Here She Grows

This spring brought a new challenge for our family. (We're all about new challenges here, yo.) Our middle child, Fish, started taking injections of human growth hormone after she was diagnosed with growth hormone deficiency. Fish is terrified of needles and I was mortified by the thought of poking a needle into another person, but we got the hang of it. It wasn't long at all before Miss Fish was giving injections to herself.

Finally, we saw the results of our efforts. All of those shots have produced a 1 1/2 inch height gain. We haven't seen that kind of growth in a very long time. Fish is actually back on a growth curve instead of a downward dip. We have a short window between here and puberty to add some additional height, but we're getting there! 

I'm thrilled with the changes we're seeing. Her face has changed; she has more tone and definition. Her muscles are more toned, and she seems to be relying on her rescue inhaler much less. The endocrinologist says we're on track to see 4 to 5 inches of growth this year. So far, it seems her toes have grown right over the ends of her sandals. 

I guess somebody is getting a whole new back-to-school wardrobe. 

      

 

Say What?

So today...

Which is a MONDAY, of course...

We get the fabulous news (from our mortgage company, no less) that our insurance company has DOUBLED our rates. It seems we no longer qualify for their safe list since our beloved crock pot burned the house down.

I find that interesting because now the house has all new wiring and fire foam around the wiring- we're safer than we've ever been.

We did not receive this news from the insurance company. Because, you know...that would have been too much like right. No. We got this news from the mortgage company who rejected our payment when we didn't make the payment out to include the newly inflated escrow amount. Happy Monday. 

A friend recently said that our house fire is like a gift that keeps on giving. She was so right. It just keeps giving.

And giving.

And giving.

And giving.

 

Walk Away

This was an actual conversation in my house:

Myself- "Aw (bleep). I just stepped on your glasses!" Sigh. *Picks glasses up and attempts to bend back into shape. Coke bottle lens threatens to dislodge.* Sigh. "Wait...why were your glasses in the floor?!"

Rough Stuff- "I'm not wearing glasses with spit on them!"

Now, as a parent, you have a choice at a moment such as this. You can ask why and attempt to unravel the situation, or you can just walk away.

Walk. Away! Make the right choice, folks. Make the right choice!

You will never unravel this and it is not beneficial to your mental health. Just. Walk. Away.

I didn't walk away. No. I spent the next several minutes arguing over who owned which Barbie clothes and who spit on whom first.  That is why I have this deep crease in my forehead and dark circles under my eyes.

I never make the right choice in these situations.

So take a lesson from me- Walk away as fast as possible and never, ever ask why.

There I Am Again

I stood at our big, rustic pine armoire tonight unpacking scrapbooks and yearbooks. I packed them up this time last year after cleaning away what soot I could dislodge from them. I had wrapped them in archival tissue paper hoping it would absorb some of the smoke smell. I've been putting off this task for months.

I unwrapped a Winnie the Pooh baby album. It belongs to Fish. The cover is stained with soot and it won't come off. I gave it  a light swipe with a chemical sponge and set it on the shelf. I unwrapped my wedding album. Not in bad shape at all. Then I unwrapped some of our yearbooks and I could smell the smoke; the fire. And suddenly there I am again.

I see myself standing at that cabinet, a different cabinet, but similar, in a room dark with soot and no electricity. The house is not my home; I live in a hotel. The house is full of people, strangers packing and labeling my things. I am crying. Frantically unloading stacks of scrapbooks and photos; handing them to my kids to run next door to the neighbor's garage. I can't trust them to strangers. Strangers are packing my things to take to a big warehouse and I cannot let them take my wedding photos and the kids' baby books. I must save them. I have to hurry because I am coughing from the toxic smoke that lingers and because I feel as if I might crumble if I stay in this wretched place that is no longer my home.

There I am again. Back at the fire. And the tears come. And I feel weak. And angry. Because I want to be done with this; this recovery thing.

But there I am again.

I want to embrace the day that I have no more boxes to unpack. The day when there is no more smoke to smell. The day when the insurance company and the inventories and invoices are a memory. The day when the house is completely back together. I want to embrace the day when the memories don't trigger the raw tears.

In time, that will come. But tonight, there I am again.
 

Let's Do This Thing

Today, I woke up 39.

It didn't exactly slide up on me unnoticed. I mean, in case I didn't realize I was getting older, the year brought plenty of reminders.

To start the year off right, my gall bladder attacked me because I ate a cheeseburger and topped it off with frozen custard. It had to be removed in an emergency surgery so I began 38 missing an organ and unable to enjoy my own birthday cake. That'll remind you what age does to a body.

My little boy turned 18. And then he graduated. So there was that. That hurt. A lot.

