lots to say and very little capacity to say it

Aw, buddies. Man, I gotta say I'm pretty exhausted. Big K and I caught Phook's plague in the form of gastrointestinal distress of the southern hemisphere...Big K shed 14 pounds in 2 days...that's how awesome it was. I probably gained 14 pounds by thinking about the food I couldn't get off the couch to eat. And now I have a terrible cold, and the kids don't sound great either. Really, that's uncool. I don't know who is handing out viruses, but the distribution has been unfair, if you ask me. I mean, we've barely left the house since the plague...I don't even know where the cold came from. If this tells you anything, I have taken a NAP the last two days during the kids' naptime. I don't fuggin' do that. I've got kitchen drawers to organize and shit...there is no time for rest. But I have been driven into coma the last two days. So, yeah, things have been less than ideal.

Other than that, there has been a lot of stress in my household as a result of a V.U.E. - that would be a Very Unbloggable Event. I hate those. When I'm freaking out, I really like to rant and rave to the internets, and I can't. But basically, something has been brewing here for several months, and it's been boiling the past couple weeks. I'm starting to lose my shit. But it will be over soon. And then maybe I'll tell you about it. In the meantime, send good vibes to the House of K today. Don't worry, the end game is not bad - just stressful and insane and all those things that tend to make me feel like someone filled my carcass with pop rocks...my whole body has been reverberating with anxiety for some time. As it does.

And now I will tell you about the feather in my parenting cap that I acquired yesterday. Of course it is a feather coated in tar, as they tend to be. Okay, so for my job, which I mention rarely but which takes up about as much time per week as I used to spend blogging (which is to say all my free time), I am currently organizing a project to clean up a local river. I'm working with some other groups and a canoe/kayak business in The Woods to put this thing together for this coming Sunday. Things worked out in such a way that I was invited to give an interview about the project on a radio station located in a nearby town. I was able to call in for the interview from home. Not wanting to have Phook hollering, "I need treat RIGHT NOW" over the airwaves, I asked my dad to come hang out here for the 20 minutes I was to be on the radio. You know how this ends, right?

Okay, so I went out in my yard in my nightgown, with my hair sticking out in 84 directions, and planted myself in a lawn chair with my cell phone. I called into the station, and found myself surprisingly nervous. I was prattling on about the event and kind of feeling jittery, and all of a sudden I heard the most horrific sound that has ever assaulted my ears. Phook standing on the back porch chirping, "Hi Mommy!" Okay, I panicked. I stood up and started running. In my nightgown. Through my yard. While talking about substance abuse and youth and kayaks and river trash. Phook started laughing her arse off and yelling, "Ha Ha! Mommy's bein' really funny! Run Mommy!" Okay, seriously. I am lucky I didn't straight vomit. Instead I ran around the side of my house and crouched down and tried to hide behind a 3-inch wide downspout. At this point apparently my dad got the memo that Phook was hollering at me while I was LIVE ON AIR, and I heard her howl as he tried to drag her back inside. I spent the rest of the interview panting and talking 9 times too fast. It was awesome, let me tell you. I came inside and freaked out for a solid 2 hours. Really, I don't think it was totally disastrous, but I was just absolutely assaulted by anxiety when I saw that kid. And I now definitively know the answer to the question, "What do you most NOT want to see while giving a live radio interview?" It's pigtails. Definitely pigtails. Arf.

And that's pretty much how things have been going. Now, to cheer myself up, I'm gonna post those Easter pics I had planned to put up before all hell broke loose.

Here's Phooker:


And Pig:

And the meal I made (possibly the last positive thing I've done):

Also, I want to share a picture of my son looking like the squinty-eyed farmer he is, having come from a long line of squinty-eyed farmers:

And also, a Kleenex. Or maybe it was a napkin. I can't remember now. What I do remember is that when Phook saw it, she said, "Wook! It's an awigator!" (Alligator, in case you don't read Phook.) That's one of the most awesome things about living with small children - they remind you to keep an eye out for the hidden awesomeness in everyday life. Check it out:

And that, friends, is all I have. Maybe tomorrow I'll post a picture of the Pig's giant black eye...the first of many, I am sure.

