So Sunday night I came down with what I thought was the flu. It sucked but whatever. I had a high fever and whatnot and by Monday I was over the fever, just completely exhausted. And I've been coughing NONSTOP and blowing my nose every other fucking minute. I figured, okay so I got over the flu and now I have a cold.
Since my azz aint got no insurance, I've been doing every single home or OTC remedy I could think of. Neti pots, humidifiers, Vicks VapoRub, throat lozenges, day time cough syrup, night time cough syrup, steam...Everything. But this morning I was coughing so hard that I couldn't get a breath, I was choking and gagging and throwing up. Okay, okay, I give up. Fine. I'll go to the doctor.
I have "influenza with broncopneumonia" which apparently is fancy-schmancy talk for walking pneumonia. I tried to argue "Okay, but I'm a Mom. I don't get sick. Can I still go to work? No? Just for a few hours? PLEASE?!" Nope. I'm supposed to park myself on the couch or in bed and drink TONS of fluids.
The worst part is that until I'm fully recovered, I can't touch my baby girl. I "can't risk getting her sick with this" and since she's already sick...Yeah....This sucks. I can't hold her?! WHAT?! Every morning I pick her up from her crib, she lays her head down on my shoulder, and just gives me this amazing full body hug. Her legs wrap around my torso, and her arms go aroudn my neck. It's my little slice of Nirvana every day. And now I have to miss that. I think that's worse than any illness I could possibly have.
According to the pedi, here are some signs I clearly don't love my daughter....
1) You heat up food in the microwave.
2) You give her infant Tylenold when she's in pain.
3) You let her cry it out when you know damn good and well all she needs is a nap.
4) You feed her crackers.
5) You give her a teething ring that hasn't been sterlized in the last 24 hours.
Seriously. So I sent an e-Mail to her pediatrician, because she's drooling more than usual and she's fussy more than usual. She sent an e-Mail back asking what I'm feeding her, is it hot or cold, what have I been giving her, have I tried teething stuff, and do I let her fuss it out a lot?
I told her I've been giving her formula, baby food, crackers, teething tablets don't do shit, and yes, I've tried teething rings, she just throws them petulantly, and yes I let her fuss it out when she's tired and only needs a nap. Holy shit did THAT piss her off.
How dare I heat up her food in the microwave? Don't I know that can cause hot spots? Maybe I've burned her! (No shit Sherlock EVERYTHING you heat up in a microwave has hot spots. Ever heard of stirring or shaking? She's not burned, for heavens sake, it's not like I pop it in there for 30 minutes. Yeesh.)
I'm giving her infant Tylenol? She could overdose! (Yes, if I gave her the whole freaking bottle. Look, teething tablets & infant Anbesol don't do shit for her so damn skippy I give her Tylenol. I give her maybe an eighth of a dropper full. I highly doubt she'll OD on it.)
Well, if I let her fuss it out all the time, she'll just learn that I don't love her. Maybe she's crying out for love. (Bullshit. She's held and played with quite a bit, thank you very much. I let her fuss it out when I know damn good and well all she needs is a nap. I think what she's learning is that Mama & Daddy aren't going to prolong nap/bedtime just because she wants to play. She's loved very much, and trust me, woman, she wants for nothing.)
I give her crackers?! CRACKERS?! Omigod, she could choke! (Funny because she gums them to the point that they're mush and then eats them. We watch her pretty closely, and she hasn't choked yet. She's learning to feed herself, and the firmness helps ease her pain. So screw you, she's still getting crackers.)
I don't sterilize her teething rings daily? She could get an infection! Maybe that's why she's fussy! (Hell no I don't sterilize them all the time. Why? Because we tried them for about a week and she hated them. Since then they've sat. They were clean when we gave them to her. If she had an infection, would'nt she also have a temp? She would? Okay, because she doesn't have on so piss off.)
