Between a Rock and A Mad Mama

As if the past week wasn't enough to make me drink hard liquor and binge on chocolate, Punk is teething.
Profusely.
Cutting 5 teeth--three molars.
She's not happy.
Which means:

1. No one sleeps
2. Ear plugs are mandatory
3. The boys have begun researching live chicken sacrifices to appease our wee little demi goddess
4. Punks head is an axis and is free spinning and blowing chunks
5. I know, in baby talk, she called me a very dirty word
6. The Man is threatening to move out, because if teething is this bad, he admits he won't survive puberty

I'm not a novice when it comes to teething. We've done gels, tablets, rings, pops, leather straps to bite on. Nothing works. And my baby is a baby banshee--my windows rattle and ears bleed.
I'm sure my neighbors think we're abusing the child, and, if this doesn't stop soon . . . Never mind.
The boys popped teeth with little thought. It was go to sleep, wake up, get chomped on by a new pearly white.
Punk declares them all with the tried and true heart of a Drama Queen, making sure we all know that she is maligned and mistreated by the Universe as a whole.
She weeps copious amounts of tears, sobbing until he hiccups and sniffles, then peering at us from tear dampened eyelashes to remind us that she is the baby girl and shouldn't we be doing something?
I caught The Man throwing money and promising a car yesterday.
I don't know what to do.
She's miserable.
The males in my house are cowering.
And I'm being deprived of even more sleep, which means the men are trapped between Princess Piss Pot and Big Mad Mama.
Sucks to be them.

Out of the mouths of Heathens

Let me begin this with the fact that my brother and his family have moved in with our mom while their house is being built. The kids room as been taken over by my nephew, whom the heathens call Guy, and the kids toys and stuff was either moved into another room or into storage until Mom gets her house back again.


Bug: Daddy, grandma made me move all my toys out of my bedroom.

The Man: It's to make room for cousin Guy.

Bug: And she took down my bed.

The Man: So Guy would have room.

Bug: I don't think grandma likes me anymore. She's moving me out.

The Man: Grandma loves you.

Bug: So she'll put my bed back?

Ode to Tequila

Tequila, although a very fine drink, despite its wormy associations, is--was-- my dog. He is--was (I'm working on it)-- a chi-dachshund mix of questionable pedigree purchased by The Man 14 years ago to woo me into matrimony and into the sack.

I took the dog, married The Man. (The dog was the best part of the deal.)

My grandfather, sweet ornery man, named Tequila sight unseen. The name fit.

Two days before Valentines Day, The Man took me to the shelter to get a kitten, and we were immediately barked at by a scraggly 7 pound tan dog with a tacky numbered sticker plastered to his back that was determined to get our attention.

The pound personnel all lauded how sweet he was, how loving, and when they let him out, he flew at me like I was his only chance at salvation. I probably was. The next day was d-day and a one way trip to the doggy after life.

We now know the shelter people lied. Okay, perhaps lied was too strong a word. They told half truths.

He was loving--if he liked you or you had food.

He was sweet--when you had something he wanted.

He was loyal--to me. But that's okay. Despite some early threats of death, dismemberment, and a new home, we eventually settled into the lifestyle Tequila wanted us to have. In other words, we doted on him paw and foot.

Tequila quickly set himself up as Alpha male-- routinely biting The Man's pronounced proboscis and shatting whenever he and The Man fought. By shat, I mean prodigious amount of scat splattered on any substance or person too slow to move out of the way when Tequila became enraged and indignant.

He never worried about repercussions. The Man and I were new in our relationship, and my tears worked well. His threats were empty and Tequila knew it somewhere in the depths of his doggy heart.

He asserted his Alpha dog status by kicking The Man out of the bed. I would fall asleep with the warm 10 pound bundle curled sweetly to my side and awaken to The Man yelling at said dog to "Get the hell off my side of the bed!" and "Don't you growl at me!"

We survive snake bites and living in the country where Tequila was eyed by more than a few raccoons looking for a love bunny. Fortunately, Tequila asserted his stance that he was no ones prison love buddy.

