Monday, April 30, 2012

Crate Training

They say that in spring a young man's fancy turns to love.

Maybe that's true for many.

In my house, where there are three young men, their fancies have turned toward mutually whining at one another until the noise causes one of them to commit assault.

After the poking, slapping, punching, kicking of the shins, nipple twisting, ear yanking, and indian burning the yelps, cries and screams only start the cycle of whining and assault anew.  Everyone's feelings are hurt just as much or more than their bodies.  On top of this, no matter what I serve for dinner and how many times they've previously enjoyed it, any combination of two out of three is going to cry or whine about eating it.  Then right before bed they are going to ask for ice cream sandwiches whether we have any or not.  Likely we don't have any because they've been sneaking them while I'm cooking.  Someone is always wanting something.  Then there is some question to who had adequate time using any of our electronics with a screen and who did not. 

I'm tired.

I wish there was some love going on.  I could use some gentility and some quiet. 

Yet, it could be worse.   Progesterone cream reins supreme in this house and it's daily application relieves anxiety nicely and cools my hot flashes.

My laundry is entirely finished and my house is clean for the most part.

No one has caught any raging intestinal flu this winter.

My regular visiting Jehovah's Witness hasn't felt the need to linger too long and the cover art on the most recent issues of The Watchtower has been well rendered.

All of my clothes still fit.

Sigh...this isn't the positivity I was looking for.

It's just time to adjust the parenting again for a new time in life.  Never before have I had a grown son, a new teenaged son and a six year old son.  They grow and their dynamics change.  I have to adjust.  The timbre of their whining is only growing pains that aren't responding to baby aspirin anymore.  Time to break out the ibuprofen.  It's not Oxycontin time yet.

Could be duct tape time.

It's just a thought.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Puffed Up Hens

Huff Post editor and political strategist, Hilary Rosen, has apologized to Ann Romney for saying that she has "never worked a day in her life."

As well she should.  It was superfluous when it comes to the real issues in the upcoming election.

The mommy wars are much like microwaving dueling Peeps.

You place one Peep, a traditional yellow one, on one side of a plate.  You place one of them modern blue Peeps on the other.  Arm each Peep with a toothpick poked into it's breast.  Then nuke.  Whichever Peep puffs up to the point where it stabs the other first wins.

Winning a Peep duel doesn't have any consequence.

It's just a much ado over nothing, a sticky mess and a lot of hot air.

Monday, April 02, 2012

Pain and Discharge

Of all the fluids I've ever had running down my face, I can't say I'm enjoying what's leaking out of my ear as much as I have others.

It took me the space of a long nap on Friday to develop an ear infection.  It's good that the infection is draining.  It's bad in that the drainage smells like sweat socks.  It's bad because I couldn't get in to see Dr. Huggiepants until this morning.

Ear infections hurt.  Doesn't my ear look swollen?

I've been reliving the experience of natural childbirth on the right side of my head for two days.  In fact, I'd rather go through childbirth than an ear infection.  The fluids are more copious but someone else gets to clean them up for you while you snort baby scent into your lungs.  I get the crusty cleanup of stinky ear juice all to myself.

Dr. Huggiepants is a fine physician.  He accepted my self diagnosis as a matter of course, did not try to cop a feelsky when pressing his stethoscope to my chest, and explained how to use the after antibiotic yeast infection pill.  When he looked into my ear he stifled a, "That's gross!" for my benefit.  I really appreciate that.

However, Dr. Huggiepants can not be beat by my neighbor, the amateur pharmacist.  My husband texted her Saturday with a plea for medications stronger than ibuprofen and she came through in fine fashion.  Just in case she offered me several lovely painkillers, all of which I'm highly sensitive to.  She wasn't upset when I refused her Percocets but was more than pleased to give me a couple Tramadol tablets.  She described them as "mild".

I agree, they were mild.  As in, they didn't make me puke up my guts like a regular person's dose in Lortabs or make me insane like half a Vicodin.  When I couldn't deal with delivering a baby through my ear canal any longer I let my husband give me one of the hoarded Tramadols on Sunday.

...and it was bliss.

My pain was gone and I got a wee bit high.  Not the agitated paranoia type high but the kind of high where you go to pat your husband's butt while you're both watching Knight Rider in bed and the feel of it is one of the best tactile experience ever.  Both pillowy and yet strong, like a pair of Toughskin jeans without the bullet proof seams or maybe my husband's butt was made out of unicorn.  Had he removed his boxer shorts his butt fuzz would have sparkled.

Oh Knight Rider!  That David Hasselhoff is so perfect and so pretty.  I made lurid jokes about his belt buckle.  I was 8 years old in a 21 year old body with a cougar's libido and he....HE...saw my soul from three decades away.

Eventually I closed my eyes and floated.

It took about 12 hours for it to cycle through as I woke up around 3 A.M. thinking that this delivery would be a litter of rhinos.

Horse pill antibiotics aren't as fun but I'll take them as Dr. Huggiepants has prescribed.

I'm saving the other Tramadol for the day after my son graduates high school in June.

Partay time.

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