This is the new face Julia has been making lately. We call it “The Wrinkle Nose” (and it is her Daddy’s fault).
Dave and I spent our evening at the hospital.
Julia had taken a nap today, which is pretty rare for her, and woke up with a fever of 100.4 that climbed steadily until it reached 103.5 this evening. As her temperature rose and our concern grew, we came to the harsh realization that we hadn’t chosen a pediatrician in our new town, yet. We consulted our Dr. Spock handbook and my mother then decided to take her to the emergency room.
After an agonizing wait, our names were finally called. Julia was given some Tylenol and a Popsicle to tide her over until they would call us back again to see the doctor. We sat in the waiting room holding our sleeping baby and trying to ignore the overt displays of butt cracks that seemed to be everywhere.
I’m not sure who popularized the low rise pants, particularly the ones with words printed across the butt, but I believe that person just may be the antichrist. No good can ever come from showing off your butt crack. Those of you who are guilty of these heinous butt crack displays, hear me when I tell you: People don’t want to see butt crack, and the ones who do aren’t the ones you want looking.
Finally we were called back to a room. We placed Julia on the hospital bed and she woke up her usual, sunny self. The nurse walked in to find Julia bouncing on the bed identifying the color of every item in the room. After asking some basic health questions, the nurse spoke to me in a tone that suggested she didn’t think English was my first language. She explained what a fever was, that it should be treated and that it can be done at home with Tylenol. She didn’t seem to listen when I tried to explain that Julia had been taking Dimetapp for her congestion that I’d brought with me to show her because I didn’t feel comfortable giving her Tylenol with it, especially considering the warning on the label, but she silenced me with her hand and informed me in so many words that I was an idiot. Then to make sure I really felt the cut she’d just made, she threw a little salt in by saying, “First time mom, huh?” She nodded knowingly, “The doctor will be in shortly,” and left.
I sat on the bed next to Julia feeling relieved and a bit foolish. Now that we were there and certain everything was fine, it seemed a little silly to rush her to the hospital. But when we were home and she was draped over me like a rag doll, unable to focus on my face and answer my questions, it seemed silly not to take her. As her fever climbed, I told myself it was probably just a cold coming on, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it could be more. All I could think of was my friend who, at the age of 7, came down with a bit of a fever one night when we were playing at his house after church and was dead from meningitis the next day when it was time to go to school.
Dave rubbed my shoulders and said, “We did the right thing.”
The doctor came in later and checked Julia out. She has an upper-respiratory infection. Apparently it’s going around. We left with a prescription and a referral to a pediatrician.
On the way home we decided to drive through Burger King since it was after 9:30 p.m. and we were voracious having missed dinner. After our food was in hand, we pulled to a parking space to divvy up the goods and I realized I had to go to the bathroom. I’d had to go since we arrived at the hospital, but was too scared to leave Julia. I figured I better run into Burger King and go because I probably wouldn’t make the ride home otherwise. I ran up to the side door, but it was locked. There were people in the restaurant, so I ran around the other side to go in that way, but it was locked, too. As I turned to head back to the car, a Burger King employee opened the door and asked, “Ma’am? Is there a problem with your order?”
“No. I just need to use the restroom.”
“Oh, well we close at 10 p.m.” With that, she let the door slam shut.
I crossed the parking lot to go to Sheetz and use their restroom. FYI: They’re offering free self-serve coffee on New Year’s Day.
Do you see the cat in the tree?
That’s Emily. She’s trying to wean her kittens.
My mom pointed it out, “Leslie, come look at this. The kittens have been attacking Emily for milk, so she ran up the tree. Look at her.”
I grabbed my camera to take a picture and Julia wanted to know what was happening. My mom told her that Emily was in the tree. “Her kittens were driving her crazy. I guess she needed some time alone.”
Emily, I understand.
I kept Dave up until 2AM. He was rocking out to Guitair Hero with me. Yeah, you read me right: Guitar Hero. I got it. Actually, Santa was extra good to me. I got Guitar Hero I and II.
If you’re not convinced that I’m totally spoiled, guess what else I got?
(Cue the heavenly harp music)
A KitchenAid Mixer.
