Send in the clowns… or maybe not.

Today, was strange.

First, I found myself defending clowns. This is quite honestly something I never expected to do since I personally think clowns are a little creepy. Just a little bit, which I think stems from me being a pretty logical child and not being able to figure out the imaginary dog trick. It was a little traumatizing.

Anyway, while driving the after school van today, one of my children says:

Clowns steal money.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was confused.

Me: Why do you say that?

Child: My friend told me.

Me: Have you ever seen a clown steal money?

Child: No, but I know they do.

Me: Well, that’s not fair. That’s like saying that all little girls like to play with barbies.

Child: I don’t like to play with barbies.

Me: Exactly, so not all clowns steal money. Clowns have to work for money like everyone else. Maybe you could say that some clowns steal money, but not all of them do. Clowns are people just like you and me.

Other child: They are?!?

Then, at snack time, one child randomly announces:

Wouldn’t it be funny if people laid eggs?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes. It WOULD be funny, but what in the world…

Then this happened:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And, I have no words.

I’m guessing maybe they were creating an imaginary circus, and since balance is a developmental milestone, I didn’t ask. The bucket just took the balance to a new level. (Please realize it was a large bucket, and he could see under it. Also, the ground is made of pebbles.)

And finally, this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shoestrings knotted together. Self inflicted.

There were most definitely some natural consequences to this one, but at least he seemed to have learned his lesson. I tried and tried to untie them, but those knots were too tight for me.

The logic is fuzzy, and I’m not sure we all understand that clowns are actually people, but at least maybe we won’t all falsely accuse clowns of embezzlement.

Conjunctivitis Strikes Again

I know, I know. It has been aproximately FOREVER since I’ve been here.

I apologize.

Immensely.

BUT!

Let me explain.

I have had a case of the sads.

I’m not sure where they came from or if they’re gone, but they seem to at least be better.
For now.

So in honor of leap day, and so I can keep having at least one blog a month (vain, I know) I’m here now.

Let’s talk about these sads.

First of all, they creep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And just when I have a chance to sit down and relax.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They ATTACK!!!!!

And then I worry about things that don’t matter.

For example:

In honor of my day of birth, the WH took me to glorious Mexico Beach.

In February. It was cold.

But I found the perfect balance of sunshine and Snuggie on our balcony, and it was amazing.

HOWEVER, before we left for the beach, we had to find a place for our Protecto Pooch.

Yes, Pooch.
We have a dog, and I’ve never written of her before, but the reason is not as complex as you’d think. She does make me want to punch things, and she does do things that are strange, but I’ve never extensively mentioned her because I cannot draw her on my paint program.

Until Now!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HA! Because my awesome Older Brother gave me an electronic drawing pad!

And now we have epic pictures. (Go ahead and laugh, I know, we’re using the term “epic” loosely here.)

Anyway, there will be more Protecto Pooch stories coming, but for now, back to the SADS.

Under normal circumstances we would simply leave the PP with the Mama, but this scenario  was not an option, so we were simply going to board her.

Awesome. Not a problem. Until the night before we leave.

My brain says, “Oh hey, girl! What if your super overprotective slightly aggressive dog BITES SOMEONE!?!?!?!?!?!”

Oh hey, girl!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crap.

Now let me explain. The Protecto Pooch, although she has a mean bark, has never actually bitten anyone aggressively. She tried to herd some teenagers once, but that’s another post. She has been boarded several times before, and we had no problems with those instances.

So, where the basis for this anxiety ridden thought process is coming from, I have no idea.

The Wooly Husband does his best to calm me down and not give me this look.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And then he proceeds to fix the problem.

He calls his buddy from work who is apparently a dog whisperer. Work buddy comes over and meets the Protecto Pooch and all is well with the world.

So, I know you must be thinking, “So, why don’t you just go to the doctor about your crazies?”

Ah, and I must admit, dear readers that I am stubborn. Quite frequently, I am stubborn to a fault.

I am reluctant to leave work if I am not vacationing or contagious, and fortunately for the rest of the world, anxiety is not contagious.

But conjunctivitis is.

Somehow, during the course of these intermittent anxiety issues, I contracted conjunctivitis once again. On a weekend, of course. Which meant yet another visit to a doc-in-a-box.

