Sunday, November 21, 2010

Ho Ho Ho

After having been threatened with the ire of the (not so) Jolly Old Elf, The Devil wanders downstairs, after - apparently - having given this matter of Santa and his magical abilities some serious consideration, and says casually, over her shoulder, at me:

THE DEVIL: "You know, Santa is REALLY magic."

ME: "Oh?"

THE DEVIL: "Yes, he can turn into a submarine."

ME:" ... how... cool? But why would he do that?"

THE DEVIL: "Because he LIKES to!"

As I pause to figure out where this information might have come from - including taking a moment to wonder how she knows about the existence of submarines, and what nefarious uses she might have for such knowledge - she wanders back past me and informs me:

THE DEVIL: "Legos don't have submarines..."

(I notice she is holding some Legos. Sure enough, there are no submarines in sight. She may be on to something.)

THE DEVIL: "...because legos don't go in outer space..."

(A pause, complete with head-tilt, as she considers the matter further, and then)

THE DEVIL: "...because they don't go under water."

ME: (thinking myself clever) "But they could if they had submarines!"

THE DEVIL: (Scornful, and perhaps a tad fed up with mom being such a dolt) "But they DON'T."

ME: ""Why not?"

THE DEVIL: (Now openly disdainful) "Because Santa has all the submarines." (Eyeroll.)

And she wanders back upstairs saying "...and blah blah, Santa... blah blah..."

I confess that while I speak English and they appear to be spoken in same, I have no idea whatsoever what either of these little exchanges mean. But she's singing homemade Christmas carols to herself ("Merry merry merry happy Christmas time for all the ones merry merry and snow merry jingle ale ginger ale ginger bells happy Christmas birthday time...") so I guess it was a good conversation?

And only 33 more days till Christmas.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Mouths of Babes, etc.

The scene:

The devil - age 3.5 - is sitting in her favorite toddler chair, cooing at an unhappy orange kitten clenched to her chest. Every time she loosens her hold one iota, the kitten scrabbles around on her, leaving nifty gashes to be shown off later to an admiring older brother. (I have no doubt whatsoever that in her world, she's a Viking, comparing battle wounds around some smoky fire and swilling grog.)

Finally, she eases her grip on the cat for one nanosecond while reaching for a shape sorter to stuff it into, and it launches itself away from her like it has been shot from a small evil cannon, propelled mainly by the power of its back claws.

The dialogue:

THE DEVIL: "Oh, that's a good kitten, you're so nice, you're such a - YOU LITTLE BASTARD!"

ME: (Shocked. But, in retrospect, I'm not really sure why. ANYway...) "KATHERINE!!!"

THE DEVIL: (Clearly wounded by my tone) "What? I didn't say you were a little bastard..."


Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Short Shrift

See what happens when you don't have a disability (other than an insatiable urge to dominate humankind)?

Your mom neglects your blog.

So, by way of my renewed intention to blog here regularly, I offer the following, which seems appropriate, somehow.


"WHY won't you POOP?!?"

Understand, please, that we have two new 6-week-old kittens who are, shall we say, somewhat lax in their attempts to use the litter box for anything other than a simple squizzle, and the box has recently (like, this morning) been moved into that same bathroom. So one could assume this question was being posed to one or both of them.

One would be utterly wrong, but still... one could.

If only.

No, when asked to whom she was speaking, Her Majesty replied, with no little scorn in her voice for having to actually say OUT LOUD such an obvious thing...

"My BUTT."

(I would add a comment, but, really, after that? What could I possibly say?)

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Things We Have Done in the Past Week or So

Hmmm, lemme think.

Since Wednesday...

We puked. In mom's bed. On Dad's pillow. WHILE HE WAS USING IT.
We ran a fever.
We hung out all day in Number One's bed with him while HE had a fever, watching Spongebob and taking breaks for chicken soup and ice pops, and no one had a poke fight or called for Mommy ONCE, alarming Mommy greatly.
We coughed so much we puked some more...a lot...
We sneezed.
We ran another fever, and another, and another.
We went to the doctor, and were diagnosed with strep.
We took antibiotics.
We complained of tongue pain and stopped eating.
We went back to the doctor 36 hours after the first visit and were diagnosed with Coxsackie virus for these:

We took many more drugs, including some specially prepared concoction called "magic mouthwash".
We developed drug-butt from the all meds, creating some very.. um.. colorful diapers and bringing all potty training to a sudden and emphatic halt.
We went to the ER for the infected finger that the doctor had just looked at that morning but which had swelled alarmingly and was developing red streaks.

