Florence Nightingale: Third Time's A Charm

If you've been with me for any length of time - or if you know me personally, may know that I am friendly, compassionate, empathetic, and all those other good things that give you warm feelings inside. Well, at least while I'm out in public.

You may also know that, in spite of my wonderful qualities - including humility - I am simply not a good person to have around in any kind of emergency situation. 

I tend to think I'm tough. I grew up in the Upper Peninsula, survived harsh winters, worked on the farm, learned to drink some pretty hard-core koolaid, (remember the 190 post). I was a preschool teacher for 9 years. I did missionary work in the Philippines and ate some pretty unusual things. I used to work in the school office. I can handle blood. I can handle sneezes and pee. I can even tolerate vomit.

My daughter recently had a minor procedure done on her face. She had to get a small lump removed from her cheek. She was very nervous about the procedure since she wasn't going to have general anesthesia. (Freaking out is a little more like it, but I'll try not to embarrass her too much.) I decided that I wanted to watch the procedure because I knew it wouldn't be too invasive. If I can look at surgeries online and check out skin diseases on WebMD, I was sure I could handle such a minor procedure.

In fact, blood, in and of itself does NOT bother me. Some situations, however, take me completely by surprise. But, I figured that I would be prepared for the small incision on Hope's face. A little blood, a little lump removed, a few stitches. No biggie.

The day arrived and I went into the exam room with my daughter. Doc was positioned on one side of her, so I went to the other side and held her hand. Numbing shot, ketchup and mustard wash (my husband's name for the iodine bath before surgery), scalpel.

Um, OK, so I decided that maybe I wouldn't watch. I figured I should just keep my attention on Hope. I knelt down next to her so I couldn't accidentally sneak a peek.
 

First, the incision: scalpel. Gauze. Blood. Doing OK.

Hope had gotten past the first part – I figured the rest would be easy as pie.
 

Then she said, “I just heard a popping sound.”

“Yeah,” the doctor said, “I have to pull it out because it's kind of stuck in there. You'll probably hear a little more popping before I'm done.” Then he went on to describe the texture of the offending cyst – according to him, it was like cheese.

I started to feel a little hot.

He continued, describing how he was trying to squeeze the thing out like a giant zit.

I started to feel a little queasy. A little shaky.  I put my head down on my arm and prayed, “Oh, God, please don't let me pass out.”  I didn't think it would help Hope's nerves at all to have mom swooning.

At this point, Doc started chuckling and said, “Hey, your mom is doing really well.” Hope had her eyes closed, so I don't think she knew anything of the drama unfolding beside her.

I desperately tried to think of a way to change the subject. “Hey, Hope, we might get a kitten for Christmas.” At that point, Doc picked up on my attempt to keep my lunch down and started talking about when we were in college. 

You see, Doc and I went to college together. He was my husband's room-mate one year. He and many other friends actually visited my parents' home in the UP more than once. He really, really likes to talk. And I really, really like to talk. I'm sure he assumed that I was tougher than I really was when he started talking in great detail about removing the chunk of "cheese" wedged in my daughter's face.

Read about my previous episodes in these two posts:

Florence Nightingale I'll Never Be 

Florence Nightingale: Take 2 

I'm finally convinced that I'm not as tough as I think.

Black Friday Stupor

Yes, I know Black Friday was a week ago. An early Thanksgiving always makes everything seem earlier, and then I'm in denial about the whole holiday season. Well I guess that usually happens anyway – the whole being-in-denial-because-the-holidays-are-approaching-too-fast-and-I'm-not-even-remotely-ready.  I can't blame it on the early Thanksgiving.

So, the real truth:  I just did not get around to writing this post until a week after it happened.

Money has been especially tight this year due to it being the 2^nd year my husband has been on disability after his stroke. And I, myself cut my hours back to part-time in the spring because I have a certain disability that kicks in when I'm working 40 hours a week, trying to keep a house that is somewhat peaceful and doesn't look like the set for a horror movie, and trying to raise 4 kids with minimal help from my recovering husband.  My disability is called “Crazy Mom.”

Money aside, the girls started working on me a few weeks before Thanksgiving: “Mom, are we going to go Black Friday shopping this year?” Apparently, they have fond memories of getting up at 4 AM, huddling on the heated seats in our minivan, and walking into the stores with our butts steaming. Each time they asked about Black Friday shopping this year, I hemmed and hawed. I tried to be non-committal. But no matter what I said – or didn't say – the girls just couldn't believe that I would skip a family tradition. We went last year. I guess that was when the tradition started. You've got to be careful what you do with your kids around the holiday season, you know. If you make one false move, the children are going to say it's tradition and force you to do it every year at Christmas-time for the rest of your natural lives.

