Twenty-Nine Months

Punky can be a handful these days.  She really learned how to push the limits and challenge us every chance she gets.  And the worst part is that she seems to push me more than her dad.  Me.  The one she clings to, the one she wants to do everything with, the one she begs to sleep with, the one with the two-year-old stuck to her butt cheek at all times.  Me.  I just don't get it.

I can tell her a thousand times to stop doing something she's not supposed to be doing...and she ignores me no matter my tone of voice.  Her dad shouts, "Knock it off!" from another room and she stops immediately.  Go figure.  By no means do I want her to be afraid of me, but I want her to listen when I talk.  It's almost like she tunes me out just to see what I'll do about it...how I'll handle it...what it will take to make Mommy lose it.  It's making me crazy. 

Her mouth is in constant motion and she comes off with some real doozies.  She counts everything these days...how many bites of cereal she eats, how many toys she can carry at one time, how many cars we see on the way home from school, how many times she can jump off the stool before we tell her to stop.  And at some point this month she learned to count backwards which usually ends with a "Blastoff!" and accompanying jump.

She is still so interested in music, instruments, and singing.  She sings her head off while playing random notes on her little keyboard.  A harmonica, tambourine, or drum is always within reach.  At least once a day we have a music parade where we walk laps around the house while singing and playing instruments.  The neighbors must think we're nuts.  Punky is too short to see if someone glances in the window, so her dad and I must look like idiots marching in circles with Mickey Mouse maracas and light-up drumsticks. One thing I noticed this month is that she is really starting to sing in key.  Her favorite song this month?  The Beer Barrel Polka.  Yes, seriously. 

Also new this month...nightmares.  At least I think she's having nightmares.  She screams in her sleep often and it scares the hell out of me.  I go running only to find her sound asleep.  And suddenly everything under the sun scares her, or so she says.  The TV, my pink robe, her pillow, the fan, a rock, and even her toothbrush made the list of things that are now scary.  Although it's mostly silly stuff, in the moment she seems genuinely afraid.  Thankfully it passes in an instant...or we'd have an empty house.  

She's really into shapes lately and what things are made out of, like wood, plastic, glass, etc.  She'll look around the room and point out everything she sees that's a certain shape.  "See that clock, Mommy?  It's round.  It's a circle.  It's made out of plastic and glass.  See that door, Mommy?  It's a rectangle.  It has four sides.  It's made out of wood."  She has a fondness for wood.  In the midst of a bedtime story, she'll interrupt me and say, "Let's talk about wood!"  And then we discuss everything in her room that's made out of wood, where wood comes from, how you can get splinters from wood... I have a very odd child.  

She is so excited about our upcoming vacation.  When we booked the trip months ago, I was worried she'd be too young to really understand it or enjoy it but I have no doubts now.  She'll have a blast.  Every night she asks if we're going on vacation tomorrow, and I tell her how many days are left till we go.  It's getting close; we're in the final countdown.  Look out, Mickey Mouse, here we come!  Okay, Mommy's a bit excited, too!

And I can't end this month's update without sharing some fantastic news.  Punky had a doctor appointment on Thursday...a follow-up visit to check her ears...and for the first time since January we left without a prescription for antibiotics.  No ear infection.  All clear.  Phew.  Maybe that nightmare is finally over.

Blue Skidoo

I've always been a dreamer.  Not in the wish and hope sense, I mean a real dreamer.  I lost a bit once adulthood set in and life's realities squashed the innocence of my imagination, but as a child my dreams were like big screen productions and I actually looked forward to bedtime. 

Every night vivid stories would play like movies in my head.  I had my fair share of nightmares, but most of the time they were happy dreams full of vibrant colors, amazing feats, and lots of laughter.  Surfing in tidal waves in my parents front yard, riding a toy train on the railroad tracks behind the house, climbing the tallest tree in the world and looking at all the ant-size people below... My dreams were adventurous.  My dreams were fun.  My dreams were an escape from being the shy kid with her nose in a book.  

And they seemed so real. 

