Captain Me Planet

 

I’ve been a mom nearly 11 years.  Not forever, but certainly, I’m no newbie.  And in that amount of time, I have spent hours, nay, days worth of time, sitting in doctor’s offices.  Between 3 children who have always loved to slobber on each other, and share drinks, the germs have a field day around here.

And an appointment for a sick visit goes something like this.  Forget well visits.  I’ve stopped going.

8:30 am, I call:  Um, I have a child, running a temp of 102, headache, stomach ache.  Been 24 hours or more this way.

Nurse on call:  Let me see.  You have a child.  Does he have a fever?  For how long?  Any other symptoms? 

Me, repeating with slight annoyance, and say: we need to be seen right away.  I understand you’re probably booked now, and that we’ll be a work in.

Nurse:  Um, we’re booked at this late notice, for how long has your child been ill?  If you come in at _____time, we’ll try to work you in. 

Me:  Alrighty then.  Now that we’re clear, we’ll be there.

Inevitably, we arrive, with sad, feverish child, and sit.  And sit.  And sit some more.  Read all the old Peoples.  Foolishly attempt to keep other children, who are yet to be ill, from getting ill as they lick the train table and chew on germ infested books.  Lay around in the floor.  Play on the public toilet.  After 2 or so hours, I sigh.  Loudly.  Maybe shift noticably.  Harumph a time or two.  And then we are escorted to the room, where we repeat the repeated.

Second Nurse:  So, what seem to have us feeling sick today, hmmmm?

Me: Well, WE are running a fever of ____, and have a headache, and a stomachache, and _________.  For 33.5 hours now.  No meds.  Just fluids.  No vomiting.  

Second Nurse:  So ______ has a fever…how high?  And the other symptoms?  And for how long?  Have you given him anything?  How is he tolerating fluids?  Has he vomited? 

All this gets recorded, in their handy dandy file folder system, and said system is put in the little clear plastic thingy on the door, presumably for the doctor to review before entering the room.

Aaaaand, the doctor enters the room some 45 minutes later. With handy dandy file folder in hand.

Doctor Brilliant, who obviously graduated med school without being able to read:  So, what seems to be making us so sick today?  Mom?  Tell me what’s going on?  The last time this happened, I actually said that I did not quite understand the procedure, as this was the third time repeating aforementioned info.  Why have the nurse even come in an record all this?  He looked a bit startled, and started ahead.  It was if any attempt to answer this and decode the time honored system would cause mental implosion.  I had a feverish child.  I let it pass.

Me:  answering for the third time.

Doctor:  Alrighty then.  We’ll get Nurse-Make-You-Repeat in here for a blood test, she’ll bring the scripts, and call me if this doesn’t do the trick.

3 hours and some change later, and a big chunk o’ change, it’s viral, we can’t do anything but wait, and there are no scripts to help.  Gee.  Glad we did that.

But this past weekend, I fell in love.  With a little place called the Minute Clinic.  In a CVS, in Marietta, GA, 2 CNPs (certified nurse practitioners, the kind I often see at the doc’s when they are overloaded) are there, 24 hours a day.  In shifts of course.  

There is a marquis, no wait, that’s a royal title, a markee, outside the clinic door.  Listing precisely what certain services will cost.  They will file insurance, if you’re in state.  Otherwise, they give you the paperwork to do so.  And they promise prompt, caring service.  And by damn, it was just that.

We walked right up, with our feverish child.  No phone call prior.  No system to wade through. We told our story one time.  To one woman and her assistant.  And went through the work up on the spot.  In a private room about twice the size of a utility closet.  It was beautiful.  I almost cried.

They assessed quickly.  Were gentle.  Endearing to our 5 year old.  Gave us a timely evaluation (virus, go home and ride it out), and took our money.  Gave us follow up papers, like the hospital will give.  Covering what they told us.  What meds were good.  Dosages.  Now, we know these things, but the point was that is was nice.  And thorough.  We went on our way, tucked our boy into bed for the day, go on with other things. 

Time spent getting to, filling out paperwork, being seen, and getting home?  65 minutes.

And today?  I got a note card in the mail from those two wonderful CNPs.  Get well to our boy.  Hope you feel better.  Can you beat that?  Can you just beat it?  Nope.  You cannot. 

We are supposed to be in Marietta before the fall is out.  I may not even try to find a family practitioner.  Medicine, insurance and health care have changed so much, it’s just not worth it.  In most areas, the days of individual, take-your-time care just doesn’t exist anymore.  I know my own doctor, from the time I was a little girl, and for my parents until just a few years ago, went ahead retired because it was so depressing for him to go into the office each day.  To make a buck, he had to see 2 and 3 times the patients he had when I was young, and could call in ill, and be seen by him, personally, right away.  And who would call in a script based on the description of our sinus infections, which we got annually. 

