finslippy

My mom, folks!

"You're not going to believe what happened with my stove."
"WHAT HAPPENED."
"It's okay, don't panic."
"Don't scare me like that."
"Yesterday, I'm sitting in the dining room, drinking some tea, when the ignitor just turns on."
"What? For no reason? You were baking something?"
"No, that's what I'm saying. The oven was off, and suddenly the ignitor started clicking. First it was going click, click, click, then it went clickclickclickclick and suddenly there are flames and black smoke shooting out of the vent—"
"BLACK SMOKE?"
"Yes, so I ran to the outlet and unplugged it, and luckily it stopped right away."
"I don’t like this!"
"No kidding."
"WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?"
"The repair guy's coming tomorrow, and until then, you know, we'll be using the microwave a lot."
"Alice, I hate to say this, but I think there's something wrong with that oven."

Sometimes when we talk about one thing, we're actually talking about something else!

I don't want to exaggerate, but my Wonderland column from last Friday is saving lives. Right now, as I write this. Which I think makes me some kind of savior. Scratch "some kind." Why equivocate?

Anyway, if it's not saving your life, it's because you're not reading it, and let me tell you, you should. If only because it hurt my head to write. I had to read, and then I had to think about what I had read, and then I had to string words together in orders that were both pleasing and meaningful. My life could not be more difficult.

Speaking of difficult, this morning did not go well. There was muttering and things being slammed and meaningful sighing, and then Henry freaked out about his new coat. Of course. It's not like he's immune to his surroundings. So, the coat. Its newness was unbearable. How could we even suggest that he couldn't wear his old coat, even though its sleeves end at his elbows? Even though we used our charms to get the coat on him and convince him that he would live, he was still ornery all the way to school. During the Coat Battle he had pitched his voice waaa-haaaay up high, above even where dogs can hear, to a pitch that I think would kill bats—just cause them to seize up in mid-flight and plummet to the earth. Then apparently he couldn't get it back down to a normal pitch, or maybe he just hates bats. As we walked to school everything he said sounded like air being let out of a balloon, so to cheer him up I suggested that we play secret agents on the way to school. This involves running from tree to tree, shooting lasers at squirrels and hiding from oncoming cars. I should have known that is the WORST GAME EVER, even though we play it every day on the way to school even when it's the last thing I want to do. HOW COULD I EVEN SUGGEST IT. He actually demanded to know why I would suggest such a thing. And then when I began to explain that I SUGGESTED IT TO TORMENT HIM, he squeaked, "You're interrupting me!" and before I could respond to that he added, "Why won't you answer me! "

Then I started in, I don't even know what I said or why I said it. Some nonsense about how his behavior was not acceptable and I don't need to be screamed at for trying to suggest something fun even though it's not fun for me, I would rather be at home reading a book (and then I was just talking to myself, because none of this was for his benefit, and anyway he was busy squealing EEEEE, EEEEE, INTERRUPTING, EEEE, not hearing a word that I said, which is probably for the best) and why did I bother trying to make everyone around me happy and maybe they should be the ones who try to make me happy for once and I'm so tired of everyone yelling and the constant ceaseless rage and oh my god Alice shut up—

Then Henry said, "You know what letter I like?" in a perfectly normal voice. And I had the good sense, at least, to abort my harangue, and find out.

He likes H, by the way. Which is so clearly the best letter in the alphabet.

I think I need a nap. Or a new and better life. One or the other.

More than you wanted to know about the last 48 hours.

Well, the child recovered from his fever in time to spend the weekend at my in-laws, as we had planned. Scott and I had a great weekend, and because of this, on Sunday night, the Lord chose to strike me down with yet another bladder infection. Yea, he didst render me insensible with pain, such was his wrath, that we should dare enjoy each other's company without a child mewling and tugging at our belt loops.

It began at midnight on Sunday, when I thought, hmm, what's that mild twinge in my lower abdomen? I then made the mistake of going to the bathroom, instead of throwing myself out the window. The less said about what happened in the bathroom, the better, but I will say that I have never experienced pain like that; I would rather have given birth through my urethra, and I'm sorry I just wrote that but there it is. Do you want me to delete it? Too late! Already published!