So, with the words “we have negative money” and “I'm not buying anything for you today no matter how much whining, conniving and cajoling you do” ringing in their ears, we did indeed go Black Friday shopping. We didn't get up at a ludicrous hour. Instead it was maybe a ridiculous hour. It was 6 AM when my 10-year-old came in to wake me up. “Tell your sister to make the coffee and I will get up in a few,” I said. I'm so glad my children are fellow coffee-drinkers.

Apparently, I hadn't consumed enough coffee to assist me with the simple tasks of walking and talking, so mid-morning, we headed toward the Barnes and Noble in the Lansing Mall because they have a Starbucks cafe inside the store. As we approached the sprawling store front, there was a very large sign assuring us that, yes indeed, Starbucks coffee was sold at a cafe right inside their store walls. So I took that to mean right inside their store walls. As soon as we entered, I found myself in front of a row of registers. And the smell of coffee was overpowering – I needed to have some, and I needed it NOW. I looked at the friendly cashiers. Then past the friendly cashiers. There were displays of books stacked behind them. “Huh,” I wondered, “Where do they make the coffee?” So I carefully scanned the entire section to see if I could find a menu or coffee makers or cups or anything that indicated that this cafe right inside of Barnes and Noble actually served coffee. Nothing. So I did what any rational human being would do in the situation. I just stood there. And waited for coffee to appear. I would occasionally search the faces of the friendly cashiers and wonder why they weren't offering to help me in their chipper, friendly cashier way, “What can I get for you?” or “May I help you?” Still nothing. Then I saw some laminated sheets next to each cash register. That must be the menu, I thought. I picked it up, asked, “Is this the menu?” and then realized that I was reading about payment and return options. Finally the heavens opened and it was revealed by divine intervention that this was not the cafe. So, I tried to cover my error and quickly said, “I mean, where is the cafe?” The friendly cashiers pointed and I turned around to see a giant Starbucks cafe a few aisles over. I quickly walked away with my kids to get some coffee.

Sometimes I can't believe they let me go out in public.

Black Friday Stupor

Yes, I know Black Friday was a week ago. An early Thanksgiving always makes everything seem earlier, and then I'm in denial about the whole holiday season. Well I guess that usually happens anyway – the whole being-in-denial-because-the-holidays-are-approaching-too-fast-and-I'm-not-even-remotely-ready.  I can't blame it on the early Thanksgiving.

So, the real truth:  I just did not get around to writing this post until a week after it happened.

Money has been especially tight this year due to it being the 2^nd year my husband has been on disability after his stroke. And I, myself cut my hours back to part-time in the spring because I have a certain disability that kicks in when I'm working 40 hours a week, trying to keep a house that is somewhat peaceful and doesn't look like the set for a horror movie, and trying to raise 4 kids with minimal help from my recovering husband.  My disability is called “Crazy Mom.”

Money aside, the girls started working on me a few weeks before Thanksgiving: “Mom, are we going to go Black Friday shopping this year?” Apparently, they have fond memories of getting up at 4 AM, huddling on the heated seats in our minivan, and walking into the stores with our butts steaming. Each time they asked about Black Friday shopping this year, I hemmed and hawed. I tried to be non-committal. But no matter what I said – or didn't say – the girls just couldn't believe that I would skip a family tradition. We went last year. I guess that was when the tradition started. You've got to be careful what you do with your kids around the holiday season, you know. If you make one false move, the children are going to say it's tradition and force you to do it every year at Christmas-time for the rest of your natural lives.

So, with the words “we have negative money” and “I'm not buying anything for you today no matter how much whining, conniving and cajoling you do” ringing in their ears, we did indeed go Black Friday shopping. We didn't get up at a ludicrous hour. Instead it was maybe a ridiculous hour. It was 6 AM when my 10-year-old came in to wake me up. “Tell your sister to make the coffee and I will get up in a few,” I said. I'm so glad my children are fellow coffee-drinkers.

Apparently, I hadn't consumed enough coffee to assist me with the simple tasks of walking and talking, so mid-morning, we headed toward the Barnes and Noble in the Lansing Mall because they have a Starbucks cafe inside the store. As we approached the sprawling store front, there was a very large sign assuring us that, yes indeed, Starbucks coffee was sold at a cafe right inside their store walls. So I took that to mean right inside their store walls. As soon as we entered, I found myself in front of a row of registers. And the smell of coffee was overpowering – I needed to have some, and I needed it NOW. I looked at the friendly cashiers. Then past the friendly cashiers. There were displays of books stacked behind them. “Huh,” I wondered, “Where do they make the coffee?” So I carefully scanned the entire section to see if I could find a menu or coffee makers or cups or anything that indicated that this cafe right inside of Barnes and Noble actually served coffee. Nothing. So I did what any rational human being would do in the situation. I just stood there. And waited for coffee to appear. I would occasionally search the faces of the friendly cashiers and wonder why they weren't offering to help me in their chipper, friendly cashier way, “What can I get for you?” or “May I help you?” Still nothing. Then I saw some laminated sheets next to each cash register. That must be the menu, I thought. I picked it up, asked, “Is this the menu?” and then realized that I was reading about payment and return options. Finally the heavens opened and it was revealed by divine intervention that this was not the cafe. So, I tried to cover my error and quickly said, “I mean, where is the cafe?” The friendly cashiers pointed and I turned around to see a giant Starbucks cafe a few aisles over. I quickly walked away with my kids to get some coffee.

