Semantics: Speaking Foreign Languages To Foreign Beings

You'll never guess what happened at the pediatrician's. Yes, pediatrician's.

Some background? Eldest got kicked at warm ups at a swim meet a few days ago.

Well, ten to be exact. Eldest kept complaining his pinkie hurt.

Uhhh, I didn't see anything on his pinkie.

No bruising. No swelling.

Nada. Zip. Nothing.

Yes, I thought drama queen again.

9 days later I decided to take a closer look when he was still complaining. He still insisted his pinkie hurt. Still nothing.

At this point, I skeptically said, Point to where it hurts."

My son, the brain surgeon, points to the side of his hand.

Apparently it hurt to MOVE his pinkie. Not that "his pinkie hurt." The part that hurt was the side of his hand.

Semantics.

Silly me, I thought when one said, "my pinkie hurts," it actually meant his pinkie hurts, not the side of his hand hurts.

Silly, silly me.

In 12 year old, it means the polar opposite of whatever they say. Forgive me. I am still learning 12 year old. It's a very foreign land.

So back to the hand?

There it was! The back of his hand, when compared to the other, was very swollen. Very swollen for 10 days after injury.

Crapsticks.

Off to the doctor we went. Is this another mommy of the year award? Yes, I think it is:

When will I realize our kids are accidents waiting to happen.

So we were lucky this time. After three sets of x-rays and the doctor agreeing that with our history of breaks, we were cursed. a break was likely, it turned out to be a lucky break for us.

Nope, not another broken arm. Sigh. It was a close call, but luckily it turned our lucky break was that it turned out to be a bone bruise and soft tissue damage.

That's shocking considering our luck.

Then something else happened. PB had a regular check up today. I off-handedly mentioned CG's health issues.

You won't believe this!

I now have orders to get EKGs on all three kids and cholesterol tests.

Seriously? Seriously. My seven year old needs an EKG and cholesterol test. What on Earth...

CG often jokes his next wife will have her wisdom teeth out. I will now argue the next father of my children will not give our kids a genetic predisposition to heart issues. Grrrr...

Seriously, my heart can't take this kind of news. I now predict my heart will give before the rest of 'em from the stress alone.

Sigh.

Heart? Stress? Semantics. I am just screwed. So much for my positive outlook in the beginning of the week.

I know. I know. I am giving you whiplash with the mood swings.

Just call it almost 37 year old's language.

Blognotes: Thx for the Flickr pics by Leo Reynolds and by oh_candy

Zombies, Duels, and Polls! Oh My!

So you say your Easter was great with requisite chocolate eggs and buffets laden with Eggs Benedict?


Hey, us too! Yes, we partook in Lucifer's Testicles.


Well, we had that, but wait! There's more!

We had also had duels, pirates, and formulating consequences that we decided that my readers (that's you) would decide.

First, you must know this family has sometimes a free-form, reap the consequences policy which often is turned into an eye for an eye.

Yes, we roll like that.

So Eldest, dear Eldest, was warned not to take water cannon that the damned Easter Bunny brought him near Li'l Man, but alas the temptation was too great.

As soon as we returned from Easter brunch, the deed was done.

He turned a happy, warm little Li'l Man in Easter finery on a cool Seattle's Easter day into a cold, sad, drippy, and more importantly, whiny Li'l Man after a perfectly wonderful Easter buffet. I had ever intention to put my feet up and take a nap to slumber off the effects of too much shrimp cocktail and french toast.

Instead, my parenting skills need to come in to play and, sadly, my friends, my parenting skills might be a mite lacking with an over-full tummy.

His consequence and then more and more consequences for not heeding stipulations of said consequence was this:




Then there was the zombies.

Remember a while back I mentioned PB's fear of zombies and my evil inclination to incite that zombie fear? Heh! So guilty.

Well, I wasn't joking. They freak her out.

I need only to chase her with the under my breath mention of zombies and you get this:

You need to wait for the end and no I am not out of breath after running one circle in my house, he-he-he... erm... heh!

And finally, here is where you weigh in, dear readers.

What say you? Who wins:

Who Be Thar Most Pirate-y Scalliwag in the Scout Household and Thus Deservin' of the Stolen Egg Booty?
	Eldest--his attitude alone deserves the eggs
	PB--never say that drama doesn't run in her blood
	Li'l Man--because making spit bubbles in one's throat is the best talent that will ever come out of the Scouty household
	Scout--'Cause you know she already ate their eggs anyway when the beasts weren't looking
	CG--why not!? He eats like a scurvy pirate with a heart condition anyway despite his wench's most valiant efforts
View Results

But really, I win. You see I win as having the mouthiest 12 year old alive with this quote:

"You used your problem solving skills, Mom. Good Job!"

Can you tell from whom he gets his snarky attitude?

P.S. Yes, the video quality sucked. I used my purse camera. Deal with it. Yes, I am so a mouth breather. Get over it. I'll try to be in better shape next time I videotape. Finally, do ever videotape something only to get the feeling of nails on chalkboard when you hear your own voice. Yep, hating my voice and this video only highlights this feature. Gah! Next video will be silent one.