I remember being excited to fall asleep some nights.  If I had a particularly amusing dream the night before, many times it would continue the next night...right where it left off...and I couldn't wait to see the rest of the story.  Several of my favorite dreams repeated often and the images are burned in my brain to this day.  

In one dream, I was able to fly.  It always started the same way: I was playing with my dolls in the front yard.  I would run really fast and jump straight up in the sky.  I would float above the treetops and use swimming strokes to propel myself through the air.  From roof to roof, tree to tree, all across town.  I would simply jump back down whenever I wanted to land.  It seemed so natural, so easy, and so normal.

This was my favorite dream of all.  It repeated so often it apparently blurred the line between reality and dreamland in my mind.  One afternoon while playing in the front yard, without giving it an ounce of conscious thought, I ran as fast as I could and jumped with all my might.  When my feet quickly landed right back on the grass, I was stunned.  Completely dumbfounded.  It took a minute for the confusion to pass and the realization to set in: I couldn't really fly.  It was only a dream.  And I was pissed.

I've thought of that incident many times over the years.  For whatever reason, it left a lasting impression and I've always wondered about the look on my face at the time.  I could only imagine how painfully lost I appeared.  But on Sunday, I saw that face and recognized it in an instant.  

Punky and I were sitting on the floor in her room.  It's her favorite spot when she wants to read...right in front of the book shelves overflowing with every kids' story imaginable.  Not like she cares about the vast array of titles to choose from...she has her handful of favorites and it's like pulling teeth to get her to read a new one.  Once in a while she breaks routine, and I'm thrilled to read something new for a change.  I know so many of her books by heart, no need to even look at the pages.  

Anyway, after a few of the usuals, she told me she wanted to read the playground story and I had no clue which book she meant.  She started pulling them off the shelves one by one and flipping through the pages until she found the book with the picture she had in mind.  "Great!" I said...a new one..."Bring it here and we'll read that book!"

She stood up but left the book on the floor, still open to a colorful picture of kids playing at the playground.  She mumbled something... and then jumped on it.   

At first, I didn't quite catch what she said.  But when I saw the look on her face, the look...my look, I instantly realized what happened.  She tried to skidoo...like Blue...and was so confused when she ended up simply standing on a book on her bedroom floor.  She expected to jump into the story and play with the kids at the playground.  

For those who don't spend their evenings surfing PBS, Sprout, Nickelodeon, and the Disney Chanel, this is in reference to Blue's Clues, a show about a little, blue dog and his owner who sometimes "skidoo" into story books.  "Blue skidoo...We can, too!" is what she mumbled before taking her giant jump onto the playground picture.  

It broke my heart to tell her she couldn't really skidoo into a book.  She had the same disappointed/pissed off look I had when I realized I couldn't really fly.  I guess all the rainy weather we've been having here (seriously, we're like three days away from building an ark) has finally gotten to her.  She's been dying to get to the playground and apparently had a novel idea on how to get there.  I felt her pain when it didn't work.  

And I still wish I could fly.

Pisspot Periwinkle

No, not the child.  Me.  Although she does have her moments.

I don't know what the hell my problem is lately but my general mood has moved beyond cranky to pissed off at the world.  Sudden bursts of anger come out of nowhere over the tiniest things.  It's like I just snap, and it's happening more and more often.

It's been a rough couple of months.  Since Punky started daycare in January, it's been all downhill.  Between her being sick all the time, me being sick, her dad being sick, missing time from work constantly, juggling finances, work stresses, traveling, family problems, and all the other bullshit of daily life, I think I've simply cracked.  These little bursts of anger are like a desperately needed release valve, otherwise my head may literally explode. 

And the more stressed I get, the more Punky's dad's annoying habits get under my skin, so home life has been quite rocky as well.  People generally learn to overlook the small stuff in a relationship.  You have to, otherwise you risk stabbing your significant other between the eyes with a steak knife.  But when times are tough, and your sanity seems to be hanging by a thread, all that previously overlooked small stuff shines through tauntingly.  And lately I've been taking the bait.  There's been plenty of eye rolling, mumbling, bitching, yelling, and not-so-subtle glares at the wooden knife block on the kitchen counter. 