I know this woman truly does have the best intentions of my child at heart. But honestly, don't lay the Mommy Guilt trip on me. I'm doing the exact same things Mama's for decades have been doing. She hasn't overdosed, been starved for love, choked, been burned, or had a major illness from my Mothering skills. So screw you, Ms. Highandmighty. I swear to God if it weren't for the fact that you're the only pediatrician in my city in my HMO, I'd switch. Get off your high horse. Oh, and you have a 'stache. FYI.
Actually, I've learned quite a few things. Some I'm sure other parents could've easily told me. But do I listen? Noooo, I'm all-knowing. I'm gonna learn the hard way! But, here's some lessons she's taught me:
1) It doesn't matter what the gift is, she'd rather eat the wrapping paper. She will also have more fun with the wrapping paper than anything else.
2) It doesn't matter what kind of expensive baby food I buy her, she'd much rather gnaw on the dogs tail. Thank God we have a very understanding dog that doesn't mind if she's got a death grip on her ears while gnawing on her tail.
3) When introducing solid foods, don't introduce fruits first. Why? Because unless you want a Top Notch Snit on your hands, just don't. The first time I tried to get her to eat peas instead of the apple sauce she's used to, not only did she spit it out (on me, no less) she got mad. And, like her Mama, once she's mad it takes an Act of God to get her calmed down.
4) Speaking of solid foods, thank you Keebler and thank the inventor of graham crackers. In the store, and forgot to pack a bottle? Whip out a Keebler Club cracker or a graham cracker and you're good for at least 15 minutes. Also provides some prime photo ops.
5) Sweet Mary, Mother of Jesus, don't interupt Pook's routine. Don't have the time to give her a bath right at 2000 hours? Better make time. Daddy not there to play bath squirties with her? Better get here. Don't have the lotion for her nightly massage? Damn well better find some. Why? Because screwing up her routine makes her one angry baby who refuses to sleep.
6) Speaking of sleep, that kid has an internal alarm clock like you would not believe. It doesn't matter if she goes to bed at 2300 or 2000, she is UP at 0730, like clockwork. And ready to be fed, changed, and played with. There is no snooze button on her, either. No giving her a binky so you can get an extra couple Z's, no bringing her into bed with you so she'll calm down so you can sleep. When she's up, she is UP. And you better be ready to cater to her every whim, unless you want WW3 on your hands.
7) When she's hungry, she's hungry now. She will not wait the 1 minute it takes to get her food prepared. Nope, she wants it all, and she wants it now. (Bonus points if you not only know what band sang that lyric, but what song it's from.) Oh, and she doesn't give you any warning. She doesn't just start to get fussy, she just is fussy. One minute you're playing happily with wrapping paper, the next she's screaming like a banshee and demanding food.
8) Everyone said I deserved a daughter just like me. Well guess what I got. A hard-headed, stubborn, won't sleep kid. Just like me. I should've known God has a sense of humor. When she's tired, you can't just lay her down and leave it at that. Not unless you want to hear ear-piercing screams for twenty minutes. Nope, you have to more or less wear her out until she's ready to drop then lay her down. Still screams, but it's only for a minute or so.
Those are just a few of the many life lessons I have learned. Like I said, God has a sense of humor. Which is why I ended up with a baby girl just. Like. Her. Mother. Someone's having a good laugh at my expense. (DAD!)
My shoulder is being cattle prodded. My neck, my shoulder, my back, and even my left rib cage all have red hot pokers being shot through them during every move. Even breathing hurts. This happened about a month ago, too. I popped left over hydros from my C-Section to deal with the pain. I suppose I could actually go to the doctor. That would be the smart, grown up thing to do. But since I no longer have health insurance and I still have pain meds, I'm determined to kick the pains ass.
But I still have to get dressed. I have to stuff these mountain boobs into my mole hill bra. I have to carry the diaper bag. Pook still wants Mama to pick her up. Damn it. Bryan offers to take her, but no, honey, I have her. Yes, it's very painful but I'll manage. Don't notice my wincing, I'm okay. Pook needs her Mama.
Being a Mama Martyr is becoming a bit too familiar to me.
