Today wasn’t at all like I thought it was going to be. Here, in no particular order, are a few of the highlights.
- Kate had one of her little episodes of stomach-flu-type symptoms. By about 11:30 a.m., she was starting the dry heaves, and I pulled out my super-powerful – albeit super-expensive – generic Zofran. As far as I am concerned, ondansetron is the bionic and magical superhero of pharmaceutical formulations, standing head and shoulders above all the other drugs. Vomiting and dry-heaving ceases within 15 minutes. Within an hour, she can hold down small amounts of liquid. Within 90 minutes, she can keep down small amounts of solid food.
I have a plethora of concerns over why this happens as often as it does, but that problem will be addressed a different day. With her physicians, of course. Before which I will, of course, conduct exhaustive medical research via Dr. Google.
Bottom line: she was well enough to eat dinner. Still not sure about school tomorrow, but at least she was much improved this evening. Yay Kate!
- Because I did not set foot outside the house today (off the couch actually, unless it was to wipe Amy’s behind or clean up Kate’s vomit), I had Claire bring in the mail when she got off the bus this afternoon. She was delighted to find what she calls the American Girl Doll Magazine. I, of course, call it something sounding like Catalog of Exceedingly Overpriced Plastic Molds With Plastic Hair Ruthlessly Marketed to a Tender, Innocent Demographic, Who Should Be Left ENTIRELY Alone Until They are at Least 14 and Ready for Eye Shadow. [Allow me this pleasure, will you please, of thinking she won’t be yearning for makeup until 14. Or even 16. Yep, 16 would be better.]
So she’s laying on the loveseat, drooling over dolls that cost more than my last two years worth of Cost Cutters haircuts, dreaming of her first credit card, no doubt. And you know, of course, that these different outrageously priced dolls each come from a different era, under the guise of adding some historical value. Whatever.
Anyway, Claire’s studying the pages, and she sees this doll she likes, and she looks up at me all sweet and inquisitive, truly innocent and curious. And she asks, with her pointer finger touching her latest fantasy, “Mama? Were you alive in 1864?”
WHA???????????? Apparently, I’ve unwittingly jumped past “getting up there,” zoomed right past “old” and moved right on up (or would it be down?) to ANCIENT! Good to know.
- The last anecdote of the day doesn’t even come from my own home, but I’ve been granted permission to share it with you. (Facebook messages can be considered legally binding, right?) Anyway, this would qualify as the precursor to full-contact sibling rivalry. So the little boys in this home are about 3 ½ and approximately 9 months. They are absolutely delightful kids. AND. We all know that our children are at their most delightful when they are at home, with no one but a parent to witness the chaos and alter-ego’s.
So the 3 ½-y.o. is playing with his train. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that a train is for a little boy like a Barbie or a Polly Pocket or a Cinderella sticker is for a little girl. As in, get in between the two, and prepare to suffer the consequences. Which the 9-m.o. apparently did. When this adorable little guy, who’s currently in the scooting stage, rolled on to the train tracks and wouldn’t move, Big Brother had to take a stand. Luckily, his mom was near enough to keep everyone alive. Because Big Brother wasn’t messing around. Yes, in Big Brother’s mind, boundaries were being crossed, and something had to be done. So, the 3 ½-y.o. grabbed a pillow, and, from what I understand, employed a neat little suffocation move. Pillow over baby, apply firm pressure.
Teaching moment: do not get between a little boy and his trains (or his train track, for that matter), or you may be very, very sorry. Or dead, depending on where his Mom happens to be at that moment.
Score yet another few points for the SAHMs of the world. God knows we need as many as we can get.
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