Or the further adventures of WeeBee in the ER...
Yesterday evening, WeeBee learned that there is a reason that Mommy tells him not to run in the vestibule of our church. Bad things happen when you don't listen to Mommy. Like tripping over your own feet and faceplanting into a bench, and bashing up your nose so you're covered in blood and screaming at the top of your lungs just as a couple hundred people are leaving Mass to go to the Living Nativity and Christmas Tree lighting.
The good news is I'm never going to have any trouble getting documentation that I am a practicing Catholic at that parish. Like I said, a couple hundred people now know me as "that mother with the screaming bloody kid."
(Thank you to the kind people who held Baby Lowly and gave her cookies and juice while I tried to calm down my hysterical son. And to the lovely woman whose name I didn't actually catch who offered WeeBee one of her kid's toys, and walked me to the car. And to everyone who got me towels and ice, and the priest who opened up one of the side rooms so I could sit with WeeBee without a small mob gawking at him.)
Numerous people offered to call an ambulance, but I figured that was a bit excessive (thank you for the thought, though!) I belong to the "don't call an ambulance unless your bleeding, broken, or 90% dead" school. And if you're bleeding, half your blood had better be on the floor, and if your broken, there had better be a bone sticking out somewhere. WeeBee was so worked up that an ambulance would have done more harm than good at that point.
Eventually he calmed down enough that we were able to make a run for the car. After some mac & cheese and an episode of Octonauts, all was right with the world. Aside from the blood that he refused to let me wipe off his face, and his swollen nose. Unfortunately my go-to medical experts (my sister and husband) were out of state, and had to make do with text messages and broken cell phone calls for consulting. (Curse your cruddy Jersey Shore service, Sprint!) I really didn't want to take him in to the ER (we really need more urgent care centers in this part of the world) but I also didn't want to be some sort of negligent parent who left their son with a broken nose. Or have him ranting about it every time he wants to make a point when he's 13. I'm sure there will be enough things for him to blame me for, without giving him ammunition.
So I put Lowly in her pjs, told WeeBee we were going to get him medicine, and went for a little ride to the hospital. Thankfully, we got there at the perfect time on a Saturday night - right after all the sports injuries had left, but before the drunken hipster invasion. I expected WeeBee to throw a fit as soon as he realized it was basically a glorified doctor's office, but he was intrigued. And his nurse fell in love with him when he saw the stretcher and said, "But Momma, I have to take my shoes off first! They are so dirty!"
Surprisingly, the child who throws a fit at the doctor's over having his height measured hopped right out of the stroller. He stayed still for 3 out of the 4 x-rays. He let me wipe off some of the blood, and even shared his picture book with Lowly. And within an hour and a half we were out of there, with a badly bruised but apparently unbroken nose.
What can I say, my family has hard heads. Poor survival instincts, but hard heads.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Friday, December 14, 2012
Rest In Peace
You think you have problems, and then something like the massacre in Connecticut happens, and you realize your life really isn't that bad after all.
Those poor babies.
If it's possible to find peace after something like this, I really hope that one day their family and friends find it.
Those poor babies.
If it's possible to find peace after something like this, I really hope that one day their family and friends find it.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
To Believe or Not Believe
Growing up, I did not believe in Santa.
<cue gasps and looks of pity>
It had something to do with my mother not wanting to lie to us, although our apartment in Brooklyn wasn't exactly conducive to chimney travel anyway.
I don't think it scarred me for life, although I suppose I wouldn't know. I've always vaguely wondered what it would be like to really believe that a fat man in a red suit travelled around in a sled pulled by reindeer and would bring you whatever you asked for. Knowing that it was our dad doing the shopping, my sisters and I made an attempt to keep our Christmas lists reasonable. A pony might have made its way on to there once or twice, but we didn't really expect to get one. I guess we thought it was just good to clear up any doubt in my dad's mind, should a random pony become available.
My little brother, on the other hand, believes in Santa - basically because he can't be trusted not to tell his entire class that Santa isn't real.
Which brings me to my current predicament - what to tell WeeBee.
This is the first year that he has really paid attention to Christmas. While I didn't believe in Santa, people assume that any kid under the age of 8 or so does. He's seen Santa decorations and cartoons, but I wasn't sure whether he already thought this was an actual person. I mean, it's not like every time we watch tv I say, "Ok, WeeBee, we're going to watch Octonauts now, but Captain Barnacles isn't a real polar bear." Once you start that, where does it end? At a certain point you have to just hope your kid has some sort of grasp on reality. I kind of doubt he'd never trust me again if I told him Santa was real, but I also don't buy into the idea that telling him Santa isn't real will ruin the wonder and magic of Christmas. I was probably more in awe of my dad getting everything on my Christmas list than I would have been of Santa and his elvish posse getting the job done. I mean, it's Santa's job. The guy has nothing better to do for 363 days a year, and money is no object.
