Don't Poke Mama Bear

You never know how lucky you are... until you know how lucky you are. If you're REALLY lucky, you get to appreciate how lucky you are and not just how lucky you were. You know? No. Okay.

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We get home to a dark, quiet home. The kids are at my folks place. The place it kind of messy. I quickly rearrange some furniture so that the "reclining" chair is in front of the TV and ease him into it. His face suddenly drops even more than it has been in the last day or so.

"I just caught my reflection in the (powered-off) TV". I've been rubbing his head constantly for two days, as it's one of the few things I can do that doesn't hurt, so his hair is standing straight up like a 20 year old punk kid with an unlimited supply of Axe hair gel. It's kinda funny (all he's missing is the horrible white sunglasses), but the massive brace attached to his head, neck & back, and the hideous hospital gown (shirts don't fit very well over the contraption) leave him understandably less than amused.

I look him right in the eyes "It could be a lot worse." He shoots me the fuck-off-with-your-glass-half-full-bullshit look. I shoot him back the who-the-fuck-do-you-think-your-(um)-"talking"-to look (we have a lot of conversations without words - the word "fuck" is in most of them, oddly). "It could be a lot worse." His expression softens a little, and he kind of agrees. Though small, it's a significant concession.

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He took a header from his bike into a tree on a local back trail. He was training hard, so pushing the limits. I remarked that for the number of years he's been doing this, and how hard he pushes himself, it's actually pretty impressive that this was our first Emerg trip. But it was a lulu.

He was riding with a good friend in the health industry - who doesn't mess around - who called paramedics. The paramedics didn't mess around & immobilized him. Strapped him to a board. He was stuck on that board for hours until a doctor "cleared" him. Not messing around. Lots of checks & observations. Can you feel this? Pull that; Push here; Grab my hand. Not messing around. Then an x-ray. Yay! No fractures! Except, you know, the neck area picture is a little fuzzy, but it's probably okay.

What?

"Well, there's nothing showing and I can't say 100% that it's clear, but all his reflexes, & muscle responses & sensations point to nothing being wrong."

"What do we need to do to be 100%?"

"Trauma assessment downtown."

"So?"

"Well, they might not take him.They're often very busy. Auto accidents are a priority."

"HIS HEAD HIT A FUCKING TREE AFTER FLYING OVER HIS FUCKING HANDLEBARS. ASK THE FUCKING QUESTION."

(I might have had an external filter that made that sound a lot nicer coming out.)

"I could try."

"Please." Max was not terribly impressed. He just wanted to go home. To go for further assessment meant back on the board (protocol), and not off until ANOTHER doctor re-clears him, hours later.

"Good News! They'll take him!"

"Excellent. Thank you."

Turns out he has fractured two vertebrae in his neck - C6 & C7. Despite a rather scary-sounding "fragment" within C7, he has (so far) dodged surgery, but will be in a back-neck brace - a CTO (cervical thoracic orthosis) - for four-to-six weeks. Obviously, I'd prefer to have been wrong.

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So we're home. Recovery will be one day at a time. But I'm constantly reminded of the scary fact that an inch one way or the other; a turn of his head or twist of his body in another direction; a few feet per second more (or less?) and things could have been much different. Is that glass-half-full? Positive thinking? Optimistic? If you know me, you'll already know I'm not exactly Pollyanna (I don't even know who that is. She sounds like a tool). I just that can't even begin to process any other of those alternatives (except, you know, LESS pain & suffering on his part), so we'll be content with this one for the time being.

Infestation

Non-stereotypically of girls, I don't mind bugs. Bugs who bother me – eat my food or my person or that of my family & friends, or hang out in our immediate space – must die. It's simple. But they generally don't creep me out^[1].

That was before lice. The other day I found a creepy crawly in The Boy's hair. And I lost my shit. It's been four days now and it hasn't found its way back.

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It seems like I'm now in this exclusive club that includes, oh I don't know, EVERYONE! My casual discussions this week:

"Oh yeah, we were sitting eating breakfast and I saw this bug dart out of her hairline on her forehead"

WHAT WHAT WHAAAAT???