We spent much of Sunday-into-Monday in the emergency room—and it was the cutest little emergency room you ever did see. So wee! So not spattered with blood and fear! Until I showed up! Although there was only one other guy there, some guy with a cough, CRY ME A RIVER, the ER staff still decided to make us wait for hours, or what seemed like hours. I think I heard music coming from the triage room. They couldn't hear my moaning and weeping over the music and the clog dancing—I bet there was clog dancing—or maybe they could, and it amused them. If they could have siphoned my tears into their cocktails, they probably would have. The devils!

Finally the doctor took a break from his carousing to see me, and declared that instead of giving me the medication that works for bladder infections, he would give me the medication that does not work. I thought this was an interesting strategy, but maybe one that would result in pain, instead of not-pain. He didn't seem to mind that idea. I tried to argue my point, but he had already had enough of me. He was done the moment he entered the room and asked me what was wrong, and I had the temerity to observe that I had a bladder infection. How dare I diagnose myself!

I wasn't even going to write about this. I sat down this morning and thought, "Don't write about your stupid bladder, Alice, no one wants to hear about it." But my hands keep on typing it out. I can't stop them. Anyway, the drugs didn't work, I wept and clawed at myself, the pain, oh the pain, I went to my doctor, he gave me the drugs that worked, I slept the rest of the day, my son came home and I kissed him all over his sweet head, and here I am. The sun is shining, and I have the ability to stand upright. It's a good day.

All my dreams have come true!

My son and I are watching Go, Diego, Go! Because it's just too much work to thrust this fireplace poker deep into my ear canal. My arms aren't long enough, damn it.

We saved the baby jaguar! Say it louder! Excellente!

Yesterday my boy had his five-year checkup, at the sinkhole of bacteria-coated furnishings and toys that some call "the doctor's office." Henry made sure to handle each and every board book, some of them downright soggy with god knows what, as I followed him around squirting him with Purell. Then the doctor was ready to manhandle him with his germy paws. And poke him with his virus-laden instruments.

Before we left, Henry crawled across the floor, licking it. I thought that was a bit much.

We call this foreshadowing!

So hi, today we're home with a lovely ailment. By "we" I mean "he" because I'm always here. By "lovely" I mean the hacking-cough, high-fever, aches-throughout-body kind of malaise. Henry is limping and sighing and clutching his stomach ominously. I'm calmly pushing a bucket in his direction, in case things take a turn for the volcanic. Fun times!

Luckily, as I have learned from Hasbro's newest toy for girls, it's everything I could have dreamed. See what I mean in today's Wonderland. We call this advertising!

I feel pretty!

Is my new banner not purty? True, it lacks the edge of the last one, with its Olde Timey Masochism, but I just couldn't continue bothering those of you out there with your delicate constitutions. Your numbers were growing, you anxious types, and you fretted and gnawed at your itty nails and emailed me about how nervous Electro-Stim Guy made you. And now, poof, he is gone away. And now I will hear from those of you who miss him. So it goes.

Sarah of Whoorl, she of the lovely hair, made this pretty banner for me. Thank you, Sarah! Soon my hair will be as shining as hers. I think that comes with the banner.

This is what I want to never forget.

We are looking for lucky acorns, because Henry wants to make a wish.

"It should be flat but not broken," he tells me. Everyone knows the Impossible Acorn is the luckiest.

I pick up an un-flat but pretty acorn. "I don't know, Henry, this one feels lucky to me."

He looks it over. "It's not flat, but it's okay," he says.

He squeezes it in his fist and brings it up to his mouth. Clamps his eyes shut, and whispers. Loudly, so I can hear. But I'm not telling you what the wish is, because everyone knows then it won't come true.

He looks at me, nods, then tosses the acorn. "Good," he says. Now we can finish our walk. We're not crossing any more streets, but we hold hands anyway.

Cat's in the cradle, kid.

Come on, guys, it's time to wake up. Hey Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Mom, I don't want to cuddle. Stop making me cuddle and wake up. Dad. Dad. Why are you making that mad face? Get up. Get up now. Dad!