Too bad my dad never had a sleigh with reindeer, though. That would have been cool.
Anyway, I figured I'd just treat Santa like a character in a story, and go from there. So, I tried to explain the story of Saint Nicholas. Apparently I did a pretty bad job, because WeeBee's version was that Saint Nicholas brought toys to poor children whose mommies and daddies didn't have money for toys, but it was ok that WeeBee's Mommy and Daddy didn't have any money because Santa would bring him toys. Totally not where I was going with that.
Which lead us to the following conversation:
Mommy: So on Christmas Eve, Daddy and I will take the presents and put them under the Christmas tree, and they'll be there when you wake up in the morning!
WeeBee: NO! NO, MOMMY, NO! (Jumps up and down and waves arms) SANTA WILL PUT THE PRESENTS THERE! SANTA WILL DO IT! I WANT SANTA TO!
Mommy: Umm...yeah...fine...ok, ok!
That totally caught me off guard. All along he's been fine with the idea of Mommy and Daddy getting him presents. He knows, for instance, that Daddy is going to try to get him a toy helicopter for Christmas, and that Mommy is going to try to make him an Octonauts toy. Somewhere along the line, Santa became a glorified UPS driver or something.
I tried bringing it up again today, and things got even more muddled.
Mommy: So...Mommy and Daddy are getting you presents for Christmas, but you want Santa to put them under the tree?
WeeBee: Nooo, Santa is going to bring me presents! He makes presents! Santa has a workshop, Mommy!
Mommy: What?
WeeBee: Santa has a workshop, and he makes presents!
Mommy: Well...it's kind of just a story...but...well...since when do you know Santa has a workshop?
You try looking into the eyes of an overly excited three year old and tell him there is no Santa. I'm pretty jaded, but even I couldn't do it.
So now, as best as I can understand it, he is trying to cover all his bases, and get presents from Mommy, Daddy, and Santa, all of which are being delivered by Santa.
He also wants me to make a chimney out of cardboard and glue it to our house. I tried to explain that wasn't quite how that worked either, but you can imagine how that went.
And this, my friends, is where I wash my hands of this entire situation. I tried. When he's eight and comes home from school in tears because Junior said there is no Santa, I can tell him I told him that five years ago, but he wouldn't believe me. I am so not getting blamed for this.
At least we agree that Christmas is Baby Jesus' birthday.
<cue gasps and looks of pity>
It had something to do with my mother not wanting to lie to us, although our apartment in Brooklyn wasn't exactly conducive to chimney travel anyway.
I don't think it scarred me for life, although I suppose I wouldn't know. I've always vaguely wondered what it would be like to really believe that a fat man in a red suit travelled around in a sled pulled by reindeer and would bring you whatever you asked for. Knowing that it was our dad doing the shopping, my sisters and I made an attempt to keep our Christmas lists reasonable. A pony might have made its way on to there once or twice, but we didn't really expect to get one. I guess we thought it was just good to clear up any doubt in my dad's mind, should a random pony become available.
My little brother, on the other hand, believes in Santa - basically because he can't be trusted not to tell his entire class that Santa isn't real.
Which brings me to my current predicament - what to tell WeeBee.
This is the first year that he has really paid attention to Christmas. While I didn't believe in Santa, people assume that any kid under the age of 8 or so does. He's seen Santa decorations and cartoons, but I wasn't sure whether he already thought this was an actual person. I mean, it's not like every time we watch tv I say, "Ok, WeeBee, we're going to watch Octonauts now, but Captain Barnacles isn't a real polar bear." Once you start that, where does it end? At a certain point you have to just hope your kid has some sort of grasp on reality. I kind of doubt he'd never trust me again if I told him Santa was real, but I also don't buy into the idea that telling him Santa isn't real will ruin the wonder and magic of Christmas. I was probably more in awe of my dad getting everything on my Christmas list than I would have been of Santa and his elvish posse getting the job done. I mean, it's Santa's job. The guy has nothing better to do for 363 days a year, and money is no object.
Too bad my dad never had a sleigh with reindeer, though. That would have been cool.