"Yes, Bryan, I am sleep deprived. But I have things to do! No, don't make me nap, I am fine!"
"Yes, Bryan, I know I haven't showered today but I have got so much done! I will shower later, who else is going to scrub the floors like I want?"
I mean really now, what the hell am I trying to accomplish? Oooh, look at me! I can sacrifice everything for the benefit of my family and my home! I may be in pain, sleep deprived, and smell like a hobo but my family is happy.
I think I've been so programmed as a woman to put everything above myself, even if it costs me my happiness or health. (Because let's face it...It would've helped immensely if I had let Bryan take Pooker Butt so my shoulder could take a break.)
How many of us and even competed with other mothers on the level of our martyr-ness?
"Well, that may be bad, but there was one time when I was bleeding from every orifice but I stayed up with little Timmy for three days straight because he had a cold."
Really, from now on, if Bryan wants to help me and take the baby...Go for it. I'm too sore, I'm too tired, and frankly, if I go one more minute without some body wash the skunks in the alley behind me are going to waddle up to me and say
"Looky here, lady. You're making us smell good."
1) When he asks "Is she ready to go?" and he's not referring to you
2) When you say "I think we'll have carotts" and you're not referring to your side dish for dinner.
3) When you hit the clothing section of the store first- for your baby, not you.
4) When being covered in snot, drool, spit up, and vomit no longer bothers you.
5) When going to the store no longer involves you grabbing your purse & keys, but a bottle, a binky, her favorite toy, diapers, wipes, a blanket, and a change of clothes. All for a 10 minute trip.
6) When you see a crying baby in a restaurant and you no longer think "Please make that kid be quiet" but instead nod sympathetically. You've been there.
7) When you've developed a whole new language just to talk to your baby.
8) When your baby has more clothes & toys than you did. And you're not jealous. At least, not much.
9) When your living room, kitchen, and/or car looks like Babies R Us exploded in it.
10) When you think nothing of the binky being in the dog bowl.
11) When you and your spouse can make a bottle and change a diaper with military efficiency and precision.
12) When you no longer measure "me time" in hours but in minutes and seconds.
13) When you think nothing of using your hands and fingers as toys or binkies.
14) When you've had your hair, earrings, and necklaces pulled so much you A) no longer notice it and B) no longer wear any jewelry.
15) When you can sing word for word any and all of your childs favorite show theme songs.
So John, Bryans friend is in town. Bryan and I are cleaning the house, there's crap everywhere. Out of the blue he says "John will be here in a few." Rewind...huh? He says when he called he was already en route, and he hasn't seen him since March, and he just couldn't tell him that now wasn't a great time. I'm covered in furniture polish, Windex, dust, and dog hair. I haven't showered or brushed my teeth. I am still in my ratty PJs. So I run and put on some old jeans and a shirt. At least now I'm dressed. John does indeed stop by. While Bry holds the baby, I continue to clean. I clean furiously, like I've never cleaned before because I am, in truth, P.I.S.S.E.D.
I was raised (and my father who follows my blog can confirm this) that before you go a-visitin' you call before you come over! You do not call when you're turning onto their street. Because who knows? Maybe, like me, they're cleaning. Or maybe they're having nasty, dirty, sweaty monkey sex. Maybe they're having an argument. Maybe it involves you. At any rate, YOU CALL. John, apparently, never got this memo.
Bryan says, "Well I'm gonna go with John to CDA for a few hours." And upon seeing the death beams coming out of my eyes asks,
"What? That cool?"
I turn sickly sweet. So sweet that he knows he's moving into dangerous territory and that at any minute I can (and will) throw the Mother of all Snits. He's seen them before, and he knows how nasty these can be. Yessiree, I can give your two year old a run for your money in the tantrum department. Childish? Maybe. Does it work? Yes.
"No, honey, that's fine. I'll just clean and keep her entertained. You boys go and have fun. I will be just fine. Run along now!" Timidly, he kisses my cheek and shuts the door. Oh, he'll get his.
