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.

Oozing Pus Like a Slow-Drip Coffee Pot

Sometimes it's so hard not to say "I told you so." But in this case, I think I'm a gazillion times justified, just as long as I leave the juvenile "nanner, nanner" bit out of it. I feel the need to state this before informing you that my too-stubborn-to-go-to-the-doc-sooner Hubster has a friggin' Staph infection.

I predicted that he developed Staph in his biggest (gaping-est) ATV accident wound, the shark bite looking chunk of skin on his ankle that continually drips/oozes pus like a slow-drip coffee pot.

As I joked with a bunch of moms outside the gate at the Lawyer's school this morning (a place I'm getting cozy with being now that I'm on morning drive-in duty), the Hubster's left foot smacks of James Caan's inflate-o-matic feet in Stephen King's Misery movie. I'm bummed Google image search wasn't able to turn up a single image scrap of stomach churning Caan's Hollywood effects enhanced clod hoppers. You'll just have to imagine swimming in feet sick on your own.


Another image that also comes to mind when I look at the Hubster's Staphylococcus bacteria factory of an ankle are the Flintstone feet of Mike Myers' "Fat Bastard" character. Keep all this on the DL, please. The Hubster thinks his inner tube sized ankle "looks just great, honey."

On a serious note, the good doc ordered a full blood count work-up, a thorough excavating (cleansing) of the wound, a double strong antibiotic cocktail to cut the narcotic painkillers with and a Staph culture to confirm what he says he "already knows for sure."


If the infection doesn't improve within two days (that is if it goes beyond the permanent marker outline the doctor scrawled around the red swollen areas in question), the Hubster will call the hospital home until otherwise ordered by that same good doc. I can't get over how pissed I am that this never had to escalate to a Staph infection and a dangerous flirtation with Toxic Shock Syndrome (something I know of only from tampon packages).

If only the Hubster were half the hypochondriac I am, he would've had this thing in the can a few days ago, when I first told him the Hell hole wound was a pus making station that required something other than NOTHING, for Christ's sake!

So, here's my day in gore, with a little pre-crash bonus pic at the end. Notice the Hubster's imaginary protective gear. Oh, I'm such a bitch sometimes. At least I know it. I could use a quick lesson in sympathetic nursing, but for right now I'm still worried and miffed.


Yadda, yadda, yadda. Repeat to self: He's going to be just fine. He won't land up in the hospital. Staph ain't nothin' but a chicken wang' dang. Calm the heck down.

Flipped Over and Spit Out

The hype about the dangers of four-wheeling might not be hype after all. Just ask my husband and 6-year-old son, who together accidentally yanked a full revolution in the air on one over the weekend.

Lucky. Relieved. Pissed. Annoyed. Guiltfully validated that "quads" are as trashy and unsafe as I always thought.

My son walked away, literally, from the quad-totalling wipe-out with scratched up knees and road rash all over his back and shoulders. He didn't even cry. My husband was knocked unconscious (our friend tried to kick him awake -- I don't think they teach that move at the Red Cross) and is now the owner of a bruised hip bone, a sprained ankle, at least a dozen road rash scrapes and a laceration on his ankle that you could fit an apricot pit into (I tried to stuff one in there to stop the blood -- and I don't think they teach that at the Red Cross either ... Just kidding). I'm pleased to report that Bounty paper towels are the "quicker picker upper" of blood, that is. Masking tape works too.

So on Mother's Day I spent the day doing what mother's do (hopefully) best, nursing my wounded pups back to health. I have some bizarre ER stories to tell when I'm not busy shuttling kids out the door to school (my husband usually drives The Lawyer to kindergarten in the a.m.) and "Itsy Bitsy" preschooler basketball practice (Cheeks' Jordan training).

For now, the Hubster seems perfectly sedate and pain free on his codeine that I scratched up ... from one of four pharmacies I hunted down after midnight last night. What happened to all the 24-hour pharmacies around here? So I can get a greasy burger after midnight in the city but not a handful of legal narcotics?

Also, wonder cat Trixie, who has now morphed in my opinion to holy high Hell bitch face cat, mauled Pigtails' face again and just missed her eye. I moved her and her litter of four kitties into the garage. Ousted. Exhiled. Kicked the Hell out. Right now she's stalking our playroom sliding glass door, meowing like a wild feline banshee. I keep on singing, "Keep on knocking but you CAN'T come in." Her fate as a member of this household is up in the air, just like a quad that unexpectedly dropped a bolt and my two biggest boys.

More later ... No time to spell check ...