"He said 'Mom, my head itches' and he hadn't had a shower for a few days so I scrubbed his scalp extra and when he got out he said 'MOOOOM it still itches!' so I checked him closer and yeah, he was crawling with them"

HOW DID YOU NOT BURN YOUR OWN HOUSE DOWN???

"She must have got it from a new hat I let her wear without washing it. She was crawling with them"

NOW *I* WANT TO BURN YOUR HOUSE DOWN!!! AND MINE!!!

Rational thought eventually kind of took over with the realization that washing every single washable item in the house seventeen-thousand times is STILL EASIER TO MANAGE than rebuilding with null-and-void insurance and a jail-term for arson (full disclosure: Max hid all the flammable implements).

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I understand that it has nothing to do with your cleanliness, or tidiness or how good or not good your parenting is. Believe me I understand this. With the nearly monthly letters sent home saying "someone in your child's class has lice, blah blah blah" they really try to hammer that home (rightly so). Besides, if it DID have anything to do with my ability as a housekeeper, I would have had lice since – oh, I don't know, my early 20s. But that doesn't keep me feeling like a filthy hobo (and not the sexy kind, that the gentlemen seem to find so endearing); OR my family from treating each other like lepers.

All told, I think it was caught extremely early. The cases above are more likely what would have happened if there hadn't been a miraculous fluke of me inspecting Stewie's scalp, as he'd been having some seborrhoea (what's called "cradle cap" in babies – also gross, but y'know, not a MOTHERFUCKINGPARASITE). [Aside: I now have a rock-steady handle on the scalp-health of everyone in this family.]

I bought the treatment (cornered and grilled the pharmacist for about half an hour) and applied it, then decided to go a little more CSI on everyone else. Norah turned up positive. Max & Pepper are negative (so far). Myself? It took the awesome nerd-slinging power of the microscope^[2] to overwhelm my denial with scientific proof, so I've been treated too. (He climbed into bed in the morning before I found them. The little bastard is so snugly! And he still says "I wuff you, Mummy")

We'll treat again, as directed: 7 days after first treatment. And, by all accounts, about six to eight weeks from the "all clear", I might slow the meticulous checks down to every other day. Until then, I toy with the idea of shaving my head, but I can't seem to find any sharp implements, either…

^[1] Don't test that, I said "generally"

^[2] What, you don't have a microscope in your home? Get off the internet & don't try and call yourself a nerd until you've rectified the situation. Electron not necessary.

Live Tweeting the spectacle:

Found head lice on The Boy. From what I've read, for the amount of bugs I now feel crawling all over me, I'd expect to be way higher.

Lice: I mean, it's not like the bed didn't need vacuuming anyway, right? RIGHT?

Bad: Kid-with-brush-cut having lice. Worse: Kid-with-long-hair-who-hates-brushing-it-like-ever confirmed. Better: 3 of us remain pure.

Also: motherfucking headache.

Also: hot water tank (which was never really resolved) acting up. KIND OF NEED HOT WATER TO KILL IT ALL.

Did I mention motherfucking headache?

New challenge: keep lice-free kid from picking through the head of infested one.

I really should have read through fine-print of the EULA for Parenting. Instead, we were all "oooo babies are soooooo cute!" [ACCEPT]

Are lice treatments tax-deductible? How about the booze treatments? You know. For me.

OH: "don't threaten your sister with your head". OK, it was me. I've just gone to my happy-place & am laughing at everything I'm watching.

OMG!!! This changes everything: "Stop [current offensive behavior] or you'll catch lice from your brother". How long can I pull this off?

If 10 yrs ago you had told me I'd be vacuuming pillows at midnight, I'd have said "who the hell are you?"

Also: "maybe you could foretell something a little more useful? Like what kind of car I'll be driving?"

Backfire

We were watching Wimbledon.

I use the term "we" a little loosely. Basically, I was aware it was on. Despite my abhorrence for all things sports, I DO try to make an effort to remain engaged. It is a little bit interesting. Plus, I do have a deep respect for and fascination with the business, physiology and psychology of sports. That someone can bring themselves up to that level, both physically and mentally (it takes both, apparently).

