

We got to the Convenient Care Clinic, checked Samantha in and began to wait.

And wait...


And wait...

Three bored children, two parents, one large plank of wood didn't make for a very merry Christmas.  At least we were all together...irritated, but together.

Soon...(what am I saying? Strike that...) After waiting roughly the same amount of time it takes to cook a 20 pound turkey, we were shown to a room where a nurse got the skinny on Sam's allergies (or lack thereof), and a brief run-down of how she came to have a hunk of petrified oak jammed inside her person.  When she had enough information, we were then told to follow her to the next room and you'll never guess what happened there!

Aw, you guessed it: more waiting.


So we snapped a picture of the adorable six-year-old's foot to kill some time:

*pffft* Well, that took all of thirty seconds.  What do we do now?

As if sensing my boredom...irritability...and general impatience that this was taking SO LONG, the more mobile members of Sam's entourage began to play a nifty little game called "TOUCH EVERYTHING!!!"  Fun stuff, that game.   It's guaranteed to make your mother go abso-fricking-lutely insane in a matter of minutes. 

Just when we were sure they had forgotten about us (I have no idea how that was possible, as we are noisy and were cordoned off from the rest of the office by only a curtain), in walked the doctor who would surely save Sam from the stabbing pain of Pinocchio Syndrome and us from the agonizing wait. 

He took one look at it and said, sounding much like Gary Cole in Office Space: "Mm...yeah, I think we're going to have to go ahead and, uh...numb that."  Well, gee, Bill, do you think so?  I mean, look at it.  There's nothing to grab on to.  Any fool can see that we're going to have to go in after it and one of us may not come out alive.  If you want to try that on a frightened six-year-old without Novocaine, be my guest.  Just use your Jedi mind trick and we'll be on our way.  Moron.

Instead of using The Force, we (Dr. Bill and I) opted to put a topical numbing agent on it so the needle wouldn't be as traumatizing to my six-year-old.  Add fifteen more minutes of waiting, this time with Mommy sporting a pair of purple surgical gloves to apply some jelly textured numb-making stuffs to Sam's foot with "gentle PRESSURE" (*sigh*  Poor Sam), follow that with Dr. Bill shooting Novocaine into the entry point, and we were ready to begin. ("BEGIN?!" WTH?!)   He made a few futile attempts to grab the splinter, but found he was unable to get a good grip on it with the smallest hemostat he had, so after all this time, Good Doctor Nimble Fingers couldn't get the splinter out and he sent us to the hospital emergency room.
Damn.  This rivaled last year's splinterectomy debacle in a big, sad way.

At the ER
I am happy to report that after another hour of waiting , an ultrasound on Samantha's foot, two near-fistfights between the Tired and the Hungry, and about a thousand mobile status updates to Facebook, Sam was once again, splinter free.   HALLELUJAH!  

Holy crap!

By this time, we were an hour late for dinner at my mother's house, so we gathered up Sam, the splinter and the rest of our clan and headed for Nana and Poppa's house, stopping ever-so-briefly at home to grab the presents and the makings of my contribution to our meal (thank God I didn't have to make anything more complex than green bean casserole).

We'll call this next part "Splinter At Large"
When we finally got to my parents' house, Sam immediately wanted to show the splinter to her cousins.  Now, after the morning's ordeal, we didn't expect her to actually take the splinter OUT  to show it off and we sure as hell didn't expect the splinter to make a break for it, but that's what happened.  When she opened the container, it fell.   It fell near(?)...under(?)...IN(?)...the cushions of the couch.  It was lost.  Oh, damn.  That's at least a hundred dollar splinter (and probably more, as we have yet to receive the bill from the ER).  We wanted to keep it and put it in our shadow box of "Stuff that got stuck in our kids".  Shoot.  Now it's gone.  Bummer.

Was Lost But Now Am Found
I went to my parent's house the day after Christmas to have coffee and in a last-ditch effort, searched the couch cushions once more, to see if I could find that blasted splinter.  I picked up a cushion and clapped it once and the splinter fell onto the couch.
*THUD*
Me:  No. Freaking. Way.  I FOUND IT!  QUICK!  DAD, GET THE BOTTLE!  GET THE BOTTLE!  
My Father: Where is it?
Me:  It's still in my purse!
My Father:  Don't move!  I'm on it!

And so we wrangled that splinter into the bottle and closed it up tight. REALLY TIGHT.

That oughta hold it.

 Once again, the world is safe for Samantha's tender feet.  Sort of. 


We're getting carpet this spring.

The Amazing Adventures of Hop-Along Sam and the Splinter of Doom!

JUST A SPLINTER.

Normally, a splinter wouldn't be blog-worthy, but when you're the parent of an overachiever, it becomes a major production.

Our story begins on a rainy winter morning. While stalling in her preparation for our friends' wedding, Samantha decided not to put on her tights as Mother had instructed, but to instead play a game of Chase After The Cat on the hardwood floor of our dining room.

And Sam got a splinter.
Sam screamed.
I pulled it out.
It was big.

(Now, I say "big" and, in average splinter terms, this one was about half an inch long total, with half of that under her skin. That would be "big" in Splinter-ese. Have you got the picture?)

She complained that her leg hurt even after the splinter was removed, but how much of that was pain or general crabbiness we didn't know. We suspected that it was sore because it was such a big splinter. She limped for an hour. She then proceeded to dance the night away with her sisters and the bride and groom, doing the Hokey-Pokey and turning herself around, limp and pain-free...or so we thought.



