A Picture Says a Thousand Words, or Whatever

Yesterday was not a good day.

Why was it not a good day? Not because Spawnling isn't doing well, because he is.

Not because the gremlins had their claws out around the nice(r) furniture, because they didn't.

Not because I didn't have help with the three horned ones all afternoon from The Madre, because I did (Thanks again, Madre!)

No. The reason it wasn't a good day is because I am a giant tool and didn't follow my own advice.

When it comes to health, I believe there is a fine line between being informed and having too much information. For example, when doctors were scrambling to figure out what was wrong with Spawnling and the words 'Kawasaki Disease' were thrown into the mix, I quickly grabbed a cup of coffee from the hospital cafeteria and diligently researched the disease - along with a few others they had brought up as possibilities - on my laptop. I became an informed parent, which is important if you're going to not only make the best decisions for your sick child, but also knock the medical staff's lab coats off with your (newly acquired) vast knowledge of auto-immune disorders. By the time doctors had about reached a diagnosis, I was well aware of what we needed to do to make him better and jumped on the treatment bandwagon with bells on.

And I felt pretty damn proud of myself, I might add, because not only had I taken the time to research everything and make the right decisions, but I also took the time to apply lipstick that day. Mothers who wear lipstick in the hospital appear really put together even when we're nervous wrecks just trying to fake it. Also, I had the cutest little barrettes that did a great job at accentuating the red in my hair...

Sorry, where was I?

Right. Research. Knowledge. Power!

So, Spawnling is on a low dose of aspirin for the next few weeks to help prevent heart complications. Theoretically, when he gets the 'all clear' at his next echo in about five weeks, he'll stop taking it. A few times before he was discharged, and once when I filled the prescription, I was told he needed to stop taking aspirin if he got a viral infection, like the flu or chicken pox. Otherwise, he could potentially develop something called 'Reye's Syndrome'.

That was brought up three or four times, I realized yesterday as I was thinking about things. Hmm. Interesting.

I could have stopped there. I could have been an ignorant-but-still-lipstick-wearing mother who remembered the important thing in all of this: If your child get sick stop giving him aspirin. That's the long and short of it, isn't it? I needn't know more. I needn't ask questions. I knew, in the recesses of my exhausted little mind, that knowing might be bad.

But, in typical Maven fashion, I just had to create a bit of drama just as things are starting to calm down. So I Googled 'Reye's Syndrome'.

Ever Google 'Reye's Syndrome'? Don't do it, man. It's not worth it. You do not want to know what can happen if your child gets it. And it doesn't matter if the chances of contracting the syndrome are minuscule. It doesn't matter if only about two people a year get it in the US because developing it is that exceptional.

None of that matters because, after you read it, you will be frightened. And, if your child has to take aspirin for medical reasons - the one thing they know increases your chances of getting Reye's Syndrome - you will be positively terrified.

And poof! just like that, you're a hyperventilating paranoid freak dashing out of the house to buy hand sanitizer so you can make

every

single

person

who comes into your home use it upon entry so your baby doesn't die after a rare health issue from an even rarer one. Because wouldn't that seriously suck?

(Did Meanie mention Post Traumatic Stress to me the other day? I believe that woman should be a psychiatrist. And, if she wants to incorporate her current career into the new one, she could be a mean psychiatrist.)

Anyway, while I was at the store I, um, picked up a few extra things. It wasn't until I got home and started taking it out of the bag that I realized how easily my day could be summed up in a single shopping trip:


And yes. I did enjoy eating my feelings, and the carrots were, indeed, purchased out of guilt. (I'm nothing if not honest.)

If I'm not careful I'm going to have to start taking aspirin for my heart, too.

... And then we'll both get Reye's Syndrome! Shit.

Spawn's Toof(s): The Saga Continues

Know what really sucks?

When you spend the day writing a fairly fantastic post about your stupendously superb weekend and figure you'll finish it right after Spawnling's surprise dental visit at 5pm (there was a cancellation and they called this morning), and then you find out that your child's teeth are too far gone to be saved and they will have to pull all three of the remaining top front ones.

