So Long Lumpy

Thirteen years ago, while watching television, probably 90210 or Melrose Place, I felt something on my shoulder. My thoughts ran immediately to cancer and death at the tender age of twenty-three. This was before the days of instant internet access wherein one could spend obsessive amounts to time googling “shoulder lump”, “cancer at 23” and “alternative funeral music.” I called my doctor, got an appointment and was told my “lump” was actually a “lipoma”. Li-what? “Li-po-ma,” said the doctor. A benign tumor of fat cells with slow growth that does not have to be removed. Every twenty-three year old girl loves to be told a growing tumor of fat cells was her new best friend. Thus began the phase most appropriately titled “Me and My Lipoma: Growing a Second Head.” As time passed, pea sized Lumpy grew to what it is now: an almost baseball size lump of fat residing prominently on my shoulder. I am Lumpy, Hear Me Roar, In A Size Too Big to Ignore. In fact, the other day Owen grabbed my shoulder and said “Mummy’s ball. Mummy’s ball. Daddy, Mummy has a ball.” After wiping away the tears, I realized that my decision to have Lumpy excised by a surgeon was the right decision. Because even though a head rest at the age of seventy would be incredibly awesome and the envy of Noel Gallagher’s Oasis For the Old, it would be even nicer to wear a tank top without small children pointing. Tomorrow, Lumpy is being removed. The doctor informs “there will be a scar.” Which maybe I am to care about, but do realize (a) I think scars are cool and (b) a scar is much better than my son thinking I have a god damn ball smuggled under the skin of my shoulder. So Lumpy, I wish you well in your extraction. It has been fun. Remember that time I got really, really drunk and tried to take you out myself? Me either, but honestly, surprised it did not happen. But now the real question. How do I ask the surgeon that I need to see removed Lumpy without seeming insane? After all, he is really my firstborn.

TS Eliot Was Right

Sometimes I joke about being cursed and having a guardian angel named Sully who is nothing but a mean spirited drunk with a penchant for causing misery. However, it is becoming quite clear that this is no mere exaggeration, it is fact. Case in point the last ten days, which have been sort of like hell, if hell involved children and vomit and whiskey and no sleep, so yeah, hell.

1. Maggie Becomes Ill, Monday, April 5, 2010. When receiving the call that Maggie “was throwing up,” I immediately left work and wondered if she was okay. Not worried at all because throwing up happens, and this kid is my second. First time mommy nerves are for wusses. But then she proceeded to projectile vomit every fifteen minutes for five hours. Oh that smell, holy god. It was pretty much scarring, in a years of therapy kind of way.

2. Maggie Is Better, Tuesday, April 6, 2010. Woah! That was a quick hitter wasn’t it? Maggie is back in the game. Had to be something she ate. Why did John even stay home? Stupid, stupid.

3. Maggie is Not Okay; Owen Joins the Fun, April 7, 2010. We drop Maggie off at daycare with instructions of a bland diet and Gatorade, saying “we think it was just something she ate.” Then after my run I receive a call “Owen threw up. Twice.” Awesome. I call John to get Owen and settle back to work. Another call, this time “Maggie, threw up everywhere. AGAIN.” Really? Really Satan? Nothing like two vomiting kids to brighten your day. The McCall House of Vomit is officially in business.

4. Owen and Maggie on the Mend; Cassie Vomits At Work, April 8, 2010. The kids are better, Owen totally fine. My stomach however is in an uneasy state of queasy. Nausea flowing at a steady clip so much so that twenty minutes after my run there is a rush to the ladies room. After which it is certain that everyone now thinks my weight loss had nothing to do with diet and exercise and everything to do with my now blossoming bulimia.

5. Maggie Throws Up On Me, AGAIN; April 9, 2010. Feeling better in all respects and thankful that the misery is behind us, Maggie awakes. I take her into the living room and sit her down wherein she projectile vomits all over me. Completely enveloped by that smell, I slither into the fetal position shaking. We finally go to the doctor where we are told that it is just a bug going around taking from two days to two weeks to remedy.