Another major player in this piss-a-thon is my thyroid.  I was doing so well keeping it in check, but I fell off the wagon over the course of the last few weeks.  Weekend trips home plus oversleeping most mornings lately have put a kink in my usual routine.  I'm supposed to skip one a week...I think it's been more like three or four lately.  I'm sure part of my irritability can be blamed on the resulting hormone imbalance, but not all of it.  

Part of the credit also goes to a bout of insomnia like I haven't experienced in years.  I have an occasional bad night here or there, but I haven't had a stretch like this for years.  No matter what I do, I can't seem to get to sleep before two at the earliest, and the alarm rings at six.  I've been averaging two to four hours a night now for weeks.  And it shows.  Most days I feel like someone punched me in both eyes.  

So, what came first?  The chicken or the egg?  I have no clue.  Maybe the stress is causing the insomnia, which led to the oversleeping, which contributed to the thyroid mess up, which in turn is fueling the irritability.  Or maybe the insomnia has left me so utterly exhausted that I can't even cope with everyday life, thus causing me to feel so incredibly stressed and unable to focus on such mundane things like swallowing that damn little pill in the morning, which again is contributing to the piss fest.  Or maybe my utter lack of discipline in taking the meds started the ball rolling and the resulting bad mood is fueling the overwhelmed, stressed, life spinning out of control feeling that is in turn causing a severe bout of insomnia.  Ah, who the hell knows. 

All I know is that I seem to have a bone to pick with everybody these days.  People are pissing me off left and right.  I'm having trouble dealing with everyone's attitudes, and I'm tired of feeling like I'm on the bottom of everyone's list.  And, as usual, I've been quietly taking it all in for months, trying to keep the peace, family harmony, and all that other shit. 

Punky and I went home again last weekend for a bunch of things...dentist appointment, hair cuts for both of us, my niece's first birthday party, and an anniversary party for my aunt and uncle.  Because the last one was held even farther south, we faced a four hour drive home on Sunday.  We almost didn't make it.  It took everything I had to steer toward home.  I wanted to drive somewhere, anywhere far away, and just start over.  Knowing no one.  Having nothing but the clothes we packed for the weekend and the cash in my checkbook.  Thirty-eight years old and I want to run away.  Can you believe it? 

So, needless to say, this funk has cut into my will to write.  It's taking me a week to finish one post lately.  I hope this storm passes quickly but for now no end is in sight.  I keep telling myself I just need to hang in there until vacation; maybe it will do me some good and help turn this mood around.  It's still a month away and it seems like an eternity.  

Who knows?  Maybe the world will end on Saturday and none of this will matter anymore.  Now there's a group deserving of a steak knife reality check.  Idiots.

Mudder's Day

I wasn't in the door from work ten seconds on Friday when Punky ran to me and let the cat out of the bag.

"I got you flowers today, Mommy, at the store! Beautiful flowers! For Mudder's Day, Mommy!"

While I chuckled at her adorable pronunciation of the word 'mother', her dad shot her a disapproving look. "You weren't supposed to tell her! It was supposed to be a surprise for Mother's Day!  I told you it was a secret!  How many times did we talk about this today?"

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she mumbled and turned back to me.  "I got you a card, too, Mommy!" 

So, I got my flowers a few days early but the card waited until Sunday.  Apparently her dad also had a talk with her about being a good girl for me all weekend, and to my surprise it worked.  We've been dealing with some ongoing behavior issues lately, but she was a perfect angel this weekend. 

We went out to dinner on Friday because her dad had to start third shift that night.  In other words, he'd be sleeping most of Saturday and Sunday so it was our only opportunity. 

Saturday was a lazy day.  Well, lazy in the sense that we didn't leave the house or even get out of jammies all day, but I still did dishes, and laundry, and cleaned the bedroom.  While Punky's dad was awake for a few hours in the afternoon, I managed to take a long, relaxing shower.  Alone.  I can't get my ass out of bed early enough before work to swing anything but a five-minute quickie, so shaving is like a present each and every weekend when I can sneak a shower without Punky demanding to join me.  Summer's coming; I'll need to adjust my razor routine. 