Home at last

After what seems like nine years, Phook was discharged this morning. She tested positive for rotavirus. So that's that. She is doing so much better today, she almost resembles my child.

Last night's awesome toddler inpatient drama occurred at 3 a.m. I heard her messing around at about 2 a.m. and got up to change her dipe and give her some tylenol. At about 2:45, I heard her chirp, "My bear!" (This in reference to a small, white, fluffy stuffed bear I got her at the hospital gift shop as a "Thanks for not kicking any nurses" gift.) I picked up the bear. It felt damp. I assumed she had horked on it, so I turned on the light. I discovered the bear covered in blood. Phook was also covered in blood. We're talking something along the lines of the pig's blood scene in Carrie. I calmly hit the nurse call button and elevated Phook's little arm, where she had pulled the IV tubing out of the port in her hand (the needle was still in). When Phook saw the blood, she was not pleased, not pleased at all. We hosed her off, changed her sheets, changed her little Phook ass-crack gown, and, bless her heart, the nurse opted not to call anyone to reinsert the IV at 3 a.m. on account of Phook's positive vitals, wet diapers, and general improvement. Small blessings, man.

Today, I pity the enemies that Phook's arse is firing upon, but she has successfully kept down some small quantities of food and beverage. Snuffle Pig's dipes continue to be rancid, but according to the doctor I queried, it would be an unlikely event for this sort of thing to migrate north. So assuming that he continues to hold down his meals, he should be relatively in the clear. Big K and I are, miraculously, holding. I downed 64 ounces of generic gatorade today in preparation for my future dehydration, just in case. I feel like the grim reaper is stalking me.

Out of this experience, I have learned one thing. If I need to be in the foxhole with someone, I want it to be Phook. Seriously. I think that when you put someone is an absurdly difficult position, you learn a lot about who they really are. And at her core, Phook proved to be iron woman. I could not fathom such bravery in such a wee person. When she was getting sick at home, she'd say to me, "I need help!" and then I'd rub her back while her little stomach attempted to reject its very lining, and she didn't even cry. She'd just say, "All done now" when the bout was over. At the hospital, the only times she really cried were during the IV insertion (and that was from the rubber thing they tied her arm off with so tightly) and when the chainsaw massacre broke out at 3 a.m. All the other poking, prodding, and extreme pain...she just weathered it. She was so feverish and wiped out that she would just nod off at the drop of a hat all day yesterday. And then she'd wake up and in a very small voice say things like, "This a good doctor. Phook get flowers here?" (How she registered that people typically get flowers in the hospital, I have no clue, but you can bet your butt that I ran to the gift shop and got her a little vase of carnations.) She also informed everyone that entered, "My medicine in dat bag right dere. It come down the tube and through the 'chine and come into my body and make me feel all better." ("Chine" is Phook's all-purpose word for "machine" which she applies to all things that are electronic or motorized.) When grandma came to visit and inquired as to whether the nurses put a little chine on her chest, Phook gently corrected her by saying, "No, Jammy, dey listen to my heart!" (Jammy = Grandma).

Seriously, I was some pathetic morsel on a fork and Phook was fondue, melting me and covering me in her deep, deep awesomeness all day long. All the nurses complimented her and were oohing and aahing over what a sweetheart she was, how gorgeous she was, how she was a remarkable two-year-old patient. It was surreal.