Anyway, I figured I'd just treat Santa like a character in a story, and go from there. So, I tried to explain the story of Saint Nicholas. Apparently I did a pretty bad job, because WeeBee's version was that Saint Nicholas brought toys to poor children whose mommies and daddies didn't have money for toys, but it was ok that WeeBee's Mommy and Daddy didn't have any money because Santa would bring him toys. Totally not where I was going with that.
Which lead us to the following conversation:
Mommy: So on Christmas Eve, Daddy and I will take the presents and put them under the Christmas tree, and they'll be there when you wake up in the morning!
WeeBee: NO! NO, MOMMY, NO! (Jumps up and down and waves arms) SANTA WILL PUT THE PRESENTS THERE! SANTA WILL DO IT! I WANT SANTA TO!
Mommy: Umm...yeah...fine...ok, ok!
That totally caught me off guard. All along he's been fine with the idea of Mommy and Daddy getting him presents. He knows, for instance, that Daddy is going to try to get him a toy helicopter for Christmas, and that Mommy is going to try to make him an Octonauts toy. Somewhere along the line, Santa became a glorified UPS driver or something.
I tried bringing it up again today, and things got even more muddled.
Mommy: So...Mommy and Daddy are getting you presents for Christmas, but you want Santa to put them under the tree?
WeeBee: Nooo, Santa is going to bring me presents! He makes presents! Santa has a workshop, Mommy!
Mommy: What?
WeeBee: Santa has a workshop, and he makes presents!
Mommy: Well...it's kind of just a story...but...well...since when do you know Santa has a workshop?
You try looking into the eyes of an overly excited three year old and tell him there is no Santa. I'm pretty jaded, but even I couldn't do it.
So now, as best as I can understand it, he is trying to cover all his bases, and get presents from Mommy, Daddy, and Santa, all of which are being delivered by Santa.
He also wants me to make a chimney out of cardboard and glue it to our house. I tried to explain that wasn't quite how that worked either, but you can imagine how that went.
And this, my friends, is where I wash my hands of this entire situation. I tried. When he's eight and comes home from school in tears because Junior said there is no Santa, I can tell him I told him that five years ago, but he wouldn't believe me. I am so not getting blamed for this.
At least we agree that Christmas is Baby Jesus' birthday.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Hello Again!
I think my New Year's Resolution should be to update this blog more often. :/
Anyway, hello there!
We survived Hurricane Sandy. So did our house. Our side fence is a bit dented from a tree limb, but when your town tells you to get out because they don't expect the sand berm to hold and that now would be an excellent time to exercise your freedom of religion, and the only damage you end up with is a dented fence, it's really not even worth mentioning. Especially when the towns on either side of you are gone.
So what did we learn from this experience?
1. WeeBee has complete trust that I will keep him safe. The day before we evacuated, I was trying to bring as many things upstairs as I could, and pack our bags. WeeBee kept bringing all his toys, blankets, and paraphernalia back downstairs. I finally sat him down and told him that a terrible storm was coming and the water might come and take away all our things, so he had to stop bringing full sized blankets and 17 toy cars downstairs. Harsh? Perhaps, but, "WeeBee, stop bringing your things downstairs" wasn't phasing him. He listened to my description of the apocalpyse, blinked, and then said, "But Mommy, you will protect me! You will keep me safe!" Totally not the point I was trying to make, but probably exactly what I needed to hear at that moment. Also, it's nice to know that at least one person thinks you have your act together.
2. That flood gate that I always thought was kind of ugly and ruined the view when I went on a walk? Yeah, that's basically the reason I still have a house. Thank you, Army Corp of Engineers and whatever people agreed to that 25 years ago.
3. I have to say, the whole mess has given me a new appreciation for this little house. It's not perfect. This whole yearly evacuation thing is getting old. If I wanted to leave every fall, I would have bought a house with an ocean view in North Carolina. I'd love another closet and I'm not really a fan of stacked washer/dryers. A basement would be nice. But it's survived an earthquake and two hurricanes without any damage, and there are plenty of "nicer" homes in the towns around here that can't say that. It's a bit surreal to drive down the road and see a deck on the highway, or a two story house knocked off its foundation and left in the middle of a side street. I mean, you expect to see trees down, and some crushed cars and garages. The whole house-in-street thing I always associated with tornadoes. And when you've spent the night obsessively checking Facebook for updates and see that places that you wandered with your kids are gone, seeing your house is still there makes it look like the most gorgeous thing in the world.