Anyway, in between chores and my super shower, Punky and I spent our free time playing.  We colored.  We read books.  We had a picnic on her bunny blanket on the living room floor.  We watching home videos from last year when she was an even smaller runt.  She laughed; I cried a bit.  I spent the day enjoying my amazing little girl, remembering what was, pondering what's to come, and loving her to pieces.  She slept with me that night and we snuggled, and giggled, and told stories.  It was the perfect ending to a perfect day. 

Sunday dawned and everything was fine.  I got a beautiful Mother's Day card from my little peanut and we chatted through breakfast.  Her dad only took a short nap that morning and was awake by eleven.  He figured he'd sleep more later on since he had to stay awake and watch Punky all day today while I worked.  He headed up to see him mom for Mother's Day and gave me the best present of all: he took Punky with him.  I had about two hours of free time.  Me time.  To relax and do whatever I wanted to do without anyone interrupting me for milk in a big girl cup, a pickle, to play play-doh, or whatever other thing Punky desperately needs every other minute.  Me time is a rarity; I've learned to take it when I can get it. 

By the time they came home, the silence in the house was verging on disturbing and I had run out of things to do.  Sad, isn't it?  Of course, I couldn't let her dad think I was bored so I continued to putter around while he fixed her lunch.  I had to step back into my mommy role when her gave her spaghetti while she was wearing a white shirt and new, light purple pants.  He took her pants off, secured a bib, and stuck around long enough to clean her up when she finished.  As he headed back to bed, I returned to duty and decided to start with a much needed diaper change. 

When I picked her up, her bare legs felt warm.  I could feel the heat from her stomach against my side as I carried her into her room.  I touched my cheek to her head and let out a little scream.  She was on fire!  Absolutely burning up!  I put her on the changing table a grabbed a thermometer.  Just over 102.  She never had a fever that high before.  And, of course, she just finished the last dose of antibiotics from her last ear infection only twenty four hours earlier.  I swear, it's like we have a black cloud lingering over this house. 

Other than the fever, she seemed fine.  She was playing, eating, and drinking.  She wasn't cranky or whiny.  I kept asking her if anything hurt and she repeatedly told me no.  So, we spent the rest of the day alternating motrin and tylenol to keep the fever under control and watching cartoons on TV.  She took every opportunity she had to run around, but I kept insisting she sit and relax.  It was rough for her.  She normally doesn't sit for more than thirty seconds at a time. 

I took her into bed with me again last night, and her fever finally seemed to break around eleven.  She was sweating like crazy and her pillow was soaked.  I woke up every hour or so to check her throughout the night.  Needless to say, I was exhausted today.  When I took her temperature before I left for work, it was over 103.  Her dad resumed the motrin/tylenol cycle which continued all day.  Before bed tonight, she was still 102.  I'm expecting another rough night with no sleep, and a phone call to the doc in the morning.  My poor little girl.  It's been one thing after another for months.  She just can't catch a break.  None of us can. 

I Survived

One year ago today I was tossed haphazardly into my current position at work.  Hard to believe it's been that long already.  Apparently, I've survived.

A year ago I had my doubts.  I was stressed, overwhelmed, and struggling to learn everything I needed to know as quickly as possible.  Whenever I find myself in a particularly uncomfortable situation, I always wish I could fast forward a year to sneak a glimpse of how things will work out, you know, to see if there is a light at the end of the tunnel or if the current situation will end in disaster.  It's the same annoying trait that causes me to read the last page of a novel before I even start the first chapter.  I just feel better knowing what direction things are headed.  As I've stated before, spontaneity and surprises aren't my cup of tea.  