I write this not to brag that my toddler is well-behaved under assault, but to remind myself how lucky I am to have her for my daughter. Sometimes she is throwing blocks at Snuffle Pig's head and hollering "No!" in my face when I give her what she just asked for, and it is really rather hard to get through the day with my patience intact. This experience reminds me that the person she is--what remains when she finds herself in the foxhole--is an incredibly sweet, incredibly good, incredibly tough child. When Phook emerges from this battle that she and I will be engaged in for the next 16 years or so--the battle in which it is my job to set limits and her job to test them--I am confident that the person who comes out the other side will be phenomenally awesome. I need to remember this more. To see the essential goodness that exists in this person that I birthed. To see beyond the frustrations of the two-year-old shell and appreciate the amazingness within.

poor baby

Poor Phook. Phook just kept puking and puking and puking and this morning could still not hold down an ounce of water. And she spiked a fever of 103.5. So I called the doctor. They wanted to see her. And once they saw her, they admitted her to the hospital for IV fluids and observation. So I'm standing here updating you from the cafeteria of the hospital while Phook sleeps upstairs with Big K. With a sad little Phook-sized IV in her hand. I just feel so bad for the kid. It's most likely that she just has a nasty, nasty virus, but they are running some blood tests to make sure it's not something weird. I just want her to feel better. We'll likely be here at least overnight...

Big K and I are still in good health. My dad, who is watching the Pig, recently issued a report of a blowout dipe. (Pig's dipe, not his own.) I'm hoping it was a fluke. Or something.

Okay, gotta go. Need to raid the vending machine and get back to the place where no one should ever have to go...the hospital room of a sick child.

Please refer to me as Babe Ruth...

...because I just called my shot.

Read the last line of my previous post. You know, the cheeky reference to my next post being about food poisoning?

Yeah, Phook vomited 17 times today. And counting. The poor child unleashed the vomit comet at about 10 a.m. today and has held down absolutely nothing since then for more than 15 minutes. She passed out on the couch a little bit ago and is now sleeping in her bed, which is heavily covered in beach towels. I plan to strip off a layer with each launch of bile tonite. Although I am praying, praying, praying that her stomach calms itself enough to let her sleep tonite and not get sick anymore.

That child, my friends, is tough as nails. I am in awe of her fortitude and her sweet, sad, oddly pleasant attitude in the face of a severe, severe stomach flu. When Snuffle Pig wakes up from his naps, she always hears him chirp to life over the monitor and goes rushing up to jump in his crib and "greet" him. Today, she had just thrown up, essentially in her sleep on the couch, and the Pig cried out over the monitor. She lifted her weary little head from the pillow and said, in a regretful little tone, "It's okay [Pig], Momma's comin'!" She was clearly upset that she couldn't go up and comfort him herself.

Also, at one point today she was lying on the couch and looked over at me and said, "Momma, [Phook] puked really bad. Puked in [Phook's] room, puked in [Pig's] room, puked in the garbage can, puked in the bucket, puked on the floor. But I gonna get all better now." Poor thing. I just wanted to melt her into me today.

So we're on vomit lockdown, survival mode, etc. Yesterday Pig and Phook shared a sippy cup. What are the odds he will be spared? Ugh. Oh how I hope he is spared. Oh how I hope Big K and I are spared. Oh the fear of wondering who's next. Woe, woe, woe...

And there I was yesterday, smugly thinking about how I was going to put up a nice post with Easter pictures for ya'll. Ha. Let's hope Phook is restored to good health tomorrow and the rest of the K's have magic immunity, and maybe I'll have the post whipped up for you after all. Either that, or you'll hear from me again in 2010 after the hazmat team finishes their work here and allows me to touch my computer again. Ugh.

So I've kinda been off the grid...

Okay, friends, you have compelled me to post, despite my intense desire to take a fistful of Tylenol PM and go tats up right now. A lot has been going on, and nothing has been going on. Nothing major. But, you know, a general level of adventure that has kept me away from the ol' laptop. A trip to Minneapolis with Hode to see my cousin Wendell and experience a chance encounter with Maven in the meat world. The highly unfortunate confirmation of my suspicion that my size 12 feet are now officially a size 13. A chest x-ray for the Pig after I thought he'd ingested a tiny ceramic candy (it's a long story and no it wasn't in there...). Phook hogging the computer and charmingly looking up to say, "I'm just checking the weather" when asked if perhaps she'd like to pony up the rig. My body's cruel attempts to restart my she-systems as the Pig's nursing has begun to taper off, which has resulted in many migraines and an unreasonable urge to assault people. You know, stuff like that. So I'm just gonna be lame here and tell you about my day. I have like 47 more extensive posts on specific topics banging around in my goat brain, but this is it for tonite.