The next day, it looked like this:

Still a little swollen, I was concerned that there might have been another piece in there. We picked off that little scab and to our amazement, there was another piece of splinter attached to the scab. This one was about a quarter of an inch long. Well! NOW she should be feeling MUUUCH better.
We thought that was the last of it.

Until.
Two months later, while I was tucking her in, she requested a pillow for under her leg. I said, "What for?" "For where my splinter was. Hello-o." "What?? Is that leg bothering you?" "No, just when I lay on it." "Let me see your leg. Sam."


HOLY CRAP!!!

SPLINTERECTOMY -

After many exciting (for Sam) and nerve-wracking (for Mom and Dad) visits to the doctor, an orthopedic specialist, an x-ray and an MRI, we finally learned that there were still pieces of that danged splinter in her little leg muscle. STILL! AFTER TWO MONTHS! And it would require surgery to get those pieces out!

(I accept this Darwin Award on behalf of the clueless parents of splinter-filled children everywhere.)

THE BIG DAY!

Finally the day of Sam's Splinterectomy was upon us.

First, she watched Dora the Explorer while we waited for her nurse to ask us a bajillion questions.




Then a nice lady came in and painted her leg with Snooki Bronzer. Ooh, purdy!


Then they put this adorable little shower cap on her and wheeled her off.


But first, a smile for all her FANS:

Still all giggles as she's wheeled into surgery.

Forty-five minutes and two planks of wood later, a groggy Sam wakes up.


Sam, can you give me a smile, honey?

*snicker* Thanks, Dopey.

She got a few ice chips and a cherry popsicle. We were sure to remove all wood from Sam's vicinity when she finished it.

These are the sticks the doctor removed from my baby's tibialis anterior. They look to me like they'd support popsicles of their own.



And this is what her leg looked like when she woke up:
Oh, but the excitement doesn't end there. We knew that she would be spending the night, to get a jump and a boost on the antibiotics to clear up the infection that Wooden Nastiness had created. We were prepared to have her sleeping at the hospital hooked up to an IV. What we didn't realize (and were not told about until she was in recovery) was that the pediatric unit is at the hospital across town. So the Medic Team came...

And transferred her to the East campus. I had to sign to have the child shipped. Weirdness. Of course, we got a picture of her first (and hopefully only) ambulance ride. Doesn't she look thrilled?


The bumpy ride from the West campus was entertaining/embarrassing.
EMT #1 (girl with ponytail in pic): What did she have?
ME: Splinter.
EMT #2 (dude without glasses in pic): Wha-huh?
ME: She had a splinter. Two of them, actually. Doctor Hussein just removed one that was over half an inch long and one that was just less than half an inch. They were in her muscle. For about two months. Without complaint.
EMT #1: Oh-Em-Gee!
ME: Right?!
EMT #2: Tough kid!
ME: She's like the Black Knight in Monty Python's Holy Grail.
EMT#3 (with glasses): Ha-HA! "It's just a flesh wound! Come back and fight!"
ME: Exactly.

We got her into her room where they scanned the UPC code on her bracelet and told me she would cost an arm and the other leg and then put a little anti-theft device on her ankle that we were promised would sound off many an alarm in the event of her sleepwalking, attempted escape or kidnapping. Let it be known that you can't pull a Dine and Dash at Genesis East without serious repercussions...or at least a heck of a lot of noise.

My mother helped her get settled in. In the picture below, Sam is reading her the list of movies. Apparently the hospital gets Netflix. I don't even want to know how much they'll charge for that on our bill. $140 for The Jungle Book 2?! WTH?!

After school, her sisters came to hang out. There was at least some semblance of normalcy again with all of them in one room. No one argued, which was super-nice.

Madison's 12th birthday was that same day, and more than slightly overshadowed by the Splinterectomy, the poor girl. She took it really well and let Sam's recovery take the front seat that day. She's a great kid.

Weird fact #68: I gave birth to Madison 12 years earlier just two floors up from where we were sitting. She declined my offer to re-enact the moment of her birth. *humph* Some kids just don't care about history.

Thankfully, she had already celebrated with a Slumber Party of Awesomeness the Friday before. Still, we got her a little something for her actual birthday. See that little brown thing in her hand? It's a gift card. She's texting her friend to tell her about it. The purple and green blankets are gifts for their newly decorated bedroom and we just decided to make them hospital/birthday gifts for each of them.


Sam liked the hospital food, at least the stuff that Madison didn't sample.

Operation is THE game to play when you're in the hospital. I think the pencil (Writer's Cramp) in his forearm is about the same size as the larger of the two splinters removed from Sam's leg.

Weird fact #99: Operation dude's name is "Cavity Sam".

I laughed my face off at that. Samantha didn't find it as amusing.


And finally she slept. The book you see there is Curious George Goes To The Hospital, which her Aunt Jennie brought her a few days before surgery. Seems that George eats a wooden puzzle piece and has to have surgery to get it out of his little monkey belly. Wood is the debbil.

And the next day, she was ready to roll...posing with the candy that Uncle Marky brought her the night before. Notice the Anti Theft Device on her ankle. They removed it and discharged her shortly after this pic was taken and we were able to get her dressed and head home. She was thrilled at the idea that she would get to ride in a wheelchair (but the ambulance ride had her completely unimpressed).

We'll close with a picture of Sam on the mend. This is her "Can we play Just Dance on the Wii" face:


Um...No.