Now the argument could be made "But Heidi you go out every Thursday with your girls!" True, young Padawan. But that's planned. And when I go, everything is done and Pook in in bed. Slightly different. I want a fucking break, dammit.
I hate to say this...I need a break from being a Mom. I love my daughter, I do. But my whole life is centered around being a Mom, and I feel I've lost my identity as a person. For example, we were out grocery shopping and they had San Pellegrino on sale 2 for $6. I almost bought it but I broke down in heaving sobs because that $6 could go for baby things. Not that Pook wants for anything, but still. HUGE guilt trip. To the point where buying anything or doing anything for myself feels like I have committed one of the 7 deadly sins. It would be nice to go somewhere where I'm not worried if we have enough diapers for the outing, is she comfortable, does she have enough toys, et cetera. And just to have some uninterupted me time. Hanging out with friends, just having a good time. Not worrying about "What if she wakes up and I'm not there? She's used to seeing my face first thing when she wakes up."
And just for writing that last bit, true as it may be, I feel like I. Am. Going. To. Hell.
Well, LMA, as she affectionately referred to sometimes, (stands for Little Miss America), went to the pedi yesterday. She’s on track with development in some areas, advanced in others. Pretty typical kid, really. She had to get shots, and, well hello there Mommy Guilt! Haven’t seen you in awhile! Oh hey, thanks for reminding me that she needs those shots and that I’m willingly taking her to pain. You can leave now. Bitch. Anyhoo, I didn’t cry. Big accomplishment for me. Pook cried a little bit, but I was choked up for hours. No tears, though! Aren’t y’all proud?
So the doctor wants me to feed her more solid foods and get her on a sippy cup. So, off to Wal Mart we trekked. (I swear to everything I live there. Why don’t they just take all my paycheck, since it all goes there anyway?!)
And geez, this kid is killing me.
Fourteen different kinds of jarred baby food at roughly a buck a jar. Here’s another thing: that stuff tastes like crap. You’d think for the money I’m shelling out they could at least make it taste better, right?
One Gerber sippy cup costs seven dollars. I didn’t even spend that much on my glasses at home! (To be fair, they did come from Liquidation World…)
Two pairs of shoes at eleven dollars each. (Which don’t fit, dammit. I didn’t have LMA try them on there since she was sleeping and I didn’t want to wake her. Sweet Merciful God, I didn’t want to wake her.) So those have to be exchanged.
One big can of Parent Choice formulawas twenty five dollars. (The WIC formula won’t last until we get our next voucher. I can’t complain, though. Really.)
So that was a quick $70.00.
And even though I had the whole afternoon off, yet again, it was spent running errands and trying to get stuff done. My bloggy friend— Mommy Guilt! I thought I told you to leave! Go! Shoo! Anyway, I was IMing Jackie today about Mommy Guilt. It seems like on my days off I don’t get to really spend time with LMA because I’m too busy doing other things. So I feel bad there. And when I do have her at daycare and I’m home (like when I couldn’t move my shoulder to save my life) I feel bad because shouldn’t I want her there?
All I can say is oh well. I guess there’s no right answer here. I mean if we didn’t get some help with daycare, I’d be staying at home that’s for damn sure. Oh, and the small fact that for what I’m paying for my pregnancy I could’ve bought a small country. Tell me why I pay $300 a month for insurance again, please?
A quick shout out to Jackie! Everyone needs to check out her site! There is a link on my ‘That’s How I Roll” page. She’s hilarious and ever so slightly sarcastic like me. (Shocker, I know.) She’s got a stomach bug, as did/does her daughter; and Dad, if nothing else, I’m sure the two of you could relate to kids projectile vomiting. Let’s face it: in my home growing up, it never failed: if H1 came home sick, 3 days later you could count on me getting it. Or vice versa.
Love y’all. Stay sane. (HA!)
My morning and my work day sucked yesterday. By the time I arrived at daycare I was tired and cranky.
So was Pooker Butt.