Forecast: A Full Night of Sleep When They Grow Up and Move Out

I'm tired, I'm pissed and I said a lot of things last night that I already regret.

Cheeks had not one, not two, but three major tantrums overnight. At one point he barked like a dog. Figure that one out.

My eyes hurt. I feel like I have a newborn who wakes me turn nurse every hour, except I don't. None of my children are newbies any more. Cheeks reminds me of one, though. His emotional, sometimes violent, outbursts take me back to his nightly newborn, 8 p.m.-on-the-dot crying and kicking fits. They would last for two hours at least, sometimes as long as three.

Neighbors arrived at my front door, as they do now, all those years ago to see if "everything's okay" or to ask me "to keep it down with the baby." We're in a different neighborhood now and nearly four years have passed since Cheeks dreaded punctual colick attacks, yet the neighbors here probably wonder if we're beating him. The crashing sounds of piggy banks breaking, shoes being pelted one after the other at a flimsy bedroom door and incessant wailing and what truly sounds like barking, these are the sounds we're known for now on our block. A neighbor five houses up the street confirmed that she can hear Cheeks' tantrums. I used to worry about the embarrassment. Now I worry that a neighbor, especially the poor couple right next door, is going to call the cops or Child Services.

This has to stop.

Cheeks' older brother, The Lawyer, isn't sleeping enough because of the nightly bloodcurdling scream interruptions. He covers his ears, hides under his pillow. Eventually we send him to our bedroom, where he can at least muffle the noise with bigger pillows and a thicker door. He stays awake anyway, listening to his brother's fits escalate, then fizzle out, usually after about 45 minutes.

One of the Lawyer's teachers asked me why he seems so tired. "Is he getting enough sleep?" Apparently he's become a regular at the office and has taken to "resting" on the couch there.

I have to go wake him now for his Friday field trip. This time he's going to a dairy and produce farm twenty miles up the freeway. Maybe he'll catch some z's on the way there while I try to keep Cheeks asleep a little longer at home. I'm not ready for him to wake up just yet.

(Don't care to spell check.)

Violated Trust, Violated Safety

How would you react if a teacher at your son's school:
1. put your son in the care of a mother you've only met a handful to times and can't remember the name of without being reminded?
2. had the mother who seems nice, who you most definitely don't know pretty much at all, drive him in her car WITH NO CAR SEAT home supposedly sick from a field trip in a major city on several major freeways an hour away from your home and his school?
3. did all of this without your explicit permission and without even attempting to contact you?

Would you send him back to said school the next day not having fully resolved such a huge violation of safety and trust? Poor kid. He's been through enough already, having just switched to this school.

I'm too viciously angry to write another word about this. I can write nothing else, not even a bit of the chapters I have due to my publisher tomorrow.

I'm going to slip into my son's bed and hug him while he sleeps. Happy he is safe and home, where I can be 100 percent sure of his whereabouts and wellness.

And no, I did not meet my first-three-chapters book deadline, in part because I was dealing with this bullshit half the day.

Ps. The teacher was worried for my son's health, which hasn't exactly been top notch lately. He claims he was acting out of his heart and I believe this, but his approach was still irresponsible and out of the bounds of my trust, patience and basic rights as a parent of a school-aged child.

When the Ish Goes Down

I have exactly 15 minutes to spill the contents of my heart all over this post. Then I’ll have to gather up the pieces, put my game-face back on, wake up my daughter from her nap and pick up her brothers from their schools. I apologize ahead of time if I end abruptly or without reaching an actual point here.

Begin rant:

Over the weekend a trusted, respected friend advised me to perhaps look over my blog and spot areas where I could be more balanced, less negative, perhaps less cynical about my life, my career, my children. Basically, my everything.

I agreed with him. “Yes. I’m very negative. Nary a positive post can be found. You’re right. Perhaps I should write some “up” content. Some feel-good commentary.” A positive slant 8cmdeluded makeover might do me and (all 10) of my regular readers some good. Happy, happy. Joy, joy, right? Lest I should alienate anyone who tires of my droning complaint posts.

But you know what? I don’t feel good. I don’t feel up. And I certainly don’t feel positive and perky. So, why can’t I be up-front about it?

Truly I wish I could post more positive reflections on motherhood. Maybe my current situation would feel better and perhaps actually improve if I simply adopted a better attitude. But, shit, the place I’m in right now just won’t allow me to take that leap, needed or not. Plainly put, my attitude sucks.