Now my job is, well, a job.  It pays the bills but I wouldn't say I love it.  Some parts I enjoy, others not so much.  It still has the power to stress me out, but most of the time it's rather...dull.  I hate to admit that my old boss was right.  She predicted I'd be bored in a year in this position.  It's just very confining.  I mean, there is so much that can be accomplished in my job, so many ways to improve and save the company tons of money, but their family-owned "no one can sneeze without seven meetings, fifteen signatures, and a change of seasons" mentality has left me to twiddle my thumbs and wait for my boss to eventually pull my ideas to the top of his thousand-page pile of things he needs to run by the family before I can take any action.  It's simply frustrating.

Even more frustrating is knowing that I'm doing a good job, yet still make less than my predecessor.  How I know that isn't important, but the fact that I do stings every time I think about it.  And I can't help but help but think about it.  I know what that office was like when it was dumped on me; I'm still cleaning up the mess a year later. 

Given the economic state of the company right now, there is no opportunity to move to another position.  I'm stuck.  Lately I've been looking around to see what other opportunities exist in the world.  It's just not as easy as it was pre-Punky.  There is so much more to consider than before.  And I hate the thought of starting over yet again.  So I guess I'll wait it out a bit longer, at least through the summer since our vacation is planned.  Hopefully the economy will improve by fall and there will be more options available.  I've gone nowhere but backwards in this company; it may be time to cut my losses and move on.

Twenty-Eight Months

My lack of posting this month left me with a pile of stuff to cram into this monthly update.

McDonald's Play Place

On our trip home at the beginning of the month, Punky got to experience a few firsts when my sister and I ended up dedicating the entire Saturday to the amusement of our little munchkins.  We started at McDonald's for lunch and Punky's first visit to one of their indoor play things.  She was anxious to climb, but the hard, plastic steps were about a foot too high for her to make it up own her own.  My sister and I took turns squeezing ourselves in and lifting her from landing to landing until she reached the top.  My nephew led her through the maze of obstacles and down a spiral, tubular slide.  Somehow she ended up on her stomach and she was less than impressed with the whole ordeal.  From then on, she'd reach the top, play a while, and then expect us to climb back up and help her down.  

Climb-A-Lot

So, on the heels of that experience, we decided to head a mile up the road to another indoor play place with softer padding, open slides, and an easier climb to the top.  We weren't there two minutes when Punky disappeared.  She had no problem climbing, jumping, sliding, and hiding in the corridors filled with huge balls, soft mats, and other obstacles to tackle.  She loved every moment of it and we stayed for hours.  It really is a great place for kids and I'm sure we will visit again.

Then, like gluttons for punishment, we decided it was the perfect day to get them on wheels for the first time.  Punky was so excited when I told her we were going rollerskating.  So many of her books have pictures of kids/characters on skates and I always hear, "Mommy, I want to skate, too. Pleeeeease!"  My mom loves to remind us that she had us on skates on age two, and Punky has great coordination and balance for her age.  Not only did I think she'd love it, I also thought she'd catch on quickly and be good at it.  Well, as good as she could be at age two anyway. 

I couldn't have been more wrong.  She absolutely hated it.  She cried the entire hour and a half we were there.  I think a combination of factors led to her meltdown.  First off, we had been on the go all day and she was already tired from hours of activity.  Secondly, other than breakfast, she barely ate anything all day because she was too busy playing to stop and eat.  I stuffed a few bites in her here and there, but nothing substantial enough to sustain my normally wonderful eater.  The skating rink was dark with swirling disco lights and extremely loud music that made it impossible to have a conversation.  And, lastly, I think she expected to put the skates on and go... When that didn't happen she immediately got frustrated because she couldn't do it.  I tried explaining that learning to skate takes time and practice, but rationalizing with a tired, hungry, emotional two-year-old is like trying to open a can of soup with your teeth. 