Sometimes I can't believe they let me go out in public.

Bailout?

I dropped 3 of my kids off at school this morning, dug through the massive collection of wadded papers in my 3rd grader's cubby, and returned home, humming the Funeral March.

dum dum dum DUM da-dum da-dum da DUM!

The above-mentioned 3rd grader is my son, who stayed home from school today.  Oh no, he is not sick.  This is a first in our household:  I kept my son home today to do his homework.  Irresponsible parent, you say?  Enabling, you say?  Clearly you don't understand the parameters under which I kept him home.

Yesterday, his teacher sent home a reminder about missing work so that we could help him catch up before the trimester ends.  Tomorrow.  That may have been enough warning for your average 3rd grader.  Not so for my son.  He was missing approximately 48 pieces of homework (I am not even close to exaggerating). 

Let me explain a little bit here.  My son is quite intelligent.  Brilliant, even.  And his mother may be slightly biased.  Anyway, he is performing well above grade level in all subjects.  He writes very clever stories and builds incredible structures with his legos.  He regularly humors us with his creative stories and precocious vocabulary.

But he is a slob.  Disorganized.  Haphazard.  You get the picture.

I knew this was an issue.  I thought that I was doing well at regularly checking in with his teacher and making sure we were catching up on late assignments.   Obviously, my assumptions were erroneous.

So this morning, after dropping the other kids at school and humming the appropriate dirge for the situation, I made his favorite breakfast - egg, sausage and cheese burritos, accompanied by hot chocolate and orange juice. 

Are you thinking of words such as coddling?  spoiling?

Once again, clearly you misunderstand me.  Think of Ben Linus treating Kate to an exquisite breakfast by the ocean shortly after capturing her and her friends.  Ben tells Kate that he wants her to have something nice to remember because the next 2 weeks are going to be very unpleasant.  Yeah, it was like that with my son.  I made it clear that today would not be fun. 

It will be a whip-cracking, homework-cranking day.  No TV, no computer, no legos, no toys at all until every last crumpled paper is finished.

Oh, no.  It will not be a fun day at all.

And once that is done, the hubs and I will have to come with some very strict criteria under which he operates from now on.  Because I assure you I will not be bailing him out in college.

Shaming the Dishwasher

In general,  I am very thankful for electrical appliances.  I often feel a sense of gratification after loading up my washer, putting a cake in the oven, or turning on the vacuum cleaner.  I know that when I come back, I will have a clean load of clothing, a delicious cake, or a clean carpet.   


However, it's been a long time since I've felt that way about the dishwasher.  Now, when I load it up, I taunt it, "What are you going to leave caked on my dishes this time?"  I even spend extra time rinsing off all the little particles of food so it will just have to finish off the miniscule traces that I've left behind.  "There, you stupid, lazy, good-for-nothin', brackin' frackin' piece of worthless junk.  I washed the whole dang thing by hand!  Could you at least sanitize it for me???"  You might suggest that I talk nicer to it, but believe me, I've tried that.  And I've tried cleaning it on a regular basis - running vinegar through it, running bleach through it, running it empty so it can wash away any hidden grime - but to no avail.  It's still just a 90-lb. weakling.  I still have greasy dishes.  Sediment.  Baked on gunk.

I often end up washing many things by hand, and only putting the "sure" things into the dishwasher, like drinking cups. . . .that had only been used for water.

Here is a list of things that I believe that my dishwasher can no longer remove:

gravy
ketchup
mustard
mayonnaise
salad dressing
peanut butter
jelly
milk
eggs
oatmeal
applesauce 
frosting
chocolate
grease
oil
shortening   
butter
pudding
jello
soup
cream cheese
guacamole
refried beans
bananas
smoothies
yogurt
ice cream
potatoes
spaghetti sauce
custard
mousse
mashed potatoes

Here is a list of things that I know, for a fact, that my dishwasher can remove:

Cool Whip

In today's tough economy, we can't just go out and buy a new appliance, especially when the old one still "works" (and I hope you know that I use that term in the most sarcastic way possible).  So I've been left trying to finesse the piece of scrap (I wanted to leave the "s" off that word, but I didn't want to offend anyone) that is wasting space in my kitchen.  Still, nothing.