What can I say? Being great in bed really pays off.
You’ll notice the mixer is not yet out of the box. I’ve been busy rocking out and playing with a certified dancing princess.
I’m pretty sure the clothes police will be dispatching a swat team to our place soon to help get Julia out of that dress and me out of my pajamas because we’re still in them.
Christmas was wonderful, and not just because of the gifts. Although, I must thank my mother –
– who went to the greatest lengths to make sure everyone found the gifts they wanted most under the tree, and then some. Christmas wouldn’t have been all it was without her help.
And her generosity didn’t end there. She worked right beside me all week, through her vacation from work, to make our Christmas Eve party a success. And it really was a success! People came, ate, talked, exchanged gifts, and got their butts handed to them (by me) at poker.
I genuinely enjoyed the company of our guests and I believe they felt comfortable and welcome in our new home. I’m not sure if they realize it, but they gave Dave and I such a special gift by coming to spend Christmas Eve with us. It meant so much. The greatest gift, however, came from Dave’s father, who pushed the hand I offered for a shake aside to give me a hug.
A hug. From my father-in-law.
It was a very merry and miraculous Christmas I will never forget.
This hip chick tagged me with this meme: 5 things about me (that you don’t know already).
1. I’m only 5-foot 1.25 inches tall. I tell everyone I’m 5-foot 2 inches; it’s even on my driver’s license. We won’t even begin to discuss the discrepency between my actual and reported weight…
2. I floss my teeth everyday. If for some reason (say, I run out of floss) I don’t get to floss, I feel completely disgusting. I can also spot a non-flosser fairly accurately. Don’t think you need to floss? Yeah, you do. If you don’t, I can tell. Consequently, my dentist loves me.
3. I once replaced an alternator on my car. I couldn’t afford to have it done by a mechanic, so I bought a refurbished alternator and an automotive repair book and did it myself.
4. My dad nicknamed me “Bumpers” when I was little.
5. When I was in second grade, I got in trouble at school for kicking a boy between the legs at recess. We were playing kickball and he said, “Girls can’t kick!” I proved him wrong.
If you want to play along, consider yourself tagged.
Julia received some cookie cutters for her Christmas Countdown gift, so we used them yesterday.
She wasn’t patient enough to decorate them, so we dug into them right away.
Then, I made some more cookies for the Christmas Eve party and Christmas day. Since Julia got her fill of cookie-making first, I was able to make the rest without sticky fingers stealing bits of dough.
I made some very simple, but delicious sugar cookie variations.
I made candy cane cookies by splitting the dough and coloring one half with red food coloring. I rolled the dough into 6 inch ropes, twisted red and plain ones together, shaped them into candy canes and baked them at 350 degrees for 8 minutes.
I also made candy bar cookies by covering mini-snickers bars with sugar cookie dough, rolling them in red and green colored sugar and baking at 350 degrees for 10 minutes.
Then, I made the holiday staple: Hershey Kiss Cookies.
I can’t wait for Christmas!
I received an early Christmas present.
My mother invited Julia to go to lunch with her – just the two of them. Julia wanted to go, of course, and Dave and I agreed that she could. Then, we made plans to do it while they were gone. We were pretty excited about it, too.
Just as Julia and her grandma were getting ready to go, I discovered a joyous gift. My big fat ugly period.
I should have known it was coming. The fact that Julia calling me a “stinkerball” reduced me to tears the night before should have been a clue.
Dave was really great about it. “We can still cuddle, honey.”
Suddenly, I understood every teenage boy I ever shot down in high school when I found myself saying, “Well it’s not really any fun if it isn’t going to lead anywhere, is it?”
Dave rubbed my back for a moment. Then he said, “Wanna go eat something chocolate and watch America’s Next Top Model on the DVR?”
I’m so glad I married him.
My holiday shopping is officially complete. Every item for the party and every gift for under the tree has been purchased. Whew!
This year, however, my consumerism yielded more than Christmas goods – it provided me with a few unforgettable experiences.