And let me tell you, if you need a quick reminder of exactly how old you are, throw on a pair of roller skates.  Holy shit.  When I was a kid, I lived at the skating rink.  Every weekend, without fail, for years of my youth.  I mean, I could skate.  Forwards, backwards, fast, slow.  I could spin in circles, do the limbo, jump over those who fell in my path, and even do handstands and cartwheels.  It's been at least eighteen years since I've done it though.  After lacing up my skates, I jumped to my feet...and promptly fell right back on my ass.  I struggled to balance on the damn things, and doing so required action from certain obscure leg muscles that probably haven't moved like that since the last time I skated.  I managed to make a couple trips around the rink to see if I still had it.  I assure you, I didn't.  I stayed within inches of the handrail and sneered at the six-year-olds zooming by me like I was standing still.  If I plan on teaching Punky to skate, I need practice.  And a thigh-master.  I have some time, I suppose.  I get a firm "No!" whenever I ask her if she wants to try rollerskating again.

Before heading home on Sunday, we stopped at the mall for a quick visit and photo with the Easter Bunny.  She fell asleep in the eight minutes it took to get there so I thought for certain it wouldn't go well.  When I put her in the stroller, she opened her eyes for half a second and fell right back to sleep.  My plan was to push her around the mall for a while to avoid a meltdown with the bunny, but she woke up right as we reached the photo spot.  As soon as she saw the bunny, she wanted out of the stroller.  There were no kids in line for pictures so she literally ran right to him and jumped on his lap.  She smiled ear to ear for the picture, and then continued to talk his head off until I pulled her away.  "I would like some new crayons in my Easter basket, please."  I swear she told him about six times.  She was completely fascinated with the bunny, and when we finally walked away she made an astute observation.  "The Easter Bunny doesn't talk, Mommy."  And she seemed really disappointed by that.

We made the trip again last weekend for Easter.  Thankfully it was far less eventful than last year's holiday.  On the drive down, Punky had another first.  She managed to stay awake the entire two hours and twenty minutes.  And she talked non-stop for about two hours and nineteen minutes of it.  "Mommy, there's lots of trees over there! Mommy, that's a red truck! Mommy, that's a blue truck!  Mommy, it's a very sunny day today! Mommy, I see a cloud! Mommy, another red truck! Did you see it, Mommy? There it goes! Look!" 

And, of course, she's learned the phrase that all kids love.  We had this conversation at least once every twenty minutes:  

"Mommy, are we there yet?" 

"No, sweetie."

"How about now?"

"No, honey, not yet."

"Now?"

"Sorry, kiddo, but no.  We still have a long way to go.  Close your eyes and take a nap.  When you wake up, we'll be there."  

Silence for twelve seconds.

"Mommy, how about now?"

"Look, sweetie! A blue truck!"

Just think, we're driving to Florida in a few weeks.  Thirty-eight hours round trip.  Do I need my head examined or what?

Dying Easter eggs

Anyway, Easter was nice and Punky was spoiled as usual by the generosity of her grandparents, aunt, and uncle.  She got to dye more Easter eggs at Aunt P's house on Friday.  We did some at home a few nights before and she loved it.  We skipped it last year because we figured she wasn't ready.  Considering that we ended up with about a half dozen cracked eggs, she wasn't quite ready yet this year either.  She didn't do bad with the dying part itself.  She made a royal mess but most of the eggs survived the process.  It was the sticker application that did the damage.  She dropped 'em left and right.  Good thing her dad was in the mood for egg salad that night.

The bunny was here!

Grammy and Pappy did an egg hunt for the kids again this year.  The sneaky bunny even hid some in the camper.  It took a while for them to find seventy eggs but at least we beat the rain that followed shortly afterward.  And, of course, the kids had overflowing baskets waiting for them in the house.  After Easter dinner we made the drive home to see what the bunny left for her at our house.  Lo and behold, he scattered some eggs around here, too.  When all was said and done, she ended up with enough sidewalk chalk to last through the summer, enough bubbles to last through the next three summers, enough piggy money that I really need to remember to grab coin wrappers at the bank, and enough candy to sustain a sugar high until she's about twenty-two.  Of all the stuff she amassed between four baskets, her favorite thing seems to be the harmonica that her uncle got her.  And she was thrilled to see that the Easter Bunny didn't forget the new crayons she requested. 