4. Supermarkets after a week with spotty power and limited deliveries look like something out of Soviet Russia. We take our supermarkets seriously in this part of Jersey. Used to six different types of quinoa to choose from and eight kinds of tomatoes? Ha. Try a crate of butternut squash, a couple of cartons of orange juice, and some unidentified green vegetable that you vaguely remember seeing on the Food Network. And this was a week after the storm. I was seriously half expecting people to be selling things on the black market in the parking lot.
5. While there will always be people running around looting and scamming after something like this, there are also lovely people who will come from all over to help out. And even if you don't directly need that help as much as others, it's nice to know that when the Mayan apocalypse comes, maybe it won't turn into an episode of Extreme Preppers, with everyone shooting each other on sight, just because you think they're after the stash of canned yams hidden under the back steps that you announced on national tv. So, if any of you lovely people ever stumble upon this blog by accident, thank you.
I will try to update more often. I actually caught up with laundry the other day. For all of 15 minutes, because then WeeBee started dunking toilet paper in the toilet and splashing water all around the bathroom, which required towels, but for 15 glorious minutes I could say, "HAH! THERE IS NO LAUNDRY TO BE DONE!" So there is always hope that I could actually post more than once every three months. :)
Anyway, hello there!
We survived Hurricane Sandy. So did our house. Our side fence is a bit dented from a tree limb, but when your town tells you to get out because they don't expect the sand berm to hold and that now would be an excellent time to exercise your freedom of religion, and the only damage you end up with is a dented fence, it's really not even worth mentioning. Especially when the towns on either side of you are gone.
So what did we learn from this experience?
1. WeeBee has complete trust that I will keep him safe. The day before we evacuated, I was trying to bring as many things upstairs as I could, and pack our bags. WeeBee kept bringing all his toys, blankets, and paraphernalia back downstairs. I finally sat him down and told him that a terrible storm was coming and the water might come and take away all our things, so he had to stop bringing full sized blankets and 17 toy cars downstairs. Harsh? Perhaps, but, "WeeBee, stop bringing your things downstairs" wasn't phasing him. He listened to my description of the apocalpyse, blinked, and then said, "But Mommy, you will protect me! You will keep me safe!" Totally not the point I was trying to make, but probably exactly what I needed to hear at that moment. Also, it's nice to know that at least one person thinks you have your act together.
2. That flood gate that I always thought was kind of ugly and ruined the view when I went on a walk? Yeah, that's basically the reason I still have a house. Thank you, Army Corp of Engineers and whatever people agreed to that 25 years ago.
3. I have to say, the whole mess has given me a new appreciation for this little house. It's not perfect. This whole yearly evacuation thing is getting old. If I wanted to leave every fall, I would have bought a house with an ocean view in North Carolina. I'd love another closet and I'm not really a fan of stacked washer/dryers. A basement would be nice. But it's survived an earthquake and two hurricanes without any damage, and there are plenty of "nicer" homes in the towns around here that can't say that. It's a bit surreal to drive down the road and see a deck on the highway, or a two story house knocked off its foundation and left in the middle of a side street. I mean, you expect to see trees down, and some crushed cars and garages. The whole house-in-street thing I always associated with tornadoes. And when you've spent the night obsessively checking Facebook for updates and see that places that you wandered with your kids are gone, seeing your house is still there makes it look like the most gorgeous thing in the world.
4. Supermarkets after a week with spotty power and limited deliveries look like something out of Soviet Russia. We take our supermarkets seriously in this part of Jersey. Used to six different types of quinoa to choose from and eight kinds of tomatoes? Ha. Try a crate of butternut squash, a couple of cartons of orange juice, and some unidentified green vegetable that you vaguely remember seeing on the Food Network. And this was a week after the storm. I was seriously half expecting people to be selling things on the black market in the parking lot.
5. While there will always be people running around looting and scamming after something like this, there are also lovely people who will come from all over to help out. And even if you don't directly need that help as much as others, it's nice to know that when the Mayan apocalypse comes, maybe it won't turn into an episode of Extreme Preppers, with everyone shooting each other on sight, just because you think they're after the stash of canned yams hidden under the back steps that you announced on national tv. So, if any of you lovely people ever stumble upon this blog by accident, thank you.
I will try to update more often. I actually caught up with laundry the other day. For all of 15 minutes, because then WeeBee started dunking toilet paper in the toilet and splashing water all around the bathroom, which required towels, but for 15 glorious minutes I could say, "HAH! THERE IS NO LAUNDRY TO BE DONE!" So there is always hope that I could actually post more than once every three months. :)
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