Just as when I launched this blog six or so months ago, I remain committed to being as brutally honest about my situation as possible, without hurting my children or my spouse. With so much in the media as of late centered around the “how much is too much information” personal and mommy blog debate, I’m beginning to feel that I should hold back more. But holding back is against everything wrapped up in the confessional nature of my blog (and my personality). I refuse to be muzzled because what I have to say sometimes makes others uncomfortable. Isn't some of the best, most compelling art confrontational, challenging to behold at times? (Not that this is bona fide art ...)

I want this blog to be about catharsis, for both myself and those of you in the trenches of mad-crazy motherhood too. Allow me to enlighten you with the dictionary.com definition of catharsis, one of my favorite words/concepts:
1. the purging of the emotions or relieving of emotional tensions, esp. through certain kinds of art, as tragedy or music.
2. Medicine/Medical. purgation.
3. Psychiatry. a. psychotherapy that encourages or permits the discharge of pent-up, socially unacceptable affects.
b. discharge of pent-up emotions so as to result in the alleviation of symptoms or the permanent relief of the condition.

If you’re still with me here, let’s get on with it and bust open a super-sized can of catharsis.

Meanwhile, if I had a soundtrack for this cathartic moment, right here right now, it would be Cypress Hill’s “When the Shit Goes Down” from their Black Sunday album, one of my favorites from back in the day. I find myself singing the lyrics a little too often when the kids are out of earshot: “When the shit goes down, you better be ready!” If there was ever a gangster anthem, this song is it. Yes, despite becoming a parent, I have an ongoing love-hate relationship with gangster rap. Blame too much childhood intake of YoMTV Raps! from the 80s and 90s and stations like 105.9 “Where Hip-Hop Lives” and 93.5, good old KDAY.

But I digress, as way too many people say these days ...

Now that you know what’s up musically for the setting of this post, here goes my hopefully cathartic rant, socially acceptable, feel-good or not:

I’m as broke as a joke. Spent the last money I had today at Target and I refuse to be embarrassed about it. Can you feel me? $28.80 on the essentials – bread, milk, eggs, cheese, canned fruit (can't afford the frest kind until pay-day), granola bars, apple and orange juice. Everything store brand or on sale. My kids think peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are a food group. A mom’s got to do what a mom’s got to do.

Again - “When the shit goes down, you better be ready!”

Well, if my shit went down, “shit” being something as minute as busting a tire or having to bare the brunt of another ER co-pay (knock on wood that I won't have to suffer either in the near future or ever), I am so NOT ready.

I’m about one flat tire away from financial collapse. One oil change away from not making mortgage.

And no, my husband does not work at 7-Eleven or McCrud. In fact, we both have our degrees. Hell, he’s on the verge of having three college diplomas. He is gainfully white-collar world employed but we choose to live in Southern California.

Some would say you made your bed … No doubt you know the rest of that saying. I agree and we’re lying it. But that doesn’t mean I can’t vent all the while in order to feel better.

“Just what are you doing to better yourselves?” you may ask. I don’t blame you if you’re wondering. Just what ARE we doing? I’m writing a book that will hopefully bring at least some grocery money in the door. Soon my blog will have yet more ads that hardly any one will click on.

(BTW, are any of you ad-incorporating mom bloggers out there making bank off your ads? If so, email me and let me know what your secret is. BlogHer seems the way to go.) Also, I’m trying to take on a couple of mundane writing and editing projects that really don’t interest me but would be irresponsible to say no to at this point.

I wonder how long my hair will get because I can’t afford a haircut. I could be the brunt of a grip of "Yo' Mama" jokes with this one.

Shit, I can’t afford my kids’ haircuts, and they’re starting to look skuzzy and unkempt. So much so that it hurts my pride. My husband cuts his own hair, thank God. I’m not too far from allowing him to buzz the kids’ heads once more. And you know that’s desperate because I nearly castrated him the last time he tried that shit.

“Why would you want people to know how broke you are? Have you no shame?” No. No, I don’t have any. Why don’t we do away with societal shame all together by writing from the insides of our hearts, right from where we are coming from, where we are living. What’s wrong with admitting the “real” stuff from your “real” reality?

Where on the Internet are the voices of the stay-home, part-time working suburban poor mothers like me? The mothers who don’t qualify for assistance because their husbands earn two or three thousand dollars too much to? Why can’t I find them?

Why is it shameful to write about falling hard times? Is it because you expect to hear this from someone who lives in the projects? Someone who never finished high school? Not someone who has her bachelor’s and graduated Magna Cum Laude like me? Someone with a different skin color perhaps?