6. The McCalls Are Feeling Better; April 10, 2010. Everyone is on the mend. Things are going well aside from the fact that the kids think that 5:00/5:30 a.m. is an appropriate time to wake up. We have Saturday fun inclusive of park visits, swim lesson procurements and a Park Chalet visit. Tingly while walking home from my two Chalet beers, I ask John to “buy some Jameson.” After all, the week was tough.

7. I Did What? Owen’s Finger; April 11, 2010. When your husband turns to you in the morning and says “You don’t remember, do you?” Just tell him at that point “No, I don’t. And shut up.” Don’t ask “What do you mean?” Because then you will here this tale about how he woke up to you sitting on the side of the bed pinching him all over mumbling incoherent words. You will then go to the kitchen discovering an empty glass next to equally empty bottle of Jameson. So in addition to sleep walking, sleep talking, and sleep pinching, you also engage in sleep drinking. A rare breed indeed, and by rare breed, I mean completely nuts. Suddenly, that searing headache of yours has an answer, and its answer is - YOU ARE A SLEEP DRINKER (Trademark Pending). One who gets up in the middle of the night, and goes to the kitchen, gets a glass, pours a decent size whiskey drink, gulps same to wander into the bedroom to torment your husband with pinching fingers and words of the wacky.

Later in the morning, say 6:30 a.m. since your kids He-Devil and She-Devil wake up at 5:15, you notice that your son’s right hand middle fingertip is swollen and puss filled. (As a side note, although you can say “pus-sy” as in something that is filled with pus, you can never write that. NEVER.) You make a call, have a clinic appointment where they tell you it is “pus-sy” and needs antibiotics. Because Walgreens decides to have lunch that exact time, you kill an hour by getting your son shoes, a hot chocolate and a visit to the bookstore. It is there, Owen says “Mama, you can go now. I live in the bookstore.” So you do, have fun with the words weirdo.

8. 4:45 Is No Time To Wake Up; April 12, 2010 - But 3:30 a.m. is Worst; April 13, 2010. When I was in my 20s and slept until noon on a beautiful day and spent the rest of it in bed in front of a TV, the thought of doing something other than watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island would prop up. Now, no sir re, happy for every single second wasted. That type of rest will not be attainaible again until they lock me up in the ole Senior Center for Sleep Drinkers. You know why people who are old just all of a sudden doze off, because they had kids.

And there it is, my last few days. So to echo T.S. Eliot - April is the cruelest month. Especially since I no longer live in Boston which means no Monday holiday off, no morning Red Sox and no beer while cheering marathoners. April you suck. And the best part being: it is only half over.

As an aside: special thanks to John who had to work while taking care of Maggie, whose favorite activity these days is falling to the ground in a fit of frustration crying her banshee wail while kicking her feet every ten minutes or so (that and eat strawberries by the bushel). He is the best. Kinda. You know when you are drunk, from sleep drinking.

Reason #257

I am suffering from a cold, and it is a total lingerer. Although starting to feel symptoms last Monday, nothing truly manifested itself until Wednesday evening. Now a week later from that Wednesday evening it feels as if my head is surrounded in a green snot haze. For the first three days, I pretty much wrote it off to allergies, because I like to do that. I am not one to ride the sickness pity party parade. Its allergies, dude. But nope, this is not allergies, this is a cold. And like any crazy person with denial about illness, I ran yesterday, with a chest cold. In all honesty, I can say it was okay, I felt better. But then this morning, I woke up. The worst part about all of this is that because I am breastfeeding there is nothing to take. I can’t Nyquil into hazy facial recognitions and purple ponies, nor can I Dayquil in order to make my officemates not look at me with abject fear. I take Halls Menthol Cherry Drops and this Vick’s Vapor Rub nasal shot that looks like I am doing cocaine. And this is reason #257 I will be happy to stop nursing in March 2010. Go Immune System!