Tequila acted as birth control by hopping on the bed and passing Dog Chow gas while The Man was trying to get his groove on. Nothing like the smell of dog butt and a wife with uncontrollable giggles gasping for air to dampen your libido.

When Tequila finally slept through marital consummation, and my resulting pregnancy ended in miscarriage, my dog let me hold him to me like my lost baby while I wept.

When I was lost in a fog of grief for the following year, he followed to insure that I would find my way back. Or that we'd be lost together, since his sense of direction was a bit lacking.

Wherever I went, be it Hell or the backyard, Tequila was certain to be trailing behind, making sure I never walked alone.

When I was pregnant with the first heathen, Tequila would sleep around my burgeoning belly. Until said child kicked him hard enough to startle him awake, and with a yelp and some canine grumblings, he started sleeping near my backside. Brave dog, sleeping near a pregnant woman's rear when she was craving Taco Beuno's bean burritos. The dog was nothing if not loyal to survive that.

When Bug came into the world, followed by Boo and later Punk, Tequila looked askance at me for bringing new puppies into his house and then took it with style and panache. He accepted his new diminished role on the totem pole and simply patiently waited until said children were eating solid food. Amend that: until they were throwing solid food. Then he would follow them around, faithful as Lassie, to steal a cookie from their grubby hands.

Tequila answered when the mood struck him (when the heathens had something he wanted) to various of Tequila--including, Keela, Keekee, and Hey you!

When we adopted the new rat dog, Saki, Tequila took to him like a mama duck and led our one eyed, mentally challenged rodent size pet around.

When my father died, Tequila let me sob into his fur. I know he mourned the loss as well, since Daddy was his second favorite person in the world.

As old age crept up, Tequila lost his hearing and eyesight, but could still miraculously spot me from a mile away and hear me calling him in a hailstorm.

As cancer crept up and robbed him of good health, he maintained a cheery nature of a tried and true ankle biter.

Last week, I looked at him and knew. It was time. I would have to send him ahead to wait for me.

As hard as the decision was to make, it was time. Keeping him with me, knowing he was in pain and tired, was a decision made solely out of my selfish need to cling to him, to cling to a reminder of a time when I was young and life was easier.

Looking at Tequila, I am greeted with a friendly reminder of the woman-child I used to be.

I am reminded of the new fledgling love I felt for The Man before time, tide, and babies hardened into a thing of beauty with a core of steel.

I am reminded of who I once was and the dreams I held then.

He had been a true and faithful friend, a funny companion, and a com padre in my campaign to drive The Man crazy.

He was one of the four best gifts I have ever received--running close behind my blessed heathens. Some days, he led them in the race for my affections.

So today, I will take him into the vet, and I will walk out with empty arms, a sad heart, and the knowledge that I was the last face he ever saw, the last arms that ever held him, and that he knew he was loved.



Tequila Booger Bear came into my life as a pound rescue on February 14, 1995 and left it a richer place on February 21, 2009. Blessed be, Booger. I'll miss you.

Rotovirus

After three days of puke, crap, and hell, the ped said those words every parent dreads, "We're going to check your child into the hospital."

Tears, phone calls, and a wheelchair ride later, Boo and i were settling into the room on the pediatrics floor of our hospital.

After taking the other two heathens to G-Ma's, The Man joined me, scared, worried, and determined to b there for everything, including setting the IV.

Boo was so dehydrated it was 18 hours and 500ml of fluid before he urinated. And he slept for 14 hours straight.

After a bout of diarrhea, we finally got an answer as to why our little boy was so ill.

Rotovirus.

http://www.rotavirusinfo.com/rotavirus-symptoms.html

A virus kicked our collective parental asses ad made our baby boy so ill he lay on the floor and didn't want to move at all. It made him afraid to eat or drink, yet so thirsty he tried anyway, resulting in vomiting.

It made him cry without tears, because his poor body had no liquid to spare.

It made The Man and I cry for him.

Luckily, 36 hours of fluid and he's at home and on the mend. We've still got a way to go before he's back to his normal maniacal self, but the light at the end of the tunnel is no longer a train, but a smiling boy with flashlight.

There is a vaccine now. Punk got it before I even thought about the fact that one of my boys might contract it. they, unfortunately, are too old for the vaccine. But, watching Boo, i am so thankful that she has some protection from this virus from hell.

