If it ain't broke....oh wait, it is.

Saturday.  I'm at "work" (part-time job helping out friends of ours who own a local bakery, run their booth at the local farmers market.  By myself).

I'm about a half hour away from closing time. It's been a good morning.  Not too hot.  I'm making a mental list of things I'll need to stop and get at the grocery store for dinner.

My cell phone rings.  It's my husband.  He never calls me.  This is gonna be bad.

"Hello"


"He {Little Man} just broke his wrist!!!!!!"

Now, my husband is not a panicker.  By any means.  Sometimes it drives me crazy.

He was now in Official Panic Mode.  Shit.

I had to ditch the booth, call my "boss" and take off like a bat out of hell in a car with the gas light on empty.

In my mind, I was envisioning my own broken wrist from a few years back.  Swelling.  Bruising.  Painful, but manageable.

At the local urgent care, they instructed him to go to another urgent care across town.  This message didn't get relayed to me until I pulled into the parking lot.  Gas light on empty.  Shit.

I can hear my baby screaming in the backseat.  I can hear the utter desperation in my husband's voice.  I am helpless.

We meet up at the walk in clinic the next town over.  Neither kid has shoes on.  They're both still in pajamas (it's almost 1 o'clock... P.M.)  And dear hubby forgot the diaper bag.  Men.  Awesome.

Hubby had wrapped the wrist in ice and a towel.  Good daddy.  We patiently wait for the doctor. 

When she removes the homemade 'wrap' to inspect the 'wrist', I nearly vomit.  And I've seen some pretty disgusting things in my old life as a veterinary nurse.  I can handle just about anything.  Really.

This was not the 'wrist' (although I can see where the confusion came in as his wrist was actually dangling, seemingly detached from his forearm).

Yeah.

After x-rays confirmed the OBVIOUS (Displaced radius/ulna fracture), we headed off to the actual EMERGENCY ROOM where we spent the next 8 hours.

He was x-rayed (again!), poked with needles, given an IV, and rendered unconscious so they could re-set the bones into place.  He's now in a full-arm cast, complete with a prescription of kiddie vicodin.

I felt this warranted me begging for some IV valium while at the hospital.  All I got were blank stares (so far CPS has not shown up at my front door, so I guess we're good)

Which brings me to my next mission in life:  Bars in hospitals.

Teachable Moments

I don't consider myself an overly-emotional person (I refer to it as "prone to psychotic outbursts").  I generally have something to say about every situation.  I don't normally get tongue-tied.

However, when my 6 year old comes home from school and asks why his new friend "Joe" has to wear a face mask all day because he has Leukemia (and his interpretation of this word took some time to decipher), well, folks, that's when I lose it.  I crumble.

It breaks my heart into pieces to not only know there are families who have to watch their young children fight horrible diseases, but to also know that my own children have to be exposed to this kind of shit so young.  

I watched a dear friend of mine in high school pass away due to Leukemia.  Literally.  I was standing right next to him, in his hospital room, when he took his last breath.  I stood by my mother's side for the last 2 weeks of her life.  I was standing right next to her, in her hospital room, when she took her last breath.

Those are images I will never  forget.  Ever.

The last thing I want to think about is anyone having to go through that, let alone my own babies.  And any situation like this just brings back unresolved emotional problems of my own (I could so  give Dr. Phil enough crap for two or four or eight shows).

However, I believe in complete honesty.  Little Man is an extremely sensitive, caring, young boy.  It would never occur to him to treat anyone any differently for any reason.  I didn't want to scare him, but I wanted to be totally truthful.

So.....I told Little Man that mommy needed some alone time (with a bottle of vodka) to collect my thoughts and be able to put them into words that he would understand.  Perhaps I was a tad bit too forthcoming (I'm definitely NO child psychologist)  And if there is a handbook out there on how to deal with these types of situations, somebody please send it to me!!!!!

(Until then....I'll happily accept pills and bottles of wine)

Ugh.  The tears.  Make them go away.

When it Rains, it Pours.

In my case, it's always a shit-storm.  There is no "grey" area.  The sun is shining one minute, the next minute a hurricane is ravaging the land.  And chasing me down.


Storm 1 (literally):  we were hit with a massive hail storm over Memorial Day weekend.  Being a California girl, it actually took me a few minutes to figure out what the hell was falling from the sky.  Fortunately, there was no bodily harm from this event, but our neighborhood was plummeted with baseball size hail, therefore causing some severe damage to siding, windows and roofs.

(Who the hell knew HAIL could actually fall out of the sky when it is 95 degrees outside?!  Does that even make sense??)