Here’s one of them:
Last Saturday, my mom and I stopped at a restaurant for a bite to eat while out shopping. Our meal was interrupted when a man got up from his seat to close a blind on a nearby window to block the sun from hitting his wife in the face. Just then, an older man dressed in a red Christmas shirt, sitting right next to the window jumped up and yelled, “Hey! Don’t close that!” He opened the blind back up and shouted, “Why the hell would you do that? What’s the matter with you, you idiot?”
The shouting man’s wife asked him to please sit down, which he did, but he kept right on screaming. “Well that’s just rude. No one does that to me. I’ve gotta watch my truck. There’s something important in there.” His wife covered her red face with her hand and hissed something at him through gritted teeth, but that didn’t stop him. His tirade continued, getting louder and nastier as he went.
By this time, he had the attention of every person in the place, most of whom were laughing. He looked around and shouted, “I don’t know what’s so *!@$@ funny!”
We took that as our cue to leave along with about 75% of the other patrons. The guy was still going at it as we walked out the door. As we walked to the car, we took note of the only truck in the parking lot that was visible from the man’s window: a pick-up so dirty I’m not certain of the actual color that had a Christmas tree in the back.
And here’s another:
Last Wednesday, I seemed to wake up behind. I had a million things to do, which included churning out a Buckeye order for Dave to deliver at work. By the time I finished the Buckeyes, I discovered I didn’t have enough boxes for them. Frazzled, I loaded Julia up in the car and headed out for the only place I know that carries my boxes – The Party Package in the next town. On the way, I called the store to check their hours. The woman that answered told me they closed at 6 p.m. It was 6:05 p.m. I must have sounded pretty desperate when I said, “Oh, so you’re already closed,” because she asked me what I needed.
I told her and she paused for a moment, then said, “Okay. I’m going to be here a while working on the books. Knock on the door real loud when you get here and I’ll let you in to get them. You’ll have to bring cash, though. The credit card machine is down for the night.”
I thanked her profusely and stepped on the gas to get there as quickly as I could. When Julia and I arrived, the lady was waiting for us near the front of the store. She unlocked the door and gave us a warm welcome. She asked if I knew where to find the boxes and told me to take my time and do all the shopping I needed. I quickly gathered up my items and took them to the counter with my cash in hand. She talked to Julia while she added up the total: $4.28. I gave her a ten dollar bill and told her to keep the change. After all, she’d really done me a favor. But she wouldn’t have any part of it. She counted up my change, caught me at the door, forced it into my hand and thanked me for my business.
“Merry Christmas!” she called after us as we left the store and I believed that it would be.
Dear Spam Comment People,
I am writing to congratulate you fine folks on a job well done. You found the chink in my spam filtering armor.
Since we met back in August (remember, you offered me some Viagra?), I’ve been shielded by the unpenetrable force of Akismet, who is so diligent in its work that, sometimes, it will hold suspicious comments for my approval, just to be sure.
Having authored some suspicious comments myself, (i.e. Here’s a comment from MOMMY. E-mail: MOMMY@myMOMMYsplace.com, URL: myMOMMYsplace.com), I am certain to check my spam folder to make sure the comments from my repetitive and redudant friends aren’t lost.
It was during my routine spam check that the weakness was exposed with a two word comment: Ass Parade.
I thought, “Wait. Is this spam or is this a real comment on my site?”
The URL you entered didn’t immediately raise any red flags, but I was reluctant to click and investigate because I’m certain you have some tracking software that will tell you that I clicked. Then, you’d really let loose with the spam because, out of the millions of people you target, I’m the idiot that actually clicked. And somewhere you’d have a profile of me that indicates I’m all about asses. And parades.
So, I did the next best thing. I googled “ass parade.”
My google search confirmed that your comment was spam. (The URL you supplied matched up with the URL in the google results.) The “ass” in the parade referred to the “I’m gonna get me some” variety rather than the “I’m such a..” kind I was thinking of.
Alas, I am the chink.
What can I say? Some days I feel like I’m in an ass parade. I thought you were just a really intuitive reader.
Although your spam never made it to my readers, I did waste about six minutes of my time.
Congratulations on your hard and thoughtful work. You came close to success.
And thank you for raising my self awareness.
Proud Member of The (I’m such an) Ass Parade