So we were watching Wimbledon, and I looked up from my crossword/sudorku at some point and made some snide comment about Roger Federer being some kind of an asshole or something. Max – who normally jumps right in with the celebrity bashing – indignantly said "actually, I've heard he's quite the gentleman and sportsman". I was unable to argue the statement, as my position was based merely on the usually robust assumption that all celebrities (from all walks) are assholes. I am fully aware that this is a rule which is full of exceptions, and am quick to back down when one is presented, but usually, I just don't give a flying crap either way.

But it did send me off on a train of thought… Wow. He sure seems smitten [I don't know if it's obvious, but the thought process from here on was pretty much entirely internal] with Roger Federer. And it reminded me of a Mad TV skit (which I can't find, so it's possible I made this whole part up) where a man finds his wife in bed with Brian Bosworth and instead of freaking out, he is totally jazzed by the fact that his wife is FUCKING BRIAN BOSWORTH!!! And he wants pictures and autographs – ends up creeping out the Boz*, and pissing off his wife because, hello! Earth to jealous husband! Fight for me!

So jumping another step (naturally), suddenly I'm thinking of the Freebie Five. Nen did (a) Your Freebie Five; (b) the Freebie Five I'd Switch Teams For; (c) most recently, Time Machine Freebie Five. The next logical step is…

[drum roll please]

Freebie Five for my spouse! Brilliant! This is so brilliant that I can't believe it hasn't been done yet. I'm so excited. Yay! I am totally pursuing this.

That night, as the house is settling down, I ask (I even cite the Mad TV skit, so it's not TOTALLY out of the blue – I'm THAT prepared): "Who would your Freebie Five for me be?"

"WHAT?!!"

"You know, who would it be a feather in YOUR cap if *I* were to sleep with them?"

He is clearly not playing the game, and in fact, is offended. "What the hell is wrong with you? That list would obviously be zero" (also obviously too flustered to deal with grammar)

Now it is ME who is offended "UGH! You have no imagination. Yes, I'm going to take your 'list' and run around the continent (hey! I've got lots of airmiles!) hunting down these 'catches' because I've got this permission slip from my husband, so it's ok as long as I get pictures and an autograph that says 'yer wife's a tiger in the sack, thanks dude'. It took me six months land a date with YOU"

He rolled his eyes at me and was silent for a very long time as I frittered away on my sudorku "OK fine… How about Stephen Hawking. And maybe Homer Simpson"

"you're an asshole. Homer Simpson wouldn't count because he's all TWO DIMENSIONAL"

*scroll down to "Personal Life" for a local connection. I recall seeing it on the news, so it MUST be true!

Max Power

When I started this (months ago), I had large hopes of it expressing my precise feelings for that entity we call "Max Power" here down at Harmzie's Way. Now, late in the evening on the anniversary of the day that brought Mr Max upon this plane, I can't seem to type a single word without the use of the backspace bar (may or may not be due to the celebrating, OR the presence of my mom and my FAB cousin visiting on their way by from Ontario thru to BC -- i.e. liberal applications of the celebrating factors of La Grotta cheesecake and/or Greenall and/or Peter Lehman), I seem to have to resort to the words of the fabulous and eloquent Christina Agulara. I think she's pretty much captured it, so I'm good with it:

(Do your thang honey)

I could feel it from the start,
Couldn't stand to be apart.
Something about you caught my eye,
Something moved me deep inside!
Don't know what you did boy but
You had it and I've been hooked ever since.

I told my mother, my brother, my sister and my friends
I told the others, my lovers, both past and present tense.
Everytime I see you everything starts making sense.

(Do your thang honey)

Ain't no other man, can stand up next to you
Ain't no other man on the planet does what you do
(what you do).
You're the kinda guy, a girl finds in a blue moon.
You got soul, you got class.
You got style with your bad ass - oh yeah!
Ain't no other man its true - all right -
Ain't no other man but you.

(Do your thang honey)

Never thought I'd be all right.
(No, no, no!)
Till you came and changed my life.
(Yeah, yeah, yeah!)
What was cloudy now is clear!
(Yeah, yeah yeah)!
You're the light that I needed.

You got what I want boy, and I want it!
So keep on givin' it up!
Tell your mother, your brother, your sister, and your friends.
And the others, your lovers, better not be present tense.
Cause I want everyone to know that you are mine and no one else's!
Oooooooo, oh!