Next topic.  Don't hate me.  We had Punky back at the doctor's today.  Any guesses?  Yes, another double ear infection.  Her pediatrician had a baby last week, so she saw a different doctor in the group.  In the past, I inquired several times if these "colds" could actually be allergies, and the usual doc said it was too early to tell.  Given the fact that Punky recently entered the daycare world, she leaned more towards viruses.  The doctor she saw today took one look at her chart and prescribed allergy meds, along with yet another antibiotic for her ears.  I hope this is the answer we've been waiting for and the ear infections disappear once and for all.  Not likely, but I can still hope.  

How I Came to Love Key Lime

I don't do netspeak, textspeak, chatspeak, or whatever else you want to call it.  From blog posts and comments to social network and game sites, I'm happy to type words and phrases in their entirety and, quite frankly, I would like to slap adults who don't.  I'm not an omg-er.  You won't see me brb, or lol, or cul8r.  While I have occasionally been known to lmfao, it normally happens in the presence of friends so they see it first hand without my need to spell it out. 

All that being said, I have to warn you: this post will be TMI.

Plus, I needed a creative intro.  I needed a hook, see?  I would've been the one on the receiving end of that slap if I simply led with the phrase "I've been sick again."  But there it is, and here you are, so go ahead and imagine yourself cracking me upside the head and then keep reading.  Unless you are easily grossed out, that is.  I wasn't joking about the TMI part...

Three weeks ago I managed to use an entire box of tissues in an eight-hour work day.  Keep in mind, this was only one day after finishing the heavy doses of antibiotics prescribed for my impressive infection triple-combo.  By the end of that week, I knew the sinus infection was back but I did what all responsible, hard-working, too busy for life's crap, stupid adults do: I ignored it and hoped it would go away.

It was still hanging on at the end of the next week, and it invited its friends earache and toothache to the party.  Dammit.  I can deal with congestion and rainbow-colored snot, I can handle throbbing ear pain and pressure, but I throw in the towel at tooth pain.  I've been shot in the foot with a BB gun at point blank range, I endured nineteen excruciating hours in labor, I handled the aftermath of a C-section where a simple sneeze, cough, or chuckle felt like an ax hacking through my abdomen, and I would gladly endure them all over again, simultaneously, rather than deal with a toothache.  Screw that. 

So, after telling my boss I needed to leave for the umpteenth time in the last few months, I headed back to the doctor for an infection re-count.  Different doc, same diagnosis.  She was actually surprised to see what the other doctor prescribed for me last time, and she confirmed what I suspected all along.  In her opinion, that antibiotic simply doesn't work well for sinus infections so the initial one probably never cleared up completely to begin with...which meant I was still sick rather than sick again.  There is a difference, people.

She prescribed another antibiotic, plus prednisone to help break it up and get the ball rolling, plus a nasal spray twice a day, and she told me to continue taking an over-the-counter expectorant.  I started feeling better the next day, which was a Friday, so Punky and I headed home to visit family for the weekend.  A half hour into the drive back on Sunday, I knew something wasn't quite right.  I was burning up and dizzy.  My body was freezing but my head was on fire.  How the hell could that happen while on antibiotics?

By the time we got home, I needed to go to bed.  I felt awful.  Punky's dad was supposed to work third shift that night but ended up calling off so he could take care of her the rest of the evening while I locked myself in the bedroom and waited to die.  My sleep was interrupted by bouts of fever and sweating to the point of a soaked nightshirt, then freezing my ass off and shivering uncontrollably. 

Monday morning I drove to work.  What can I say?  I'm an idiot.  I was so dizzy; it's a miracle I made it there in one piece.  I couldn't miss another day.  I just couldn't.  But by nine-thirty, the writing was on the wall.  It was either go home or pass out cold at my desk.  I spared them the 9-1-1 call and headed home.  Good choice since the diarrhea hit about an hour later. 

For the next twenty four hours, I slept.  And shit.  And slept.  And shit some more.  I was smart enough to stay the hell home on Tuesday.  Yeah, my boss is loving me these days, but I simply couldn't go.  The fever finally broke, but the diarrhea was lingering and, last time I checked, shitting yourself at the office is a definite no-no.  It dawned on me that I hadn't eaten since Sunday morning so I had no clue where the hell it was coming from at that point. 