So. As I was saying. I'm going to tell you about my day. It probably stems from this incident, but I have an INTENSE amount of anxiety surrounding the process of getting my child(ren) ready to have their pictures taken professionally. This probably sounds absurd, but I truly think that I experience more anxiety on my way to get my kids' pictures taken than I did driving to the hospital to actually birth them. In my (admittedly limited) experience, the best way to get your kid a shiner or a nice, deep facial laceration is to schedule professional photography. But poor Snuffle hasn't been photographed since he was 3 months old, and given that he turned 9 months the other day, I really wanted to get one more picture taken of him before it could no longer qualify as a baby picture. Ugh. So, I booked it. I haven't slept since. I've been ultra-diligent about the children and sharp implements and tripping hazards. Which is to say that I've continued to be completely unable to control the fact that my kids smash themselves into things constantly. But, miraculously, this morning arrived and no one needed stitches or a slab of raw meat on the face.

These photos were scheduled to be taken in the big city, an hour away. You clowns who live in places with commerce have probably never thought about the awesomeness that is working a 120-mile roundtrip into your fun family photo outings. It requires a full day, a shitload of rations, traveling clothing so said rations don't go spilling all over the photo clothes, impeccable timing and choreography of naps, meals, and happy times, and a fifth of Jim Beam. Except you're not allowed to have that last one when you're driving. It is also advisable to have at least one adult per un-pottytrained child. But some people are badasses. Or lunatics. I am one of these. Oof.

On my way there, I called several unlucky people to freak out about my anxiety level, including my sister's cell phone, although I knew that she'd be teaching and it would be off. I left her a 19-minute message during which I thought I was getting pulled over and had to unleash the fury on Phook as she howled for a snack while I was busy evading the cops and leaving a profanity-laced message. My blood pressure was not ideal. Nothing about me was ideal. I don't even fully get the intensity of it myself. We have one of those portrait club things, so I was out no dollars other than the gas money if the pictures captured images only of my children vomiting or something. Really, a small loss. So it isn't a cash issue. I guess it just feels important. Once I set my mind to undertaking the task of getting pictures done, I just really madly truly deeply want to get some decent pictures out of it. It just feels like a massive undertaking. Hence, the anxiety, I guess.

The thing is, this isn't going to be a funny story about how Phook started beating the shit out of Snuffle when the guy tried to get a picture of the two of them together. Nor is it going to be a funny story about how Phook stared at the photographer beaming her hate at someone who dared try to amuse her with childish nonsense. No. This is a success story, friends. Having spent the previous night running around the house stocking my luggage (because really, it probably qualifies as luggage) with every conceivable bit of nonsense we might need, having timed our departure exactly to coincide with Snuffle's need for a morning nap, having left time to drive around for an extra 15 minutes or so to make that nap extra effective, having gotten there with 45 minutes to feed Snuffle, dress and primp the children, deploy the massive stroller, and walk into the building with 8 minutes to spare, the gods of childhood photos wrung out their sweaty towels onto my poor, weary soul and blessed me with an utter lack of disaster. Really.

Dude, Phook was a ham. I don't even know what happened. I've been giving her pep talks about smiling nice for about 8 days, but still. I have never seen her in ham mode with a stranger. The dude was all flamboyantly man-scarfed, and she approved of his panache. Which was awesome. Snuffle was wearing a nerdy sweater vest, which is to say that he was a charming chap. I have a gorgeous photo of Phook in her Easter dress holding a flower. I have a charming photo of Snuffle standing up (oh, yeah, did I mention he does that now?) holding onto a little chair looking disturbingly gentlemanly. And I have a picture of the two of them posed together that appears to portray both my children simultaneously looking cute. Dude and dude. And dude.