Finally, I've resorted to this.  Please don't think I'm being too harsh.  It's just that I've tried everything else. 

As I tried to take this picture this morning, my daughter walked right in front of the camera.  I snapped at her, "Can't you see I'm trying to take a picture here???"  My other daughter leaned over and whispered, "I think Mom has gone off the deep end."  

Obviously, they have no idea how maddening this situation is.

My Son, The Camaro Nut

I'm a little worried about my son. He is 7.

The other day, he said, “My favorite kind of car is a Camaro.”

“Really?” I asked. “Where did you see a Camaro?”

“Oh,” he replies, “I didn't see one. Matt just told me they're the coolest car ever.”

Fear strikes my heart as I jump to the only conclusion possible: My son will be a mulleted, heavy-metal-band-loving, Camaro-driving pothead.

Yes, I know this is a stereotype. But if you grew up in podunk-ville Michigan where every kid wanted a souped up muscle car, you would jump to the same conclusion. Some kids actually saved their meager earnings from working on the family farm or at the local fish processing place, and they were able to live their dream of squealing their tires in front of the high school before they went home to don their shit-kickers for the evening milking. Others were so desperate, they just painted flames on their AMC Gremlins and hoped no one would notice how slow they were going while they pushed their cars down the street.

Here's a question: do ALL boys EVERYWHERE end up craving cool cars? Is it inherent in the male gene, or is there an unspoken code among all males of our species that all little boys must desire cool cars when they grow up? I mean, have you ever met a little boy who wanted nothing more than to grow up and drive a 15-passenger van? Or a station wagon?

Anyway, my fears about my son began to grow, when days later, I found him sitting on the couch, remote in hand, completely absorbed in “Dream On” by Aerosmith, which he found on YouTube. I'm also fairly certain I've heard him humming “Stairway to Heaven” recently. Pink Floyd is next, I just know it.

I admit I will probably not have to deal the pothead part. (Or is “pothead” not politically correct any more? Maybe I should say  “cannabis connoisseur.”) We talk openly to our kids about smoking, drinking, and drugs and all the problems that could ensue. In addition, my super-sonic sense of smell can detect that stuff from a mile away. Yes, I may have encountered the smell of weed more than once in my life, but I have never tried it, I promise. And I never bought the story that the scent was a Renuzit air freshener.

In the end, I bought my son a folder with a picture of a Camaro on it, for him to use at school. He seemed thrilled with it, and it seems to have appeased his Camaro hunger. 

My fears have been allayed for the time being.

Band-Aids

The last time I bought band-aids, I got some cool kid-friendly ones.  I am pretty cheap, so that doesn't happen very often.  It's usually the hard plastic variety that don't bend or breathe, are not waterproof or clear, and just basically stop the bleeding long enough for the band-aid to fall off.  Besides, we all know that if we buy the fun band-aids, they're gone in, like, 17 hours because everyone has a life-threatening cut that can only be soothed by Curious George.  Even while I've been sitting here with the box of band-aids next to me (I need visual aids), my daughter came over and just took one for no reason.  Her reason?  "I had a pimple on my elbow."  Sounds kind of fishy to me.

Well, for some silly reason, I have been getting many more paper cuts and hangnails than usual, and I neglected to purchase any grown-up band-aids.  So guess what I've been wearing?  Yup, it's a toss up between Disney Princesses or Spiderman.

Yesterday, I went grocery shopping.  I don't usually get too gussied up just to buy toilet paper and mac & cheese, but I try to look like I at least care a little bit.  So, I showered, shaved, put on some deodorant and enough makeup to cover up my chin whiskers (I really can't wait until I can afford laser hair removal).  After bandaging up a small nick that I sustained while shaving, I was ready to go.

I went to many different stores in my quest to obtain vittles for the brood.  (Believe it or not, that word is really spelled "victuals", but who on earth would know what I was trying to say if I didn't spell it phonetically?)  (Also, can you tell by my lavish use of parenthetical sentences, that I have severe ADD?)


I even went to Kohls - my favorite store in the Universe, case you didn't know - with the pretense of returning a few items.  But for me to leave Kohls without an actual purchase is inconceivable.  That's what my Kohls credit card is for, right?  I managed to find 2 dresses and 3 pairs of shoes.  (Don't judge me - I haven't bought new shoes for myself since. . . well, never mind.  Just don't judge me.) Oh yeah, and I guess I picked up a few things for Father's Day, too.

Once the errands were completed, I loaded myself into my van with all my goodies.  I looked down at my leg and noticed a little white sticker, which happened to be only slightly whiter than my Michigan pallor.  It stared up at me in bold black letters, a band-aid shaped like a skateboard (which is really not that unusual, come to think of it) that read,

Skateboarding is not a Crime!