Then my little freckle-faced girl turned 16- driving age. Ouch. We had our first driving lesson this week. As we rolled up over the curb and cruised along all lopsided, I was grateful to be approaching 39. The years have brought some patience and the ability to weather a potential catastrophe with at least a little grace.

Last week, my middle child turned 13. She officially became a teenager. May God have mercy on our souls.

Oh...and there is the long streak of gray hair that won't quite join any of my other curls. It greets me every morning when I look in the mirror. It sort of separates from my long curls and stands up on it's own as if to say "hey old woman! How yer doern?"

So, I knew it was coming, and it's okay. I have one more year to enjoy being in my thirties. I can live with that. 

C'mon 39. Let's do this thing.

Just to Start

"We're looking at $800 today, just to do x-rays, start an I.V. and do some blood tests to see where we're at. That's just to start."

That's what the vet said. It was two days after our house fire and I had spent most of the night awake calling emergency vets and praying our big dog would make it through the night. The emergency vets didn't want to see him because they didn't have an oxygen tent to fit him and they were sure he needed oxygen. His nasal passages were swollen and his throat was inflamed. He was seriously dehydrated. I looked at him, staggering in front of me, his eyes pleading for help.

I choked back tears as I asked the vet "is he going to live?" "I hope so" he said. Um...that's not a good answer for $800. I knew that was only the starting fee. I thought about it for a brief moment and said "yeah...whatever...do what you need to... my kids have lost everything. We are NOT losing this dog."

We have no idea how long the dogs had been trapped in the burning house, but when the Big Guy tentatively opened the front door, the smoke had almost reached the floor. He tried to enter the house to reach the dogs but it was impossible. We know from the fire report that it was just over 12 minutes from the initial 9-1-1 call to the point the fire was reported as knocked down.  Sometime close to knocked down, the big dog was rescued. 

He was rescued a little later than our yellow lab. The firemen couldn't carry him out in his kennel the way they did the lab because is kennel is enormous. They were probably reluctant to open the kennel and really...who could blame them? They did open the door and he couldn't walk down the stairs. Two firemen carried out our disoriented 125 lb. Jai. According to the report, he received oxygen and I've heard that a family member put wet blankets on him to help cool him down. 

Both dogs received emergency care the night of the fire- steroid injections, oxygen, and a good mouth cleaning. There I was 2 days later with Jai, desperately in need of more care. The vet was right. What he needed that day was just a start. He required long-term antibiotics for pneumonia and medications for all sorts of tummy troubles. Then there were antibiotics for a skin infection. Then pneumonia. Then skin. And so on. 

His immune system is shot. His lungs are damaged. His fur falls out in patches from time to time. He periodically drains our bank account with surprise vet bills. 

But he is here, with us. And for that, we are thankful. He is lovingly known at the groomer and the vet as the fire rescue. 

We love him to pieces. Even if he did just set us back another $267. I wonder if we could sell that beautiful fur to recoup some cash? He doesn't seem to be hanging onto it. It's just yucking up the rug and plugging the vacuum cleaner. Great Pyrenees knitting yarn anyone? 

Pina Coladas and Q-Tips

WARNING: I'm about to overshare.

WARNING: It will be gross.

Still here?

I knew we could be friends.

This very day, I experienced perhaps the nastiest and most bizarre thing I've ever experienced in 18 years of motherhood. And I've experienced some good ones. Like the time I had to pinch one of Tuna's nostrils and hold my hand over her mouth while I blew in the other nostril and shot a slimy, bloody corn kernel out onto my cheek. I was pregnant. I almost vomited. Or the time I had to dig through poo for a week waiting on The Boy to pass a nickel. I don't know why I bothered because he knew when it passed and he dug it out himself. That was fabulous.

Where was I going with that?

Oh yes. Nasty thing. Bizarre. I remember now.

So tonight, I removed a fecal impaction from a guinea pig.

Yes, indeed I did. It was horrific. There was squealing and squirming and Q-Tips involved. (Hey, there's another use for Q-Tips.) Not from the piggie, mind you; from me. No, the pig was fine. He was laid back like he was stretched out in a lawn chair on the beach, toes in the sand, enjoying a pina colada.

I was traumatized. I feel violated. I've seen things I never needed to see. And smelled them. Touched them.

I think I might get sick.

What did this have to do with motherhood, you ask? Well, I wouldn't DO such things if I weren't a mother. Would. Not. But when a sweet child brings you the too-skinny piggie with a tummy ache, you make it better. Because that's what moms do. We sift poo. We remove corn from noses. We clean bums.

I did not get a copy of the job description when I applied for this gig.

I need a pina colada.