Staying the Antibiotic Course

Not much news to report on the swollen cesspool wound front today. The Hubster still looks like he tried to feed a tiger by strapping a raw T-bone steak to his left ankle.

The kids are wild, crazy and surprisingly positive, with only one exception: The Lawyer asked me last night if a Staph infection "could kill Daddy?" I suppose a question like that could be considered more curious and suspicious than negative. After tucking The Lawyer's outer space comforter around his (healthy) feet, I answered: "No. Dad's going to be just fine. He just needs a lot of love, rest and medicine."

What I was thinking: "Technically speaking, well ... Oh, and he could lose a limb ... " and a number of other worst case scenarios that reflexively burp to the surface in my perpetually negative thinking mind.

Think positive (whatever that is), think positive.

I forgot to give an update on The Lawyer's health yesterday. His pediatrician looked him over on Tuesday. Other than minor road rash on his back, shoulders and knees, he's fine. Since the appointment was also his regularly scheduled six-year appointed (uh, super late, though ... he turned six Feb. 15), the doctor sized up his height and weight. He's a bit underweight like I was at that lanky age and he's average height. I'm still surprised at how small and average in size my children are. I'm 5' 8" and my husband's 6' 2", so what gives (and why do I care)? Does anyone else out there take those irritating growth charts and stats as (unnecessarily) seriously as I do?

Well, I'm off to do my Thursday two-school shuffle ... First I pick up Cheeks from preschool, next I zip downtown while shoving a random form of crunchy carbs in my face (and tossing some backwards to Pigtails in her car seat) to grab The Lawyer. He'll be "stoked," as he would say, to see his wounded Papa alive and mostly well. Oh, I forgot I'm stopping at a third school to pick up a friend whose kindly pitching in with the kids and chores this weekend.

Tomorrow I wrangle mean bitchface cat, Trixie, and her litter trio, into a kitty carrier I scooped up from a yard sale today. I hope I don't sustain any open wounds from strong arm-ing her furry feline ass. I don't want to catch The Hubster's nasty infection.