I don't want school. I want school to be over and to already be home. I'm going to lie here and scream the hours away.

I can't kiss you goodbye because my friend is over there. Over there! Let go! Stop kissing!

It's going to be so far to walk home. So faaaaaar. It's going to take too long. I don't want to look at leaves. Leaves are stupid. Walking is for idiots. This is taking too long!

I want dinner. Is dinner ready yet? Is it ready now? Now? Now? Now? How about now? I can't help you cook, I'm too tired. Is it ready? What does fifteen minutes mean? Does it mean now?

You don't have to kiss me goodnight, you already did. Another hug? Okay, but just one. DID YOU JUST KISS ME AGAIN?

Operation Bore My Son to Tears

is not going well.

Today is Henry's third day home sick from school. On Monday he insisted that he didn't feel well but all I could hear was "I want to play with my new birthday toys." He slipped that into his tirade regarding his various symptoms but I heard it, all right. I had him all figured out! So I dragged him there, insisted that he was fine despite his loud protestations, pried his little fingers off of me, and made a run for it. Two hours later his teacher called me. He had a fever. And was crying about ear pain when he coughed. Nice job, crappy mommy.

Once I got him home, of course he cheered right up, and spent the rest of the day playing with his brand new toys. There was nary a word about his supposed ear pain. Could a child elevate his internal body temperature, just out of an obsessive need for Legos? I suspected so.

The next day Henry was as bouncy and cheery as ever, but then I took his temperature, and damn it all, he still had a fever. A small one. Could I pump him full of Motrin and send him off? I considered it, Internet. My heart is a little smaller than a raisin. But in the end, I did not, which was a good thing, because two hours later he turned all gray and glassy-eyed and his temperature shot up to 115 or something. Okay, it was 104. Every time Henry gets sick his temperature goes up to 104. I find this somehow laudatory, because I never seem to get fevers anywhere near that high, and I remember being little and sick and miserable and wanting some impressive number that would elicit the sympathy of those around me. So here he is with 104, and I'm scared but also kind of want to high-five him. You are seriously sick, dude! Score!

Off we went to the doctor, and got some antibiotics. That part's not interesting. Actually none of this is. But this is all I have. So you just sit down and keep reading.

All of this brings us to today, Day 3 of sick leave. He's clearly better, but I wanted to play it safe, not bring him back to school only to have his teacher call to say he's still sick and p.s. you're a worse mom than we thought, and that's saying a lot. At the same time I hated the idea of keeping him at home, not just because he never stops talking ALTHOUGH THAT'S CERTAINLY PART OF IT, but because he's resisting school these days, and I don't want to reinforce that with another Super Day of School-Free Fun.

This newfound hatred of school is hard to comprehend in my child, who last year would weep like I had smothered his puppy if I told him he couldn't go to school. Who I'm sure told his teacher that he didn't want to go home because his cruel parents didn't love him like she could, and he should probably just live at the school, subsisting on graham crackers and apple juice and sleeping on the bean bag in the reading nook.

Now every morning includes at least fifteen minutes of weeping over the horrors of school, how the playground is stupid and all the kids are babies and the teachers are idiots. Because this year we can walk to his school, we get to enjoy a Bataan Death March each day, except worse. Because at least at the end of the Bataan Death march the survivors weren't forced to play in a stupid playground. And eat pretzels for snacktime.

So I'm trying to make this, our Last Sick Day, as un-fun as possible, but the kid's still enjoying himself, damn it. This morning he played with his new Play-Doh Fun Pak while I typed in the next room, first darkly announcing that I couldn't play with him because I had important work to do. (Read: I was emailing my friends.) "That's fine!" he sang, and proceeded to bounce in and out of the room, handing me intricate Play-Doh desserts and declaring that I deserved them because I'm the best mother there ever was.

"Soon," I growled, "we have to run errands," and he told me that errands are his favorite thing to do, as long as he can do them with me, because I'm his best friend. Wha? We went to the supermarket and he expressed fascination with every item on my list. Romano cheese, he informed me, smells fantastic. He shoved it against his nose and breathed in deep, beaming at me. He's either the best liar ever, or there's a hallucinogen mixed in with his antibiotics.