The doctor told me to call if I wasn't better by Tuesday so she could piggy-back another antibiotic prescription, so I filled her in on all the gory details and she had a few ideas: either the fever and diarrhea were caused by a viral infection that had nothing to do with her original diagnosis, or they were caused by a reaction to the damn antibiotic she prescribed in the first place.  Great.  She called in yet another antibiotic for me and pulled out the big guns this time...something super strong that should knock it out of me once and for all.  And for the shits?  Try pepto-bismol and see if that helps. 

I knew I couldn't miss another day of work, so Punky's dad grabbed a bottle of the pink stuff when he picked up my new prescription.  I didn't know what to expect; I never used it before.  I wasn't joking when I said I chewed about ten Tums my entire pregnancy.  I just don't get indigestion, heartburn is a rare occasion, and the shits maybe once a year when I'm sick.  I've never needed the pink stuff.  Ever.

The instructions on the bottle were simple: repeat dose every half hour to an hour until the diarrhea stops.  Twenty minutes after dose number one, my stomach was rumbling, and churning, and making noises I've never heard before.  After a lengthy bathroom visit, I opted to try dose number two.  That went about as well as the first.  Figuring the third time would be the charm, I proceeded with dose number three.  No such luck.  Praying it would work itself out by morning, I threw in the towel and went to bed. 

There was a definite change come Wednesday morning.  Oh, I still had the shits, but now it was a pitch black tar-like substance and I almost had a heart attack right there on the spot.  I actually made it into work, and thankfully my stomach did settle down a bit, but the tar remained.  I turned to the internet for answers...which fully convinced me I had colon cancer and would be dead in a matter of weeks.  By the time I got home, I was close to panic mode.  At the first available opportunity, I was back on the web and managed to hit a site that escaped me earlier.  It listed the top five reasons for the tar situation.  Guess what was number three?  Pepto-bismol.  And the effects can last for days after taking it.  Okay, so maybe I wasn't dying after all. 

Come Thursday, I felt like a new person.  The diarrhea was gone, the new antibiotic kicked in, the toothache disappeared, and my ear no longer felt like it would explode with the next loud noise.  Life was good...until that evening when an unmistakable itch hit my nether regions.  Dammit.  This super-duty antibiotic, on the heels of two others all in a month's time, caused a yeast infection.  You'd think I would've learned something when this happened to Punky just a few short weeks ago.  The pediatrician said everyone should eat at least a half cup of yogurt twice daily while on antibiotics to prevent this from happening.  I practically force-fed her yogurt for days, but apparently the message didn't sink in all the way.  

The problem?  I don't eat yogurt.  As the late, great, George Carlin used to say: I don't eat foods with a 'y' and a 'g' in them.  Seriously, you know how I am with food, and expiration dates, and refrigeration, and my list of leftover rules.  Any food whose big advertising pitch contains the phrase "live active cultures" lands firmly on my inedible list.  Just the thought makes me want to vomit.  Punky likes it, her dad likes it, but I never tasted the stuff.  And I had no intentions of ever doing so...until Friday.  Somehow, some way, I managed to mentally distract myself long enough to eat one of those little cups of bacteria without puking.  

So there you have it, another disgusting tale full of infections, bacteria, bowel movements, and the urge to vomit.  You waited two weeks for a new post and this is what you get.  Here's to hoping this is the last post of its kind.  In case it is, I also have to mention that Punky never did make it all the way to her follow-up appointment before getting yet another ear infection.  It's been a week since her last check and I suspect she may have another one but she keeps insisting that her ears don't hurt.  I think we'll be back at the doc next week to find out for sure one way or the other.

In conclusion, I'm happy to say I'm feeling much better now.  I took the last antibiotic tonight after dinner and everything seems back to normal.  My digestive system is back on track, everything has returned to its normal frequency, consistency, and color, I haven't needed a tissue in days, and nothing itches, throbs, or aches.   

Oh, and I'm completely addicted to Yoplait's Key Lime Pie Yogurt.