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.

Pictures From Hell - A Holiday Photo

"...Hallelujah! Holy Shit! Where's the Tylenol?!"
Clark W. Grizwold

I wanted to take a nice picture of my kids for a holiday card. That's all. I didn't want to chisel their likeness into stone. I didn't want them to sit and pose while I painted a reproduction of the Nativity. A sweet photograph of my offspring grinning merrily at the camera was all I was looking for.

The dog was not in the room, Sugar Daddy wasn't mugging for the camera, no cats were running in and out of the room chasing one another or their tails or an imaginary mouse. It was just the spawn, the tree and me and it went something like this:

Sam, sit there for a minute and let me check the lighting for this shot. *click*

Okay, that's not bad. That's All That and a bag of - can we lose the bag of chips, please? Thanks, honey. Okay let's try it one more time. Ready? Say "Cheese".
Sam: "CHEESE." *click*

*sigh* Dammit! Go away, John!

*enter rest of spawn*
Okay, is everyone ready? Good.
1, 2, 3. *click*

Good! Now, Samantha, when you say "cheese", can you sit really still? You were a bit blurry in that one. Let's try again, but this time when I say "3" everyone freeze.

1, 2, 3. *click*
No, Sam. Not REALLY "freeze". Just smile and sit still, okay? Again... 1,2, *click*

"WE WEREN'T READY!"

I was trying to be sneaky about it. I guess that didn't work. Just look at me and smile, will you? *click*
*click*
"She farted! GROSS, SAM! MO-ommm!"

Samantha, sit. STILL.
Madison: "Ha ha, you got in trouble! Ha ha! UNGH!"
*click*
*click*
Lily, thank you for continuing to smile throughout this incredible mayhem.
Okay, people. Let's just work with your hyperactivity and try a crazy picture. Shall we? Let's give it a whirl.

1, 2, 3 *click*

*click*


Nope. Okay, bad idea. And you all still have to sit relatively still.
Again...WAIT! STOP! Samantha, sit still! Girls, stop TICKLING HER, THAT DOESN'T HELP!
*click*

And then Lily had had enough.*click*

*click**click*
Where the hell are your sisters?! Oh, good Lord.


Lily! Stop choking your sister! Get back over here and let's just DO this damned thing before I completely lose it with you people!! NOW SMILE!!
Really, Sam?! Now you're incapable of smiling?! After all that?!
*click*

Oh, forget it!! I'll work with whatever else I've got! Get out of my sight!! Go to bed NOW, all of you!!! THERE WILL BE NO CHRISTMAS THIS YEAR!!!






Please note: 
**When the children were nestled all snug in their beds, their adventure but a memory, I cleared my head and transferred the carnage from camera to computer, I think I managed to piece together a holiday photo that truly captures their essence:

So yeah. Happy Holidays and all that junk. :P

Oh Christmas Tree - The Battle of The Green Giant

While I set up the tree with the kids, enjoy my story from last Christmas:

My Christmas tree is assembled, the lights are on, and the pepper-berry garland is in place. The ornaments are already beginning to go through a series of trips to various boughs of the tree (as I rearrange them daily) and should reach their final destination on or by Christmas Eve. That is when I shall take one final look at my masterpiece and exclaim, "That's as good as it's ever going to get!" And then resolve that next year it will look even better. :)

I was off to a slow start in filling up my cup of Christmas Cheer this year, but I finally managed to get around to that tree. For those who go the "real" route, getting the family Christmas tree can be a lively excursion - loading all of the kids into the minivan and driving out to the country. Crouched on the snowy shoulder of a dirt and gravel road, knees numb from the cold, you nearly freeze your "aspidistra" off sawing for dear life while the kids keep an eye out for Johnny Law! Of course, the less adventurous folk buy one from a tree lot. I, on the other hand, head to the lowest level of my house...to do battle. To take but one prisoner.

This is my tale....

For eleven long months, my artificial tree has sat dormant in the "Basement Du Frigidaire", waiting under boxes of Easter decorations, old baby clothes, and furnace filters. It waits by the broken lamp, smelling faintly of cat litter, rust and cinnamon candles, for the day to come when I would once again free it from the evil clutches of The Roughneck Tote of Entrapment.

Last weekend that day had arrived. I headed down the narrow and dark basement steps (Note to self: change basement light bulb), holding onto the railing every inch of the way. I pushed aside the clothes basket blocking my path. Pausing for a moment to pay homage to the beloved baby swing that had served us so well over the years, I headed for the tote that contained the beast. I could sense its fury as I began to unearth it from the pile of rubble set atop the mighty tree. It sought the warmth and freedom of the main floor, but in order to get those luxuries it must first bend to my will. I knew it would not leave this place easily.

The Tote of Entrapment bulged at the sides, barely able to contain the incredible mass of the tree. It was secured with duct tape to reinforce its hold and still the tree threatened to break free. Grasping the end of the box, I surveyed the path back to the stairs. It looked clear. I gave a great push and felt the muscles in my legs cinch tight, but the tree didn't budge. I recovered quickly and moved around to the front of the green plastic sarcophagus to see what was impeding my progress. I saw there was a length of two by four under the Tote of Entrapment. Mumbling my frustration into the dank basement air, I dislodged the board and returned to my position behind the box. With another forceful shove I felt the box move smoothly toward the bottom of the basement steps.