When we got home he asked to go to the playground, and inside I cackled with glee, my raisiny heart shrinking even further into the recesses of my chest cavity. "If you're home sick you can't go to the playground," I explained, and waited for the tears. Surely this would make school seem more palatable! Ho ho! "That's okay," he smiled. "I don't mind playing inside." And then he offered to help me unpack the groceries.

Next up: I introduce him to the vacuum. Even if he's still cheerful, hell, at least I have a clean floor.

What has Alice been doing?

Why, preparing for Henry's birthday party, of course!

Which was yesterday. His party was to be a Space Party, as Henry wishes someday to be an astronaut. An astronaut, or a "worker guy." A Worker Guy party sounded, at the time of the party planning, less interesting than Space. Although now that we're done I can see the appeal of a Worker Guy party. Maybe we could have had the kids regrout our bathroom. We'll plan that one for next year.

Because we enjoy suffering, we spent much of Saturday in Party City. We hadn't prepared too well for the Space Party (hello, I lied about spending all this time on party preparation), and we had fewer than twenty-four hours, and surely they had something space-related there. But did you know? According to Party City, you cannot have a Space Party. Or any type of generically themed party.You can have a Go Diego Go! party, if you like. ¡Al rescate, partygoers! But you cannot have a Space Party, because there is no branded character associated with generic Space, so no. No Space Party for you.

We actually went to the strict trademarked-characters-only Party City for one reason, which was to pick up a Rocketship Pinata, as I had seen it on their website. I asked a salesperson where I could find said Rocketship Pinata, and she looked at me like I had asked where I could find the Double Penetration Dildo Pinata. "We don't have that," she said, slowly, so I could understand her despite my obvious idiocy. "I've never heard of that, and we don't have it here, and I'm pretty sure we've never had it."

"Whuh," I said.
"If you want a Diego pinata, I can get that for you! ¡Vamonos!"
"Nuuuuh," I said, and she fed me some kibble.

So then Henry and I traipsed over to the next aisle, where we found a massive display of ROCKET-SHIP PINATAS. And do you know what I did then? Do you? I marched right over to the Diego-peddling salesperson and I barked WHAT DO YOU CALL THESE, MS. PINATA EXPERT? She cowered in fear. And begged my forgiveness, after acknowledging my clearly superior intellect.

You've probably guessed by now that I said absolutely nothing, and you would be correct. I can't feel anything but bad for anyone who works at Party City. She deserves not to know about the rocketship pinata. You go on not knowing, young miss! You go on not knowing until you're free!

By the way, if you want to yell at your child, go to Party City first. You'll blend right in! Every parent at Party City has had it up to HERE with his or her child. It's the place to go if you need to unleash a little pent-up hostility. Hell, you could grab someone else's kid and let 'er rip. No one would be the wiser. And the little kid would be too dazzled by the shiny party favors to mind your tirade.

So what happened next, you ask? Well, next we went insane creating Space Party activities and Space Party favors. I told one of my friends at the party that we actually went back in time to create the space program, just so we could have this party. (Clearly I liked my joke enough to make it again.) A few days before the party another friend mentioned to me that she had one of those inflatable Bouncy Castles in her possession, and would we like to borrow it? Indeed we did. Fast-forward to fifteen minutes into the party, when we realized we could have abandoned the Space theme and simply let the children flail away inside the Bouncy Castle until it was time for them to stagger home. Children who have a Bouncy Castle do not need personalized NASA t-shirts, or a Stick the Astronaut on the Lifeline game, or an Alien Slime-Making project, or a Rocketship Pinata. They may not even need cake. All they want to do is bounce.

In the end, no one vomited or broke any bones, so it was a rousing success. And now my son is home sick with post-party ennui. (Also an ear infection.) Such is the price we pay for showing him too good a time.

P.S.: My son is FIVE. Holy crap.

P.P.S.: Wonderland post from last week, in which I attempt to tackle the giant topic of the vaccination/autism link. Yeesh.