We were diagnosed with an "herpetic whitlow".
We had a new doctor who questioned the Coxsackie diagnosis.
We Googled "Coxsackie" and "herpetic whitlow".
We got yet another prescription, which the pharmacy didn't want to fill because the ER wrote the Devil's nickname instead of her full name, and we all know there's a red-hot black market for antivirals around here, yo.

We wrote a demented blog post!

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Nothing to report...

... but we took this today, and it occurred to me you might be interested, oh wonderful readers of the Blog That Shall Not Be Named.

I give you the Scourge of the Sentient Universe:

Do not be fooled! She may be all sunshine and unicorn farts NOW, but just WAIT till she can read *shiver* or DRIVE *shudder* or TRAVEL INDEPENDENTLY *faint*

Don't say I didn't warn you!

Monday, May 3, 2010


So... here it is. Visit-with-the-Oncologist-for-no-reason-other-than-to-set-your-mind-at-ease day. Know what we're doing (besides swilling caffeine to combat the abject lack of sleep this whole episode has caused)? Nothing.

Not. A. Thing.

No appointment. No call from the oncologist's office to cancel the appointment, either, mind you - which could have had us driving an hour to find ourselves SOL. I'm fairly certain that you would have heard about whatever happened next on the six o'clock news, so let's all just be grateful for small favors and agree that from now on, I call to confirm if the drive takes more than 20 minutes. Even if they just called me the day before.

And the reschedule isn't for another 2 weeks. (Sleep? HAH! I Laugh in the face of rest and downtime!)

AND I have no idea - because the oncologist's office staff had no idea - what preliminary paperwork they need (copies of tests, etc) from the pediatrician, or indeed, what they had already received in advance of this appointment.

BUT - we should fax... whatever it is... to Rita at the following number.

(Let us all also bow our heads and pray grateful prayers to whatever minor gods control my pediatrician's medical group, because at least between the nurse and the medical records lady there, they were able to determine what should be sent, and set it aside for me to grab when I take Number Two to his earache follow-up appointment on Thursday.)

Now, I confess that perhaps even a crack team of medical coders and receptionists appearing in lab coats on my doorstep, charts in hand, clipboards at the ready, ballpoints cocked, armed with cellphones and dispositions tending toward ruthless tenacity would not satisfy me at this juncture. I mean, after all, this is my precious (fallen *coff*) angel's appointment we're discussing. With a jesus-fricking-christ-are-you-SERIOUS?? oncologist, for crying out loud.



Not so much.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

You Keep Using That Word...

So the Devil has a glandular problem. (Yes, yes, I know this sounds like the lead-in to a terrible joke, but if it IS a joke, it is indeed terrible. Read on.)

The problem is, her glands - specifically, the ones on the side of her neck - are swollen, and HAVE been swollen, for well over a year. In fact, more like 2 years. We first noticed them 2 Junes ago when they erupted, Frankenstein-like, during what turned out to be a bout of strep. Antibiotics, and the strep went away. The swollen glands did not. The doctors at that point noted that often it can take much longer for such swelling to go down than it did for it to come on, and not to panic unless there was no change (or an increase) after several weeks. But - they went down. Not all the way, but a lot. So, fine.

Repeat this scenario time and time again.

And since no one was particularly worried, and her health was otherwise fine, we were reassured.

Now about a year ago, we got a new pediatrician when our beloved former pediatrician moved to Texas. [Insert "dumb old stupid Texas" comments from Spongebob, here.] We love her, particularly because she refuses to sugar-coat, refuses to panic, and is not one of those here-lemme-just-prescribe-a-bottle-of-something types. She believes in home remedies, in sometimes waiting to see, and in mother's intuition. So, yay.

And today, on yet another follow-up for yet another bout of swollen glands, she announced that although she is 99% certain it will be a colossal waste of our time, she wants us to make an appointment for the Devil with the Juvenile Hematology and Oncology Dept. at our local major medical center.


As in, cancer.


So, yeah. I'm handling it well. The appointment is May 3. And I know it will likely turn out to be nothing.