Ain't no other man, can stand up next to you
Ain't no other man on the planet does what you do
(what you do).
You're the kinda guy, a girl finds in a blue moon.
You got soul, you got class.
You got style your bad ass - oh yeah!
Ain't no other man it's true - all right -
Ain't no other man but you.

(Break it down now!)
Ain't no other, ain't, ain't no other! (other)
Ain't no other, ain't, ain't no other LOVER!
Ain't no other, I, I, I need no other!
Ain't no other man but you!
Ohhhh!

You are there when I'm a mess
Talk me down from every ledge
Give me strength, boy you're the best
You're the only one who's ever passed every test

Ain't no other man, can stand up next to you
Ain't no other man on the planet does what you do
(what you do).
You're the kinda guy, a girl finds in a blue moon.
(You're the kinda guy, a girl finds oooo yeahh)
You got soul, you got class.
You got style your bad ass - oh yeah!
Ain't no other man it's true - all right -
Ain't no other man but you.

And now I'm tellin' you, so ain't no other man but you.
Ain't no other man, can stand up next to you
Ain't no other man on the planet does what you do
(what you do).
You're the kinda guy, a girl finds in a blue moon.
You got soul, you got class.
You got style your bad ass - oh yeah!
Ain't no other man it's true - all right -
Ain't no other man but you.

I luvs and/or lust you boi.
Happy Birthday, Max.

The Spinner

I have a "spinner":

1/ pull covers [unconsciously, of course] to chin [mmm coziness]

2/ feet get exposed

3/ pull covers with feet to cover said feet [exposes wife's feet? maybe]

4/ yell at wife for being "fussy" about having to have the blankets "just so" whilst he's sleeping.

[sigh] Amongst other splendiferous attributes, he cooks.

But if I were to start in on the splendiferous, it could start to drift away from entertaining and waver dangerously toward "ewww". So I'll just continue toying with the comfortable thought that he'll never start his own blog and start in on me.

Also? 16 years of legal, publicly acknowledged lust pawing "practicing" correction affection as of today. If you ever drag your sorry ass here and dare to take a peek at what I write about you, Happy Anniversary Max Power! The big wet smooches will be administered whether you drag your sorry ass here and dare to take a peek at what I write about you or not.

"I'd be honoured to attend" *updated*

After years of pretty effectively using a paper calendar, a while back, we decided we were getting pretty bogged down and needed a better way to organize our family's whackadoo schedule. Without, you know, actually cutting back on any of our Super-Fun-I-Absolutely-Cannot-Live-Unless-I-Do-This-And-I-Promise-I'll-Practice-EVERY-Night-WITHOUT-You-Reminding-Me activities.

So we've started using the Google Calendar. I suggested it offhand and Max jumped in with both feet. We put in our own activities and those of all the kids. Basically we can see when one has to tag-off with the other. And conflicts where we have to sign up a babysitter (or turn to our ever-gracious and wonderful, loving, caring, flexible and compassionate family and/or friends) for extra eyes and hands. So far, it's been pretty effective as a "don't book shit here" tool.

The technology is built one way though, and can't be expected to cover off every eventuality one could come up against.

Case-in-point, I got this notice today (click for better resolution):
Now upon reading this, instantly, I knew that it was a "hey, you'll need to be home so I can do this". I've been "invited" to several things that had nothing to do with me, where the "invitation" didn't faze me at all. But no matter how many times I re-read this one, my mind kept jumping to "Uh, really? You want me to go with you? I mean, 'ew'!"

Please note, as you can see here, I said "Yes" (so that it would appear in MY calendar). But in the comment section I added: "I'm honoured that you'd invite me."

UPDATE: The very next day, I got a notice in the mail from the hospital for a breast ultrasound*. So I put it in the calendar as "Boob Test" and invited him. I was actually waiting to see his response before I updated, but as a rule, he doesn't open email from me. Surprisingly, even one titled "Invitation for Boob Test"

*[no, they don't just hand these out randomly, nor does everyone just get one in Canada - it's a long boring story that ends with me with lube all over my breasts. There are far more exciting stories that end with me with lube all over my breasts - and even some beginning that way - that I don't share, so I'll probably not bother with this one. Suffice to say: I'm healthy & would like to stay continue to know that I'm staying that way for as long as they'll keep plying me with lube.]