Chew on these facts for a minute if you’re still perplexed. According to a recent Newsweek article titled “Poor Among Plenty: For the first time, poverty shifts to the U.S. suburbs,” “… for the first time in history, more of America’s poor are living in the suburbs than the cities – 1.2 million more, according to a 2005 study… “The suburban poor defy stereotypes about how and why people slip into poverty.”

Wow. My fifteen minutes are up.

All I can think of to end this is yet more depressing commentary. Even when “money’s too tight to mention” as Simply Red sang it, you smile in front of the kids, keep their young spirits high the best you can. Even if it’s eating at you on the inside. Even when you have to put back the extra pack of gum they asked nicely and politely for at the check-out because it’s $1.25 more than you have in your pocket.

Though it will be hard to click “publish” this time, I want to. I need to. Maybe some of you suburban struggling moms will be able to relate and will somehow find comfort in my situation, knowing you aren’t alone. Keep your chin up, ladies. I'll be chinning up too.

And that, my friends, is how the shit is going down at my house.

(No time to spell check or edit. Sorry.)

Sudden Health Attack at the Sick Visit (At Least He's 100%)

Make an on-line slide show at onetruemedia.com

Good Morning Racing Mother's Mind

Disappointment. That about sums up my morning so far.

'Good thing it's early.

Mouth, who I think I switched to calling The Lawyer, then to The Great Communicator (why can't I settle for a blog nickname for that boy?!), spiked a fever again last night, just when I thought he was better. He started showing symptoms of flu on Sunday, fell very ill on Monday and Tuesday, and seemed completely symptom free yesterday, except for the right-at-bedtime-surprise-I'm-baaack fever. What gives?

Now I'm really worried. You know how mothers are. We agonize everything.

Right now my agony goes a little something like this:
Shouldn't I have taken him to the doctor by now?
Why did I only call not go in?
What makes me think I can handle this on my own?
Shouldn't I take him in to have him weighed?
Why don't I ever use a thermometer when taking temperatures?
Why am I so old-fashioned, only using my cheek or the palm of my hand?
I wonder what his new school thinks of their latest arrival missing what is now four days in a row?
How is my little man under the weather feeling?
Why do I always let my husband convince me that practically no medical issue warrants medical attention?
Did he even try to convince me this time or am I buying into his beliefs on the issue? Isn't that just passing the buck? C'mon.
Isn't what he has viral and therefore not able to be cured by antibiotics, so wouldn't the doctor simply tell me to do what I'm already doing - Pedialyte, the BRAT diet and plenty of rest?
What if it is Rotavirus? My friend mentioned that, now I'm freaking out.
I hope he's not dehydrated? It's so much easier when they are still in diapers because you can count the number of "pee" diapers.
Do I need to start counting how many times he pees? Shouldn't I have done that yesterday?
Was I so caught up in writing and work yesterday that I didn't pay attention enough?

Wow, I'm friggin' neurotic. These are the nagging questions ricocheting around my cranium right now.

My gut says forgo school again in favor of the doctor. I'll drop my little Cheeks off at preschool with Pigtails and sickly The Lawyer/Mouth/The Great Communicator in tow, then head straight to the good doc, where we should have gone earlier.

See mom? You were right. Never go against your mother's intuition.

I'll keep you posted.

*BTW, I still want to follow up with Part 2 of my breastfeeding memoirs, as well as blog about leaving kids in the car while you're 5- to 10-feet away at the ATM. Is it true that we all do that or is it just me? What are the laws regarding this in your state? I always opt for the drive-thru ATM first, but sometimes I have to go for the outdoor cash machine. Something tells me that if I'm turning this topic over in my mind I must already know the answer to whether or not it's right or wrong.

Membership Has Its Priveledges - Dining on Burnt Dogs in the Sick Club

Can you tell that I'm desperate to get my flu-stricken son to eat and drink?

I'm SO not above baiting him with Pedialyte in a WINE glass. Have you ever tasted that stuff? Pure salty schwag, I tell ya.

He was scrawny to start but now he's looking even more threadbare minus two fever-melted pounds. The evils (flu germs) are having their way with his lanky bod.

Mouth is ever sharp, even when he's ill. And he's milking to his advantage.

"I'm too weak to bring my plate up," he feebly whispered for added effect this morning. As long as he is as dog-sick as this, I'll let him get away with it.


Sweet bed head, mister.
This is his third day in a row missing school. Poor little trooper.

Anyone have any tricks for making the BRAT (Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, Toast) diet more palatable to picky kid eaters?