She's in a phase, (a least I hope it's just a phase), where she will only catnap for about 20-30 minutes. And even then it's accompanied by fussing, crying, whining, wimpering, yawns, eye rubs, and screams if you lay her down to nap. She reminds me of an overtired toddler wheedling, "But I'm not tired, Mommy!" when you know full well a nap is needed.
Anyway, when we got home, after 20 minutes, it was fuss fuss fuss. She was doing the whole eye rubbing thing. I was tired too so we went upstairs to take a nap. Pook in her crib and I in my cozy, fleece-sheeted bed. She was having none of it. She wanted to lay with Mommy. Okay, that's fine. I snuggled her in next to me and I figured I would get to sleep before the tacos were done.
What a joke that turned out to be.
Pook wanted to play with Mommy. Wanted me to get all ten million of her toys and rotate them so she was entertained. If I stopped or didn't read her mind and know that she wanted the purple bunny not the white one, a high pitched shriek would ensue. Me, being a total pushover, would give it to her and play with her even though I was ready to drop dead.
I really am trying to let her fuss it out, I swear. But again, Mommy Guilt rears its ugly head. I feel guilty for not attending to her every whim, and there's a voice inside my head that says "These are the crucial years when you need to bond with your daughter. And you're missing them all for a few selfish minutes of sleep."
Finally Bry came up and took her from me so I could burrough into the covers for 20 minutes before the intoxicatingly delicious smell of tacos wafted up to me and woke me from my dream of Clive Owen and I on a desserted island, proclaiming our undying love for each other.
After dinner I tried to feed the kidlette but no, she didn't want that either. She was only happy if Mommy played Airplane with her. (C'mon, you know what that game is. You raise the baby up high with your arms like they're flying, while making plane noises. Every parent knows that game.) Problem is, I have no arm strength and she was getting heavy. But no! I did this for 20 minutes while my arms are on fire, I'm sweating bullets, (man do I need to get into shape.) and I'm losing it. I called Bryan in from the other room. (Actually, I bellowed out "BRYAN! GET THIS DICTATOR!")
"Why don't you set her down and let her fuss it out?"
[Brief explination of all-consuming Mommy Guilt complex.]
"She's got you wrapped around her little finger."
"Does not."
"Does too."
"Does not, does not, does not!"
"Whatever. You're her slave. She fusses, you're right there. Her sock isn't on just right, you fix it. Face it, this is Soviet Russia, and she's Putin."
Huh. Oh yeah? Well, my dictators cuter than your dictator! HA! Neener, neener, neener! (I've actually never seen a picture of Putin. But it's a safe bet Pook is cuter than he is.)
Here's to another couple of years of being a willing slave in the dictatorship that is my house.
Before I had kids, or got pregnant I had this utopian vision on who/what I would be as a Mother.
I would be perpetually calm, and never lose my temper or snap at my kids.
I would give them home-cooked, nutritious meals and snacks.
My house would be spotless. Not a toy or sock out of place.
My kids would be well-groomed and spotless. Outfits would always be adorable- and clean.
My kids would be the model of good behavior.
I would always be well-groomed and spotless. Outfits would always be stylish-and clean.
I would exude radiance, love, and well-being.
I would plan everything out in advance and never be late.
There would always be educational, fun-filled activities for us to do/play.
Ever opportunity for a lesson would be taken.
My baby weight would magically melt away within 3 weeks of giving birth.
I would never crave ‘me’ time, as I would cherish every waking moment with my angels.
Notice I didn't say realistic expectations? Once reality hit and I had two kids who were not mine and resented me for the first, oh, 6 months of my existence, and I got pregnant and had one of my own I realized that I would probably never be the Mom I wanted to be. Not only is it simply too much work, shit happens. And by shit, I mean life. Here’s what I mean:
I have never been a patient person, and being a parent hasn’t really helped. My temper seems to be actually shorter now. After struggling to get a newborn latched on for 45 minutes, and not being to successful, and having B or T ask me a million questions as the dog is farting at my feet, I lose it. I admit it- I snap at the kids. Even Pook isn’t exempt, when she’s fussing because I took her out of the Excersaucer to put her in her car seat. I feel horrible, I really do.