Yes. I said all three.

I told you it sucked.

My child is going Deliverance style. Wasn't I just making fun of Deliverance and having a purdy mouth and all that? Is this some kind of karmic joke? Now I'll have to buy him a banjo and some slacks with suspenders. We'll need to move to a log cabin, join a militia and raise our own turkeys and pigs for the slaughter. This is how these situations work. It's practically a law.

And we're peace-loving vegetarians, damn it.

On Saturday April 25th, my poor little Spawnling will go under general anesthetic and have three teeth pulled, two filled and sealed, his mouth flourided and polished. He will wake up sore and confused and I will feel like a very, very shitty mom.

Oh, wait. I already do. I suppose that will simply be a continuation of the feeling coupled with copious amounts of empathy for my baby.

You know that little nagging feeling I had about my dentist not picking up on the decay like he should have? I should have listened to that voice about six months ago instead of waiting and waiting and guessing hearing voices in my head simply meant I should drink less coffee.

I'm also trying not to have murderous feelings toward my dentist. I know everyone makes mistakes. Sesame Street taught me that. However, they were referring to spilled milk and not the loss of four top teeth.

Just sayin'.

There's no point in being mad, I suppose. With that in mind, I suppose having several crying jags on the way home was also pointless. The pattern was sort of like this:

I'm fine. He's fine. It could be worse. He could have leukemia.

Oh my God. Did I just use the "He could have leukemia" card? What the hell is the matter with me? Kids get cancer and it's nobody's fault. Spawnling's teeth are rotting out because I feed him peanut butter cups while watching Arthur. Leukemia. You're such a jerkface, Maven.

*crying jag*

No, I'm not a jerk. I'm a distraught mom, that's all. This is a big deal. My child is going to have dental surgery. My child is going to have no front teeth. How is he going to talk? Is he going to sound so weird that none of the other kids will play with him and he'll be at home feeling lonely and doing puzzles with mom and dad until he's seven? Will he look like we don't love him and take care of him? Will someone call the authorities?

Oh. My. God. Did I just make this all about me? Seriously? All I can think about is how I'm going to look to the rest of the world when my child is losing his rotten teeth? I'm such a selfish bitch of a mom!

*crying jag and nose blowing*

Shut up, big meanie voice! You don't know what you're talking about. I'm a great mom. Or at the very least mediocre. I brush my kids' teeth! I make sure they get their calcium! I take them outside! And play games with them! And fix them nutritious snacks like apples and...

Oh. My. God. How is he going to eat an apple now? Is it considered a longterm disability if you have to cut up fruit for a child on account of being toothless for five years? A preventable disability, even. I ruined this poor boy. He should have had a better mother who loved him enough to floss. And... and... Corn on the cob is his favourite and he'll be without it for so long he'll forget what it tastes like! He's going to need therapy forever!

*crying so hard the person in the car next to me looks like he might put it in park and come hug me*

So, as you can see, this has not been a good evening. My mom called tonight just to make sure I'm okay. When I can talk about it without crying I'll be sure to call my in-laws and tell them, too. And maybe my friends - the ones who don't read my blog.

Are there any of those left? I think they all like to read my little trainwreck. Probably because I look so composed and together in real life and it makes them feel better about themselves.

Yes. That's it.

I suppose we might want to look on the bright side. All this angst he'll be feeling is the perfect fuel if he wants to front a punk band later (after his teeth come in and get knocked out again in a bar fight). I'm also slightly relieved that biting will prove more difficult. He's been doing a lot of that lately and it's soooo annoying.

I think it might have been over the line to celebrate the end of biting. Whatever. It's been a crap day and I'm grasping at the straws of positivity. Just smile and nod for me, alright?

Tomorrow I'll post about my awesome weekend, though. It was spectacular and I enjoyed every minute of it. I'll also post pictures of my incredibly sexy new hair. It loses some of its appeal when my make-up is smeared from sobbing all the way home, though. I'll make sure they're happy pictures from when I was blissfully unaware of what was coming today. Stupid life, throwing curveballs.

But I'm not bitter. Nope. Not at all.