Monthly Archives: May 2009

Musical control

I’ve been listening to Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black” the last few days (the only thing that has gotten me off this “Dr. Horrible” kick I’ve been on for the past week.)

I can’t stop singing the chorus to “Rehab.”

And every time I sing “They tried to make me go to rehab,” Stella says “no no no!”

It’s hilarious. Finally captured on video.

(Photobucket is full of fail, so I’m linking to the FaceBook video.)

http://www.facebook.com/v/1143109905045

In which I speak too soon

So just this morning I blogged on how fortunate we were to avoid going to the ER last Tuesday.

And this afternoon, Ethan pushed George off the back steps and he landed on his elbow. Broke the ulna.

Share photos on twitter with Twitpic

Took all three kids to Lakewood ER, and he’s got a temporary cast until we can follow up with the orthopedic.

I texted George to let him know what was going on; he replies with “Broke crown on tooth.” Great. So now I get to try and schedule a dentist appointment for him in addition to dealing with these three at the ortho tomorrow.

Wish me luck. No, wish me patience — this kind of luck I can do without.

Veres visit veritas

OK, I know that ‘veritas’ means ‘truth.’ But I just can’t let good alliteration get away from me.

Aunt Linda came over for breakfast today! And brought treats! Bagels and fruit and Panera pastries.

I had a cheese danish. Nom.

Stella warmed up to Auntie Linda when she saw that (a.) Mommy wasn’t leaving; and (b.) there was chocolate.

So thank you, Dear Linda, for the tea and company.

Making our beds

In case you haven’t heard, I’m the birdshit-tomato girl.

Last year I read a book on Square Foot Gardening. Great book, good reference information.

I bought containers, mixed my peat and vermiculite and compost, planted my tomatoes and basil. And watered. And fertilized. And waited.

A bird ate a tomato and shit the seed into the ground while flying over our yard. It landed under some ivy and trees and took root.

We got more tomatoes off of the birdshit tomato plant than all of my plants combined. I was irritated and decided I couldn’t garden. So I had no plans to plant this year.

Until George decreed that he would take over. Fine. I’ll weed and water and turn the compost pile and pluck rocks, but I’m not making any decisions that would inhibit the growth of plants.

We decided to do raised beds. So after clearing out a few (OK, eight) trees, hundreds of pounds of English ivy, brush and brambles, we cleared a spot for our garden.

George tilled

Then we raked and shoveled raised beds

And Stella tried to eat rocks

I screened some compost… which looks phenomenal, if I may say so.

So now we widen the beds a bit, put up the fencing and plant. Tomatoes, potatoes, cucumbers, beans, zucchini, and maybe some red peppers. And basil and parsley and a few wildflowers and flowering perennials to encourage bees and butterflies.

I’m looking forward to it. As long as the birds don’t try to show me up again.

Spicy Eyes

Last Tuesday, Ethan came barreling into the house. “Mommy! George is in the poison ivy!”

I sighed. We’ve been cleaning out the back yard for a few weeks now, and there is one (ONE!) single poison ivy plant in the back yard now. George pointed it out to the boys last weekend and said “Stay away from this. It will make you itchy.”

I told him to tell George to come inside and wash his hands. Who knows if he even touched it? I didn’t want to take any chances.

Georgie came into the dining room. “Mommy? My eye hurts.”

And this is what it looked like:

Share photos on twitter with Twitpic
(this was taken at the Pediatrician’s office with my cell phone camera.)

I felt my heart start to beat a little faster, but I didn’t want to freak him out.

“Georgie? Did you get into the poison ivy?” Of course, he denied it. Finally he came clean, and I took him into the bathroom, had him wash his hands and face, then put cool washcloths on his eye. And called the pediatrician. And when they told me to bring him in right away, I called George to tell him what had happened.