Home-cooked?! Who was I kidding?! I’ve never had an interest in cooking, or an interest in learning. I can make a few things, but Rachel Ray I am not. I clearly remember one Saturday that Bryan was at a training class, leaving me with the kiddos. We went running errands and they got cranky. I was so wrapped up in getting everything on my list done, I tuned them out. Finally, when the bickering reached fever pitch, I pulled into a parking lot and said, “What is the problem here?!” And then B told me he was hungry, and I looked at my dash clock. Crap, 3 o’clock. I have to feed these guys. I saw my shining, saving grace in neon: McDonalds. The benevolent gentle glow of the golden arches called to me, and in the drive-thru lane we went. Two happy meal chicken nuggets orders later, we were good to go.
My house never has been, nor will it ever be spotless as long as there is off-spring in it. Before I met Bry, I had a little studio that I kept clean, for the most part. Now….Not so much. My living room looks like Babies-R-Us exploded in it. Swing, Excersaucer, play mat, rattles, play gym, various binkies everywhere. Laundry is everywhere. In the laundry room, the halls, the den, living room…Where isn’t it? The drawers and closets bought to store said laundry.
My kids are always dressed appropriately. Are their outfits adorable? Eh…Pook I get to dress so yes, she is always matched perfectly in the pink or purple outfit of my choice. But since the kiddos wear roughly the same pant size, there has been times when B will come downstairs dressed in his sisters back-pocket glitter embellished jeans. And T is a tom-boy, Getting her to wear a cute skirt or dress is like telling a Muslim to eat bacon. Ain’t gonna happen. Now, onto the clean thing. They start out clean. They don’t normally end up clean. Pook either spits up or drools so much that half of her little onesie is soaked. As for the kids…Two weekends ago we were at B’s football game. T found a worm, named “Wormy.” She killed the poor thing by trying to shove it back into it’s hole, and when she stood up her pants were caked in grass and mud, and her ponytailed hair gave Einstein a run for his money. See what I mean?
Bryans kids aren’t ill-behaved. But are they the very model of etiquette and good behavior? No. Why? Because they’re kids, and that’s what kids do. They say what is on their minds, whether it is the right time or not. They argue and fight and bicker. They occasionally back talk. Sometimes in public. Sometimes to the point where a stranger would think, “Those kids are going to kill each other in a second.” But, at the end of the day, they are always the best of friends. But again, little angels isn’t the term I would personally use to describe them. (Neither is little devils.)
Now, before I had Pook, for the most part, I was pretty well-groomed and put together. Outfits were accessorized with the perfect jewelry, hand bag and shoes. Now my hair gets a 5 minute blow dry, if at all, and I leave the house with still damp hair. Jewelry is now one of two watches since Pook have broken more than one necklace chain in an attempt to eat it, and my poor ears got too sore after her making a swipe for my earrings. As for my outfits being put together…Screw it, if it’s clean and kinda matches, I’m wearing it. I used to also wear a lot of skirts to show off my fabulous (shaved) legs. Pants now dominate since I don’t have the time to shave my legs. Most of the shoulders on my tops have drool on them, courtesy of a teething infant.
I exude alright. Impatience and frustration. If you were to spot me in your local Wal-Mart, (my second home now) you’d see a harried, frustrated, impatient mom who just really wants this line to move and a #$%&!! Glass of wine!
I am perpetually 5-10 minutes late for everything, no matter what I do to avoid it. I wake up earlier, inevitably Pook will lose a sock, need to be changed, or we’ll forget to put the dogs up in their kennels so they don’t chew up my house. No matter how I plan my morning/afternoon/evening something happens to throw a wrench in it. I’ll realize halfway to my destination that while I do have the diaper bag, I forgot to pack diapers. Or I’ll come home with this grand vision that tonight’s the night I organize my closet. Then Bryan says we have errands to run, or What Not To Wear comes on. How can I miss that??