UPDATE 2: Apparently he DID respond. But Google calendar didn't register it by sending me an email back. He responded "maybe" with a request for a pre-test. Pig. [please to not be pointing out how I walk into that one, boobs-a-waggling]

I'm Totally (Not) Going to Blogher!!!

I started a comment on The Bloggess's post today about Blogher that got too long. So rather than eat up miles of her comment area* and totally piss everyone off**, I though I'd just parlay that here and piss you off because you already love me. It's about Blogher and how she's going and hanging out in the bathroom. Go read it. I'll wait...[the part where she says "If you’re not going to Blogher then just skip this post" just ignore that. I know we're not supposed to ignore what The Bloggess says, but indulge me] ...................

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Totally jealous. But if I were to go, I'd probably be not be in the bathroom, because that seems to be where all the real bloggers are (or "bloghers"? See? I don't even know the difference).

But it would never get to that point, because if I even brought it up, Max would be all "what? why? you're not even a real blogger" and I'd be all "I'm as real a blogger as you are a squash player"*** and he'd be like "no way" and I'd be all "way", and he'd be all "you mean that thing you do that wastes time when you should be giving me hummers?" and I'd be all "dude, you *never* got hummers before I started my blog [not even before we were married -- or rather, early in our marriage, mom -- so there was no fraud there, in case you were wondering], but if that's what you want to blame it on *now*, then yes" and he'd say "It's not even real!" But I'd ask, "If I 'fake' my entire life, and am 'real' on my blog, which is actually real? And would I be 'real' in a room full of strangers, or would they be strangers or would I be the strange one, or just the drunk on the table trying to drown her public anxiety?" and he'd answer "well, we don't have enough air-miles for you to go anywhere. Plus you don't have a passport."

We often have 'real' (not the opposite of 'fake', but rather In Real Life) whole conversations where one of us will have the discussion with the other right in front of them without the other actually speaking. This "conversation" is usually summarized by "see? I don't even need you to have a conversation. I know exactly what you're going to say."

[crying in my lonely fake-blog beer. At least the beer is real. Except that it's a glass of wine. Or sometimes Gin + OJ + 7UP, which I still haven't named]

So, to summarize: what is the name of my Gin + OJ + 7UP drink? I'm taking suggestions. Remember, a Gin + OJ + 7UP + GRENADINE is a Singapore Sling. While delicious, that's just too many ingredients to keep on hand for the summer.

Yes, I have two, if not three posts to write to summarize last week. And three filthy kids to bathe. And a shit-hole home to tidy up. Yes, I'm stalling.

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*[like I used to do to Nenette and is a large part of the reason I started my own, because she said "GETTHEHELLOFFMYBLOGALREADY!" although she said it nice]

**[I'm too small to piss off The Bloggess, although if I did, everyone would be wondering "hey, who pissed off The Bloggess so bad?" and come here and find out and be all "Really? hmph"]

***[I would TOTALLY never say THAT in real life, because he's worked WAY harder and WAY longer on squash than I have on any of this. He's got like 175 squash followers. Maybe more. But they don't count them like that because they're all "we're way too fucking cool to bother with something as bourgeois as 'counting followers'" But if I were to spring the word "bourgeois" on them, they'd be all "I totally loved the 2003. It had a delightfully peppery after-taste"]

Dude

Talking of the cranial functioning whilst driving on the phone (even with head set):

Max: "...I've driven while on the phone, and you just don't pay the same attention that you do in a conversation [with a person *in* the car]. You can go blocks and blocks without realizing what you've driven through."

Me: "I know. [Sotto voice so kids don't hear] Way back, I recall driving home [to farm] after a social from [insert name of my small town] and getting home thinking 'whoa, I don't recall the drive home' [Sleep-deprived and party euphoria, people, relax]"

"Hmmm. Unfortunately, I get what you're saying."

"...and the same thing has happened early in the morning when - groggy - I get to work and my brain says to me 'dude, I sure hope there were no red lights on your way in, because I was on auto-pilot'"

"Your brain calls you 'dude'?"

"I---well---"

"Your brain is stupid."