I Hate Myself as a Mother Right Now

He's lucky to have a big brother looking after him because his mother is useless...

I thought he had him. He thought I had him.

Turns out he was sleeping in unusually late.

He was left by himself in an empty house for 45 minutes this morning. I didn't realize until 20 minutes into the commute to get my eldest to swim practice that I wasn't sure who had him.

CG had taken PB to her early morning practice before we woke up. I called him in a panic and confirmed my fantastically huge error.

Yes, I am a fucktard mom. It's official. I could claim lack of sleep with an average of 3 hours a night this week. I could talk about being sick, but they are all excuses for something unexcusable.

I called home in a panic, hoping he'd pick up the phone, but no one answered. I tried over and over.

I hoped he'd still be asleep when I arrived home, but before I could get my keys out on the front porch, the lock clicked and the door opened.

Two teary, wounded blue eyes looked up at me in betrayal and then he crumpled into me. His little pudgy arms encircled my legs like they would never let go.

He made gaspy breaths.

His chest shuddered.

"Mommy, I was scared. I looked in every room for you."

My heart crushed. Yes, I left my little six year old boy entirely by himself while both CG and I were over 20 miles away.

My stomach churns as I think what could have happened. Fire. Burgulars. Accidents. Injuries.

I hate myself as a mother right now.

I live for my kids and, right now, I could just die for what I did. The guilt consumes me.

We're Watching....We'rrrrreee Alwayyyys Watching

Heh, I just had a visitor come to my blog with the key words, "How to deal with over-achieving moms."

Heh!

How'd they find me???

More importantly, how'd I know? (Eyebrows raised)

Heheh... Did you get the creeps?

Uh, no?

Whatever.

Anyway, it's because I belong to the Super Secret Society of Roz:




This society is especially good to belong to when you need to have the requisite eyes in the back of your head to catch your kids sneaking too much Halloween candy.

And if you've been following my Twitters about eating the self-same candy? Lies, lies, lies. Perpetrated by political enemies or over over-achieving mothers grasping at my glory.

You Know It's The End of Summer When...

You know it's the end of summer when your six year old comes running in the house from playing with the kids in the cul de sac. Dripping wet from the neighborhood "Water Wars," he has blood gushing from his knee to his ankle.

And my first reaction? After looking up from my laptop, I yelled for him to clean up the water he dripped on my clean hardwood floors from the front door to the kitchen.

What? What?

Heartless, I know.

Yep, proud moment. But hey, what's another scratched knee, stubbed toe, road-rashed elbow when it comes to summer fun playing on the street? Really. Plus, he wasn't crying. He was matter of fact.

So matter of fact he was that I told him to wipe up the floor with a paper towel and then wipe his knee up. My kids are nothing if not independent.

So independent that CG and I discovered this later:

He said, "Mommy, I was too lazy to get my own band aid so I used a paper towel and tape." Yes, I vaguely remember hearing tape being used.

Hmmph.

More like lazy mommy. Yes, my friends, it's time for another Pin Up Mommy of the Year Award.

"My six year uses scotch tape to dress his own boo-boos."

On the bright side, he has a bright future in the medical profession, eh? Hastily improvised self-medicining just makes a mother proud.

Sigh.

Apathy, thy name is Motherhood at the end of summer vacation...

No Cream in MY Kids' Oatmeal, Nope!

CG asked me if I had every put whipped cream on our children's oatmeal. He saw a commercial with whipped cream on the TV.

"Ummm, no...."

Well, I didn't say no at first. First, I had to clarify the difference between whippED cream and whippING cream.

You see, as bad mothers through out the universe are wont to do, I run out of milk more than occasionally. So I let the kids use my coffee's half 'n half. Or occasionally the whipping cream if we bought some for a particular recipe.

So, it's a fact that my kids like buckets of milk on their cereal.

Seriously.

At least a cup.

Sooooo, when they use the whipping cream, that would be over 1 cup of heavy whipping cream which makes probably three cups of whippED cream stuff of which CG mentioned.

So, no, I answered honestly, I don't squirt a tablespoon or two of the puffy, pre-whipped cream on their cereal or oatmeal. Nope, that would be ridiculous, right?

Nope, I just give them the equivalent of hundreds of tablespoons of the stuff. You do the math. More than ridiculous.

So, this week, we happen to be flush with milk. Li'l Man, however, had some suspicious substance in his 100 percent Natural (HA!) Granola this morning.

"What's that?" I ask.

He says sheepishly,"Half 'n half."

"You know we have milk?" I ask with raised eyebrows.

"Yes. I like cream better, Mommy."

Ummm, now that I think about it, so do I. Ahem! But that's not the point. I still let him have it.

However, don't think I am totally irresponsible. He was using the FAT-FREE half 'n half.

Mmmmm. Mmmm. Good.

No fat, but lots of chemically goodness that replicates fat.

Sigh.

I deserve a Scurvy, Scallywag, Mom of the World award, me thinks.