I’m not one to advocate using the television as a babysitter…but….If I’ve got a million things to do and Hannah Montana, Wizards of Waverly Place, or Pokémon is on…Thank you, Lord. I know I have at least a half hour of uninterrupted time to accomplish what I need to accomplish. (Like finishing my true crime book.) Or we’ll shoo the kids outside where we can watch them from the kitchen window so we can clean the kitchen while the baby plays happily in her swing.
If the kids want to have PB & J’s for lunch and all I have is tuna fish, guess what they’re getting. Now, I could turn that into a lesson on how to be thankful that they have food, since there’s starving kids in Africa. And explain why some starve when others throw out food, and the injustice in the world. Or I could tell them that tuna fish is what we’re having, end of discussion. Guess which tactic I chose?
My baby weight is not going to go away. Despite trying to eat healthier and trying to squeeze in the time for a few crunches. I have a pooch, and it’s taken up permanent residence on my tummy. Nor did it melt away in the 3 weeks I thought it would, like I saw with all the celebrities. Never did it occur to me that they have chefs, nutritionists, and personal trainers on hand. Besides, when you’re running errands and hit the drive through, it’s easier to eat a burger while driving than it is a salad.
Whatever gave me the impression that kids would be all the entertainment, conversation, and happiness in my life lied. Big time. For one, trying to hold a discussion on the presidential nominees with an 8 year old isn’t going to happen. Secondly, Pook can’t talk yet. And while I dearly love Bryan, he simply can’t fully understand the pain behind nursing, or why Aunt Flow is never a welcome visitor and despite being told she’s persona non grata, she shows up anyway. The nerve.
So, there you have it folks. Proof positive that not only will having a child will change your life, it can and will make you go crazy. Sigh.
Realistically, there's nothing really wrong with me. I mean, my shoulder has been killing me lately, but no biggee. Aside from the fact that I've been using hyrdocodone left over from my C-Secion to manage the pain. It's not the best way and I know I should see a doctor but my insurance sucks. It's a $50 co-pay that frankly, I cannot afford right now. After talking to Bryans Mom, who's been a nurse for 25+ years, she said they'd probably give me Flexeral, a muscle relaxer. She says it'll probably knock me out. And anyhoo, I hate popping pills. But that isn't why I want to check in to the worst, most expensive hotel in the world.
When I was in the hospital when I was pregnant and when I was in labor, I got waited on hand and foot. I got to eat whenever I wanted, and it was fixed how I wanted. And once I got sick of that, I told Bryan to pick me up some Chinese, Mexican, or a burger. And since he sympathized with me on how crappy the food is, he willingly obliged. And I could sleep whenever I wanted, and I could catch up on my reading, daytime television, or surf the 'Net all damn day. Here's another thing: when I was in the hospital with the freaking huge blood clot in my lungs, they gave me Dilaudin for the pain...Good stuff, that. Once they gave me the juice, I was O-U-T. For 6 hours at a shot. And I could put the hospital bed in whatever position I wanted to make myself comfy. After all, I was 34 weeks pregnant and getting comfy was no easy task. But the nurses, (who are under appreciated in my opinion), were so sweet and so nice!
"Oh, you need more pillows, sweety? Sure, no problem. You're such a trooper."
"Would you like another heated blanket?"
"You know, I have some chamomile tea, would you like some?"
I loved all the attention and the fact that I actually caught up on my sleep, and that I was, well...A lazy bum, as my Mama would say. And since Pooker is teething and going through a "Nobdoy but Mommy can hold me or I'll scream" phase, work is being threatened with corporate cutbacks, and I've got a million things to do around the house....The hospital is looking pretty damn enticing.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I'm gonna fake an illness or exagerate my shoulder just to get some much needed sleep. But really, how nice would it be to be waited on hand and foot, to do pretty much whatever you wanted, sleep whenever you wanted....Come on, you know you've been there.
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