That, seems to have gone the way of rocking chair front porches, and Sunday Dinners.  In most places, it just doesn’t exist anymore.

For us, and our money?  We’ll be at the Minute Clinic.  Getting in, and getting out.  And going on. 

Last night, at dusk, I saw the children out the front windows.  They were all three deeply ensconced in some imaginary world.  They were each either flying, with arms flapping in slow mo, or swimming, with breath held, cheeks puffed out, and hands, slicing their way through the water I couldn’t see.

It was awesome.

Just had to say something nice, because really, this being a mother rocks. 

 

Today’s excerpt from my 5 year old’s brain?

overheard in Private 2’s room…

Stooooop,  I said, stooooooop.   Mooooooooooom, he won’t stoooooooop.  Crash.  Bang.  Smash.  Based on the previous post, I probably don’t need to continue here. 

I handle this in my usual, calm demeanor.  What the?  Whaaa is going on in here?  What is that banging, 3, what the flip flop (we do say flip flop, not the "f" word) are you doing?

The informer, Private Girly steps up.  Mooooom, I’ve been teeeliiiing him, and he won’t liiiiiiisten to me, I told him and told him, and just kept doing it! 

What, oh dear calm and patient one, what praytell did you tell him?

 

That he can’t keep coming around, running in and out of the cord to my ProjectaScope, that he can’t run by it and bang it and knock off focus, because then I have to start aaaallllll over!  He keeps dooooooiiiiing it!

To which I say, 3?  Did you do this repeatedly, when she asked you not to?  Um, yes.  And did you at least apologize just now as you know you should whenever you provoke your sister?

No.

And why not?

Because I did the first time I knocked it over. 

 

 

in which, I feel I must be going mad.  It’s been busy around here, the Colonel overloaded.  The kind of overload to agree to for the money, oh, we’ll pay of this, we’ll get that, and then you find yourself wrung out and thinking you were stupid.  Colonel being busy, to which I agreed, means Captain Mom is on her own with the privates.  Every. hour. of. every. day.

And today, it may mean they meet their maker.

I have. had. it. with them.  And they aren’t even being bad.  Just constant.  Constant noise.  Constant needs.  Constant desiring nutrition and clean clothing.  Today, it’s like nails on a chalkboard.  Sandpaper in my eyeball.  Just go on and back the car over me now.  The Colonel even left the truck.  It’s heavier than the MPV.  Oughta work out fine.

Upstairs.  slam, bang, run run run, thump whack thud.  Scream. Hysterical laughing.  Door slamming.  Nooooooooooooo, doooooonnnnnn’t.  That’s miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!  Stop stop stop, I’m telling mooooooommmmmmm, run, laugh, cry, you hit me, did not, you meant to, did not,  I wanna try, I wanna try, no I wanna try, no I wanna try.  That hurt.  I told you.  No you did not. Scream scream run run, thud thump whump whack.

Want some more?  I’ve got more. 

Private 3 decides to bring the fun downstairs.  With 2 small kitty figurines.  

The scene: Private 3 trying to balance the kitties on the edge of the bar, back feet on, front feet off.

The outcome: Constant dropping, clinking, clunking while I fill out the Title forms for the DMV, for our new car.  He tried again to defy the odds of gravity.  Over and over and over.

Next scene:  Me, calmly telling Private 3, you must stop doing that now, while he holds one tiny plastic kitty on the edge of the counter again, it’s making too much noise. 

The outcome:  Clunk, clink, chunk as a plastic kitty nose dives to the hardwood floor again.  I thump Private 3’s head.  Oooowwwwwwww, why did you dooooooo thaaaaaaaaat?  You did it AGAIN.  AGAIN.  I just said not to do that!  What did I say, huh, tell me, what did I just say?

His reply:  Ooooh, I thought you meant the other kitty.  This one has a purple bow. 

Today, just might be the end of me.  THE END OF ME.  Send my husband covered dishes after the memorial.  He really doesn’t know how to cook. 

then a happy day to you.  One day late.

My day of honor started out like this:

Sounds slowly infiltrating my brain, that had been resting so beautifully under the sun streaming in the window, bouncing off the rippling waters of Lake Lure.  Sounds that rose in a cacophony, mosquito like in quality, when the bug gets closer and closer to your ear before it dawns that you are indeed about to be bit…I was there, no you weren’t, yes I was, no I was, that’s my spot, I want to be by Mommy, but I was, it’s my spot, no it’s mine, no it’s not, yes it is, no it’s not, move, no, yes, no…

…our two youngest, arguing over who could crawl in bed and rest by me on one of the 3 days a year I get to sleep in with NO guilt.  So, naturally, I handled it thusly:

Do you realize, I began so calmly, that in your effort to bless me with your sweet little selves, you’ve managed to WAKE ME UP to the sounds of bicker bicker bicker?  On one of only 3 days I get to sleep in with no latent guilt of not doing my job of tending to your every need and desire, while the good Lord above works the kinks of selfishness out of me, by giving you to me, so that I  must never think of myself, or that I may be tired, or would like to pee without telling you how many rings Saturn has, or how nice an actual hot cup of coffee would be, instead of the repeatedly nuked one I always have because I get your seconds and thirds of breakfast first, or about how you get all the new clothes, and took my beautiful belly button far far away to never be the same, and how you are convinced that you are each planets about which I was created to spin…GO AWAY.