But it doesn't stop there. Apparently my general air of casualness was impressive to both of the photographers on staff because they both said they wished every parent who came in the door was as chill as I was. Which was hilarious. Little did they know that I would have injected an anti-anxiety med into my own eyeball to have calmed myself on the way there if it were available to me. But, yeah, they were overbooked or something and I played it cool and chatted them up and was not a dick to anyone, and it was appreciated. So I made my purchase (with rad coupon, of course), and toted my little gems out of there. Approximately 19 people stopped me to compliment the jaw-dropping cuteness of the K children. I decided that rather than cracking my usual jokes thanking God that they don't look like me, I'd just say thanks and appreciate their kindness. Which was kind of nice for a change.

I then orchestrated lunch in a food court for the three of us, which means I qualify as a juggling professional. We then changed some dipes and hit a bookstore, where I let Phook pick out a book for herself and for Snuffle. We then went into one of my favorite stores specifically looking for a pair of pants I had found last weekend in MN and really like, hoping they had them in another color. (Fine, I admit it, they're basically sweatpants. But they come in LONG.) They did not have the pants, but Phook tried on a bracelet, said, "This is a pretty one," and then started to shove it into the bookstore bag. So I had to dive in and prevent baby's first shoplifting, which was hilarious. She then spontaneously started to break it down badass Phook style as the sound system pumped some bass into the store, and all the previously bored sales staff about pissed themselves watching her seriously shake what her daddy gave her. Because the booty and the moves definitely come from daddy.

We then passed through the midsection of the mall where the Easter bunny was in residence. Thinking that Phook would rather take a bath with a plugged-in toaster than approach a 7-foot tall glorified rodent being paid to try and make nice with her, I pressed on. But Phook spotted the rabbit and said, "I wanna go touch that big bunny!" WTF? Totally non-standard Phook response. So, you know, we went and touched the big bunny. Phook socialized with said bunny in an oddly unPhooklike manner. When s/he gave Phook some paper bunny ears, Phook very charmingly and without prompting said, "Thank you for deez ears, Easter bunny" before giving the sucker five. Who is this child? Phooks are supposed to stare awkwardly at strangers and tools dressed like rabbits, only moving or speaking to lurch toward the diaper bag hollering, "I need BAHNKIE!" Phooks are not supposed to socialize. Unprompted. With charm. (If you need a translation, bahnkie = blankie. I like to be phonetically accurate for effect, you know.)

Anyhoo, we pressed on as I stared slack jawed at Phook as she randomly greeted other children. We topped it off with a 75 cent ride in a toy fire truck, and drove off into the sunset. I should not neglect to mention that Snuffle spent the entire adventure in the stroller, smiling and charming the hell out of any and all passersby. Not a single malcontent peep. We got in the car, Snuffle passed out, Phook happily observed some heavy equipment working on the interstate and passed out, I sang some really awesomely bad hit tunes from the latter half of the '90s, and in general felt like I had won the parenting lottery.

I don't mean to tell this tale as if my children are normally uncontrollable monsters. They are not. Phook has yet to unleash a tantrum in public (of course I have now assured it will happen tomorrow) and Snuffle is a gem of a child. We routinely go to church, various people's homes, the grocery store, etc., etc. without anyone causing a scene and often with lone Big W corralling the beasts, but this whole meticulously timed sequence of events followed by bonus hours of charming behavior was just a heck of a lot more than I expected to get out of the day. My days are good 95% of the time, but it's just so nice to have a great one, particularly when I was pretty sure I was going to wake up to a toddler self-haircut, a baby rocking a projectile bodily function of some variety, and a flat tire.

Really. I just cannot believe today actually happened. Which means, dear readers, you can probably look forward to tomorrow's post about food poisoning...

XO,
Big W