Yada, yada, yada............we have over $10,000 worth of damage, and only $7000 from our insurance company.  Last time I checked, our money tree was completely dead.  And shriveled up.  Now, I'm certainly no math genius, but it appears we are about $3000 in the hole.  Problem is, if we DON'T get the repairs done (per insurance company), they wash their hands of having to pay for any further damage to the property.  Whether it's 6 months from now, or 10 years.

Rock.  Meet hard place.

Storm 2 (figuratively): Mother in Law visits.  Now, as I've mentioned in earlier posts, any deviation from my son’s normal routine, causes mass uproar in his 6 year old brain.  Delirious Fucktard Mode.  Grandma does no wrong.  Mommy is the evil villain.  Yelling, tears, tantrums and death threats take over.  It’s super fun.

As much as I love watching my children play and laugh with their grandmother (or aunt, or grandfather, etc.), I'm now forced to *de-sugarfy* and beat my children back into submission.

Storm 3 (also very literal): I'm outta Xanax.  My doctors office sends me this lovely "form" letter a few days ago stating that they will no longer be accepting our particular health insurance (love you Aetna!!!), therefore I am forced to find another doctor who will listen to my drama and deem me worthy of medication.  As opposed to a padded cell.

This could get ugly.  Real ugly.

On a positive note, I am learning to accept my fatness (for now), and am going to look at it as *appreciation for not living in a third world country with no access to food or wine*  (Thank you sweet baby Jesus).

Storm 4 (and this is mostly just whining & complaining and probably justifies me being punched in the face): In my determination to move my “office” (upstairs), into the newly painted and restored den (downstairs), I moved our computer too far away from the internet router (which happens to be at our neighbors house.  Yes, we bootleg).  Which means, my internet connection SUCKS and I’m only able to get on when it’s not feeling bipolar.  And the weather is perfect.  And the stars are aligned.  And the tide is low.  And the moon is in the First Quarter.

You get the idea.

photo credit goes to:  http://www.toonpool.com/cartoons/Cycling%20in%20a%20storm_80011

Just call me Martha Heffer

So, the whole "giving up eating like I'm never gonna see food again" experiment.....has failed.  In fact, it didn't even begin.  Oh, I thought about it.  Strategized in my head how it would go.

But, here's what I've come to realize.......if you can survive motherhood while dieting, exercising and abstaining from alcohol....you are either a big fat liar, or a Saint.  Seriously.  That's like, biblical status kind of will power.

I just don't have it.  In order to stop shoving my face full of food, and detach the wine glass from my hand, I would need to be dead.  Or at least, heavily sedated and strapped down.

Instead, I've been throwing myself into remodeling projects around my house.  More "productive" things that I know I can actually accomplish.  Painting, organizing, cleaning, moving furniture, relocating things........much to the irritation of my husband.  Because even though the ADHD side of me loves doing projects of this nature, I still bitch and moan about it.  Especially when I get bruises like these, while trying to lift solid wood furniture: 

I know.........waaa, waaa, waaa.  Cry you a river.

As much as I'd LOVE to be showing you before and after pictures of me now looking like Heidi Klum.........so not gonna happen (if nothing else, I am a realist).  Instead, I'll show you pictures of my before and after low-budget HGTV projects: Home Edition!

If only because I need a little pat on the back about something productive I'm doing in my life (aside from keeping children alive, which, let's be honest, might just be pure luck)

Phase 1:  

The downstairs den, used to be the playroom.  Imagine dented walls, chipped paint, Lord-only-knows-what that-is-stained carpet.......

 

It is now the office/den/soon-to-be-guest quarters room.....

The hills are alive, with the sound of music........

I know you're all sitting on pins and needles here, but I'm going to save the next installment of "DIY: ADHD-disgusted-with-yourself-ready-to-jump-off-a-cliff  Therapy " for another post.

Hurry up and wait!

I love my kids.  I love going on vacation.

I do not love my kids while ON vacation.  And I do not love taking a vacation WITH my kids.

They go into what I like to call: DFM.  Delerious Fucktard Mode.

Seriously.  It's like they are inhabited by aliens who suddenly want to back-sass me, stay up all hours of the night, embarrass the hell out of me in public (worse than under normal circumstances, anyway), and bitch and complain about everything.

I love the idea of my 6 year old going to school.  I observe countdown the days until this treasured event takes place.

Then, as I walk him through the front doors, watch him walk down the hall on his way to his very first day of FIRST grade, I become a blubbering moron.

I miss him.  I worry about him.  I hope that he's making new friends.  Likes his teacher.  Eats all of his lunch.

I countdown await the moment he returns home again.  Ready to hear all about his day.

Until the first half hour sets in.  We're back to DFM state.  I'm anxiously anticipating the moment I can pop open that bottle of wine.

Will I ever be content *in the moment* ??