So.  They did.  But then, I couldn’t go back to sleep.  Drat.

We ate breakfast out.  I did not cook.  Or clean the dishes.  For that, I am grateful.  We drove home from the lake.  Without our friend’s very whiny spoiled and grating precocious 3 year old.  Very grateful here.  And at home, although I cooked something because it was just what I wanted for dinner, the Colonel and our Privates did their best to serve me.  I received 3 fantastic presents, and they did mess duty.  The Colonel took full charge of bed time, and the day came to a close.  And although he stayed up till 3 am working, he made sure the kitchen was clean when I came down this morning.

A good man, he is.  And I’m glad, if I have to learn that the world does not spin around me, that I can do it with him, and these 3 character builders, called children, who qualified me to have such a day, in the first place. 

The mixture of Goo Gone and Melaleuca’s PreSpot, removed the washed in, dried in sugarless grape bubblegum.  And saved Private 2’s little life. 

It also removed all the dried on bubblegum in my dryer, that wall all over the barrel, and in the lint trap.  Fun time here, that was. 

And on the poked with scissors eyeball of our 5 year old?  Seems to only be a nice red spot.  Should heal on it’s own, right? 

 

note:  On Melaleuca…I DO NOT get into these types of businesses.  I am wary of any product line that will need to be sold to the "friends and family" you already have.  But my dear friend Shelli convinced me to just let her put me in her rep line, I signed on to buy their stuff, and I really, really like it.  If you have a desperate stain, and want to try PreSpot, I’ll connect you with her.  I’m not selling, just buying.  She is wonderful, and these products actually are very very good.  I figured that bubblegum was going ot KO our new spring/summer clothing, and the Goo Gone did not do it by itself, as it said it would. 

I’ll also vouch for their SPF lip balm, and Relief Lotion.  Good Stuff. 

In the last hour, I discovered Private 2 had left her sugarless (naturally) grape bubblegum in the pants of her pockets.  And discovered it after the clothes were dry.  And spotted in sugarless grape bubblegum.  And the walls of the dryer gooped with sugarless grape bubblegum.  And this was a load of brand new clothes, just purchased last week.  And while I was assessing and containing the damage, Private 3 poked his eye with the scissors.

Yes.  I know I should empty all pockets.  But I’m doing good to even run the wash regulary, preventing massive back up.  And yes, I know a 5 year old should not have a big pair of scissors.  I told him no.  So what do I do, add spanking to the red blood vessel break in his eyeball?  I did say I told you so. 

 

 

I’ll be here:

A.  Trying to find the bank statement that was just at my computer, and is now not. 

B.  Folding laundry

C.  Detoxing the children from the grandparents’.

D.  Maybe finally making that volcano.

E.  Telling the Colonel to chill it.  Not over do it.

F.  Getting the old Previa to the local parking lot where everybody and their dog tries to sell their car.

and

G.  Teaching Private 3 the Oscar Meyer jingle, so he’ll win the current competition and get to be on TV.  From there, he’ll be nationally recognized as the beautiful, precocious talent he is, (you’re not allowed to steal this idea, it’s just for us and the the rest of America) and offers from L.A. and New York will start pouring in, and then, he’ll make us rich rich rich.  Mua haaa haaaa haaaaaa.  After all, look what I’ve done for him all these years.

Remember the gaping hole (after the disco, the eggs, and the belt test) in our kitchen floor?  It is gone.  Kapuut (is that how you spell kapuut?).  Because my Super Remodler Husband rocks.

Here is proof:

And then, just because he is gorgeous, Private 3 the other night…on his Remodel God daddy.

 

 

Private 3 is sitting on the sofa, watching Saturday morning cartoons.  This is the children’s favorite day of the week.  The only morning they can get up, and watch and hour or two of mindless drivel.

Everyone’s snuggled in under the blanket.  BIG GINORMOUS sneeze from 5 year old Private 3.  He graciously covers his mouth and nose upon eruption.

And then he. licks. his. hand. 

Why does he lick his hand?  Well, it was spattered with snot, of course.   Wouldn’t want to miss a minute of Spongebob to get a tissue, now would we.