I wrestled with the enormous tree, lifting and pushing and lifting and pushing every step of the journey. Near the turn at the top I caught my sleeve on the railing and for a moment I lost my grip on the monstrous, tree-filled box. I felt the tree slide backward. "No!", I cried. I could see I was close to the end of my battle. I couldn't give up now. I wouldn't give up now! Like a laboring mother who has just learned that her baby's head is crowning, I gave one more fantastic push and the tree sprang forth into the kitchen. Carried by the momentum of that fierce push, I charged through the kitchen and dining room yelling a war cry that sounded something like this, "GETOUTTATHEWAYGETOUTTATHEWAYGETOUTTATHEWAY!!!"

At last the battle was won! I was triumphant! I danced jubilantly around the living room while my children sang my praises and my dog cocked his ears, turning his head to one side. The children helped me to unfasten the box that held the tree captive. It burst out of the Tote of Entrapment with the same sound heard when opening a new two liter of pop. Freed from its plastic cage, we set it up in the corner of the living room where it now stands, obediently holding up strands of lights and brightly colored ornaments on its "lifelike" boughs.

Once again I have tamed the mighty beast. Another year...victory is mine!!

Behold awesomeness of the Green Giant:

And the Truth Shall Set You Free (Even Though You Smell Like Pee).

Fade in: My living room. Picture me cuddling with my seven year old and my nine year old daughters. Enter husband, wearing serious face.

"Honey, you'll want to come see this."

Me: *sigh*

I followed him to the kitchen, where my husband, soul-mate, sugar daddy said, "That's pee on the floor," as he made a grand, sweeping gesture with his hand. Yes, indeedily, it certainly was pee, and a good portion of the kitchen floor and a step-stool were covered with it. The dog hasn't hosed down a room like that in some time and quite frankly, the husband hasn't either. I knew who the culprit was by the fact that the dog wasn't the only pantless one in the kitchen. I looked at the guilty three-year-old Samantha and said, "Sam, did you pee on the floor?" She said, "Yes, but I said I was sorry." This surprised me (marking her territory on the linoleum, not her apology) and I asked her why she would do that. Sam looked up from cleaning her mess like a miniature Cinderella and said, "Well, I had to GO." ...Um...Yeah. Okay, that served me right for asking a three-year-old to explain herself.

Fast forward five minutes.

Back to the kitchen to refill my water. Seeing the monster of a dog, I give him a pat on the head as I pass. His head is damp. Wha...? *double take* "How did your head get...Oh, no." I smelled his furry melon and sure enough, that unmistakeable odor reached my nose. Lovely. Just lovely.

"SAM?!" *walks quickly to the living room where Sam sits watching t.v. with her sisters*

"Why is Brinkley's head wet?"

"He got it wet," said Sam.

"Yes, I know, but HOW did he get it wet, Samantha?"

Child makes up story quicker than you can blink..."He put his head in his water bowl."

I said, "No, his head is wet on TOP. How did that happen?"

Oldest sister Madison pipes up, "Sam, if you tell the truth you won't get in trouble." (Yes! Good thinking, Madison. That's how we'll get it out of her! I was just about to get the folding chair, rubber hose and a VERY bright light.)

Sam confesses. "Yes, I pee-peed on the doggy's head." (Mommy hides behind a pillow, giggling silently, thinking "Remember, you're her mother. Laugh later.")

"WHY did you pee on the dog's head?"

Sam, very matter-of-fact, shrugs her shoulders, explaining, "Because it was kinda FUNNY."

Note: Sam has apologized to the dog and promised not to pee on anyone ever again. Madison and I have recovered from our fits of laughter out of Sam's earshot and the floor and dog are once again, clean and pee-free. Thanks for your support.

NO means "NO" - A Lesson In Self-Control

Pizza seduces me. It tempts me with its slightly browned cheese and its rich and nommable tomato sauce. It whispers, "Eat me" and without hesitation I do. I can't help myself.

I was having a(nother) piece of pizza at dinner tonight, despite the annoying little voice that said,

"No, Erika. Put that back. You don't want another slice."

I ignored that voice and went for the second helping:

"Add more crushed red pepper! Mama-Mia, I like-a the spicy pizza!"

*shake-a shake-a shak-AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!! MYEYESITBURNSMYEYESOWOWOWOWOW!!!*

Yes. In my fevered frenzy of seasoning, the smallest particles of (really) crushed red pepper caught the wind of the ceiling fan and...I peppered myself.

Ow.

After about ten minutes of flushing my very sore, very red eyes under the bathroom faucet and cursing the employees of McCormick Spices and their offspring and their offspring's offspring and anyone who knew their offspring's offspring, I spent another ten minutes enduring watery eyes and an uncontrollably runny nose. I now understand what it is that pepper spray will do to an assailant.

I have learned my lesson. If I insist on forcing myself on the pizza, I MUST NOT ARM THE PIZZA. (Clearly, I was asking for it.) Better yet, I should steer clear of that Italian-American tease and never think of it again.

"NO" means "NO". I get that now.

I guess I didn't really want that piece of pizza after all. Now that I think about it, it probably had a parasite in its pepperoni.

(Ah-HA! Did you see what I did there? I rejected the pizza, it didn't reject me. I dumped it first, therefore I win. Humph!)

*quietly* Slut.