Fortunately, Stella was just getting up from her nap and I was able to get her changed and the boys into the bathroom, close up the garage, grab a box of goldfish crackers and a few juice boxes in about 10 minutes. Which is miraculous, since it normally takes an absolute minimum of 1/2 hour to get out of the house. I texted my friend Dawn, and she suggested putting mittens on him to keep him from scratching at his eyes; we had a spare pair in the van, so I had him put them on and hold Boo Boo Bob the Builder on his eye as a cold compress. I kept asking him “How are you doing, George?” on the way, planning to take him straight to the ER if he stopped breathing.

Our normal pediatrician wasn’t available, but one of the peds in the practice saw us, and as soon as she saw George’s eye she asked, “Are you sure that there wasn’t any other sort of injury? Like a stick in the eye?” I asked George and he said, “No, I just touched the poison ivy.”

She sent us downstairs to the ophthalmologist, who told us it was the worst case of acute chemosis she’d seen in twenty years. She started him on eye drops, which he took very well. Dr. Thomas said she was surprised by how well he did; she’s seen 8-year-olds cry and refuse the drops, but George didn’t cry once. He didn’t seem to respond to the medication at first, and both doctors thought we might be sending him to the Rainbow ER.

Finally the swelling started to go down. So they sent us home with a prescription for oral steroids, eye drops, eye ointment, an antibiotic, Benadryl and instructions to take him to the ER if he started swelling at all. I stripped him and put him into the tub as soon as we got home, and threw his clothes and tennis shoes into a Sanitary wash cycle.

When George got home, he looked at George’s eye (the swelling had gone down considerably) and said, “If I’d seen this, I would have told you to go straight to the ER.”

Yeah. Well, fortunately everything worked out, the doctors saw him immediately and we were able to avoid an ER trip. Which would have been terrible, with three little kids.

I made it until just after dinner before I started crying.

Follow up visits the next day were fine; his eye was almost 80% back to normal, and it was obvious the medication worked. On Friday we had several trees taken down in the back yard, and when they ground out the stumps, the poison ivy was eradicated.

Let’s hope we don’t have to deal with this again any time soon.

Epic wardrobe malfunction

Friday night, George & I bottled the replacement Dead Poet IPA that The Brew Kettle re-brewed for us. (We think we got the wrong beer, they say they overcarbonated… whichever, we didn’t get the beer we brewed. Which was suck.)

Regardless, we went on Friday to bottle the new beer, and after washing our bottles we were waiting for them to open up our bottling station. I noticed that my sweater was wet. I figured I’d gotten water on me from the bottle washer, but when I ran my hand over it, it didn’t feel like water… it was oily.

Strange.

I looked around and didn’t see anything that would have gotten on me, so I went to the bathroom to try and clean it off. Thankfully, it was a dark brown sweater and didn’t show too much.

I’m paper-toweling but the oil isn’t coming off.

Then it hits me.

Do you remember about ten years ago, when water bras were the rage? They were supposed to look real, not like padded bras that smash inward like the top of a plastic L’eggs pantyhose package when someone hugs you. I’m not ashamed to admit that I bought myself one of these said water bras way back when.

So, if you don’t already know, let me be the first to tell you.

Water bras aren’t filled with water. They’re filled with some sort of mineral oil.

And how do I know?

‘Cause mine sprung a leak.

I cleaned up as best as I could, thank God for the dark brown color of my sweater, and debated what to do. Stuff paper towels and tissues in my bra to sop up the oil? Not good; pointy and oily breasts are the stuff of hard core anime. I already had a beer in me, so I decided ‘what the hell’ and chucked the bra into the garbage can. Fortunately I was wearing a camisole, but it was probably obvious to anyone who cared to look that the girls were going commando.

I called my BFF Dawn to lament, but she wasn’t available, so I left a long and rambling message on her voicemail. Which I’m sure she laughed heartily at and replayed on speaker phone to anyone within hearing distance.

Which is fine, ’cause it really was funny.

Really.