The End of the Sickness Road

I honestly do not know what is worse when it comes to illness - when you are in the weeds marginally demented by lack of coherent thought or towards the end when you a few rungs from the top of the health ladder. Sure it sucks to be sick, but it is made better by the joys of Nyquil, Dayquil and your confused somewhat delirious being. Did I just say and not think you are a fucking asshole mutherfucker? Sorry, I'm sick. Whoopsie. Being almost healthy is a horrid state, easily tired; prone to coughing fits and whenever a nose is blown a mini Jackson Pollack remains in the wrinkled Kleenex. Not to brag, but if I was running a supply store for witches, let us just say the ingredient of mucusey snot would be well stocked. Perhaps it is the scientist in me, or my love of all things gruesome, but I am almost to the point of collecting it to gauge how much freaking yellow discharge my nose is producing. We are talking Guinness Records, people. I guess I should be happy that this latest duel of baby germs is almost completed. However, tomorrow Owen is in back-up child care which is often a petri dish of pediatric phlegm producing possibilities. (Good god, I love alliteration). So stay tuned. In other news, the other night I threw away the last half of my madras (vodka, OJ and cranberry), which was significant as it was then the realization that the illness had handily defeated me hit. One Cassandra Michele Catherine McCall does not throw away booze; she sucks it up, downs the remainder and continues onward. I think any unfinished adult beverage is akin to a leaving a child on a doorstep. In other words, a tragedy. This in certain realms would be considered "a problem." But whatever, there are few things in this life I view as sacred, and the drink is one of them. So to you half filled pint glass of vodka, I am sorry. I wish I could have loved you better, but alas, I could not. For this, I apologize.

Confessions of the Sick Mind

My brain in encased in a fleshy sinus induced cloudlike shell. Behind my eyes are the stabbing pains of a dull knife. My nose is faucet of clear snot on one side, and cakey green snot on the other. They battle, switching sides every 15 minutes. My throat is scratchy and pained. Obviously, I am still sick. Last night after Robitussining, I sat upright in bed coughing unable to sleep. When I finally did fall asleep I had a dream in which I had another baby, a son. I could not figure out a name for him but was debating between Thomas and Christopher. Also, somebody at the dinner party my in-laws were having tried to kidnap him and Owen. I knew this because I found their sippy cups in the front of their car. My mother-in-law served a salad that contained yellow peppers. I said "Are these yellow peppers?" And she said yes, I and looked a John and said "Did they just forget I was allergic?" "I mean I only passed out in Kauai." As my throat closed and dizziness ensued, I tried to breast feed my new baby only to repeatedly dose him with a spraying boob. Needless to say, the weary, sick and heavily medicated mind does make for nighttime drama. Also, I don't like those names for a baby boy at all. Tommy McCall sounds like some drunk at the end of a bar who just got out of jail. And I am pretty sure in my dream I said Chris McCall - oh goody, just like Chris March from Project Runway. Lord help me.

Parenting Ideas 101

I do not think it is evil of me to be considering that I think I want to place my son in a hermetically sealed bubble. He has been sick for a week, and thankfully, on the mend. His fever lasted five days and now John and I are suffering from this evil and vile disease. What is it about baby germs? I can't figure it out. It is like a normal virus enters a baby and suddenly it becomes this machine of madness that will infiltrate the best of immune systems with the precision of a ninja. I do not want to brag or anything, but prior to having a kid, I did not really get sick. I was healthy - although in hindsight, I think perhaps this was more to do with the fact that my blood alcohol level never really got below .08. Instantly pickled! However, I can't take the illness, I can't take Owen being sick, and I can't take John being sick. Welcome to the McCall House of Disease 2008. Enter at your own risk. So, this weekend, I am buying some Ziploc bags and configuring a bubble for the boy. It has to be done.