So we're awash in Pedialyte and Gator juice (gatorade) and dirty diapers. That's okay. He's going to be all right, so I'll live with the shits for a while longer.

Crazy is as crazy does

I am considering another 6 hour car trip with my family this weekend.

Yep. The last go round, just like those myths about childbirth, has become a fog of "Now that wasn't so bad, was it?"

(I've never understood how you could forget about childbirth pain. I love my heathens,but no rapturous moment of parental bonding will muddy the memories having my belly torn inside out by a watermelon sized child any time soon!)

But, because I love The Man, and because I an use it later on for guilt purposes, I am considering making that trek again.

Why? His family.

Why? Because it's important to him.

Why? Because I'm stupid and into pain. (I thought we'd already established that!)

So I will strap the kids into their car seats and The Man to the hood and go barrelling down the road in true hillbilly style, sipping on my spiked Vanilla coke and swerving to watch The Man yell for mercy.

So, once again, when you see a mini van with children plastered to the windows and a sobbing man attached to the front bumper, driven by a woman whose obviously three sheets to the wind, just pull off the road and enjoy the show.

If I get snockered enough, you might just see my lily white ass cheeks flapping the breeze.

Enjoy!

Throw money!

It's beginning to feel a lot like

TAX TIME!

I don't know about you, but tax time, even though I try to obey all the laws, strikes fear in my heart and makes me dribble a bit in my panties.

I'm sure the IRS hires very nice people who have families and responsibilities and lives of their own, but all I picture is a bunch of demented accountants who are out to get us all.

Did you ever see that episode of Roseanne where they are trying to to do their taxes and they have to go to the local tax office with questions? The evil demented guy behind the counter? Makes me hide under the blankets and pray to the fiduciary gods to just protect me one more time.

We've filed--e-filed, which is a whole other bevy of stress in my life--and we're waiting for our refund with baited breath. I never feel secure until its in the account and I could withdraw it and run for the Mexican border in case of emergency.

(Oh? I was supposed to take The Man and the heathens with me? Oopsie!)

I don't know why it strikes such fear in me. I'm not doing anything illegal or unethical, but still, I can't get over the fact that, one morning, IRS agents wearing flack jackets and carrying audit shooting guns will descend on me in mass and take everything we have--except The Man and the heathens, even though I'm sure I would be begging them to take them too!

So I'm waiting, and worrying, and trying to be patient.

And I'm failing miserably.

P.S. My refund date changed, so I now have more days to stress and to worry and to fret. Ain't life grand?

P.S.S. Payment was supposed to be on the 17th. no payment. Called the IRS and was told actually the 20th. Okay. Clicked today to see if updated, received error reference code 1301. Had The Man called the IRS while I lay down and had palpitations, then frantically Googled the reference number, which could mean anything from the rabbit died to "OMG! They are coming for you." Turns out our AGI was off. It's been fixed. Still on board for the 20th, but this experience is making my ulcer jump up and wave while doing herkey's. So, yea for The Man and I'm gonna go changed my pee dampened panties now.

Helplessness, thy name is Mama

Boo is still sick.

I'm waiting on the pediatrician to call back to decide if he's severe enough to take in immediately or if we need to wait until this afternoon for a "real" appointment.

I am at work, almost in tears, because I'm not with my child.

The Man is.

I feel so helpless. A stomach bug is what they keep telling me. I'm not a novice mom. I've been around the rodeo before. I can handle a stomach bug with minimal distress.

I have the cape and the emblem for SuperMom.

And this virus is kicking my tail as sure as kryptonite does to Superman.

I'm watching my baby boy get worse, despite our best efforts, and I can't seem to stop it.

I have given him the meds and it doesn't work. I'm pushing fluids and they come right back up. I'm looking at him and he has the earmarks of dehydration--moderate, not severe. Yet.

Boo is laying on the floor most days, not rising unless prodded and cajoled. He's licking his lips and sneaking drinks, then throwing it back up.

He's miserable and hurting and I can't seem to get an answer or a solution.

I am helpless, which is a horrible feeling.