I am coming to have a lovely relationship with these walk-in type doctors.

They are fabulous for pink eye, so while I was having my pink eyes examined, I mentioned my anxiety to the doctor.

She questioned me only to learn that I had been on thyroid medication and had stopped taking it.
This is a course of action that can, apparently, cause anxiety and some other issues.

I felt stupid because my thyroid hates me, and I let him have his chance to take me out when I stopped the medication.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is my thyroid. He has a top hat.

(I’m guessing because, of course, I’ve never seen my thyroid before. Normal thyroids are shaped like butterflies… mine is not normal).

I'm your thyroid, and I'm going to ruin your whole day!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, we had some blood work done, and I anticipated the call about this blood work to go something like this:

Doc: Hey! Your blood work says your thyroid’s all weird and stuff. He probably wears a top hat.

Me: Oh, okay! So what does that mean,

Doc: Let me call you in some meds, and we’ll regulate that thing, and you’ll be all happy and junk!

Me: Awesome!

Nope. Not what happened. This was the actual phone call, 6 days later, when I called them:

Me: Hi, I was checking on some blood work?

Reception: Oh, okay. The doctor said your thyroid levels were fine. KBYE!

Me: Wait, wait! So what does that mean about my anxiety?

Reception: Oh. Hold on.

Doc: Hi! Your levels are fine, so your going to need to see a counselor or something because your brain must be crazy. KBYE!

Me: Thanks.

So, I’ve been debating about seeing someone else or making a trip to see my “primary care physician” who isn’t all too primary because I don’t ever see him since I now live a hundred miles away, but I don’t want to find another one because I may move back… when the clinic I visited two weeks ago called me today.

Reception: Hi! We’re calling about your blood work! The doctor (one I didn’t see) says your thyroid levels are a little high, and he wants you to have them checked again in two weeks. okay?

Me: I’m confused.

Reception: Why is that?

Me: I spoke with the other doctor, and she said they were fine.

Reception: Oh… Well… Just go with what she says then, KBYE!

This is when regular care doctors are way way better even if they aren’t open on Saturday when you get pink eye.

I’m booking the next available appointment, and I don’t care how far away my doctor is.

Happy New Year and Merry Conjunctivitis

On the first day of the new year I awoke to complete and utter darkness, physically unable to open my eyes.

Luckily, I was warned that this might be a possibility.

Christmas was lovely. There was much mess making and lots of food. Plenty of family, and toys for everyone.

Every year after Christmas, my family takes a lovely New Year vacation to the mountains. We eat lots of food, look at all the beautiful scenery, and watch the wildlife–both the animal and those crazy new year partiers who have had a little more than too much to drink.

It was fun. We brought the little brother’s girlfriend along with us this year, which was lots of fun because she hadn’t been before.

I, of course, turn into the tour guide on crack.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SEE ALL THE THINGS!

She’s a good sport, though, so no harm was permanently inflicted. (I don’t think.)

And then the sickness set in.

It was New Year’s Eve, and I was determined to see the ball drop. Not in NYC, of course, but the town does have a ball. Incidentally, a town near home drops a moon pie for New Year’s, a fact that has made my day.

Anyway, I am a shameless lightweight when it comes to my sleep, and if I am tired I get my blanket and I go home. Not this year, no sir.

At this point in time, I knew I had bronchitis.

It’s a chronic thing, and I expect it to knock on the internal lining of my bronchial passageways every three or four months.
It was time.

AND, if I let it go long enough, it is accompanied by an acute sinus infection.
Joy.

But this time, when the bronchitis came around, it takes the cake. All the cake.

Not only were ALL of my airways swollen, clogged, and inflamed while I was on vacation, but my eyes were also a victim of the dreaded -itis.

At first, I thought that the foggy-ness in my eyes was a result of the constant allergies I have, but when this fog did not go away after blinking excessively, and I had to watch the ball drop in a haze of confusion, I became concerned that it actually might be…

Pink Eye.
(This is where I would insert dramatic music. I’m pretty sure I could probably do that, if I was willing to take the time to figure out how.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!

 

Now, I know it’s really not that big of a deal, but I’ve never had it before, and as it turns out, it is a new and improved kind of torture that I could have lived my entire life without.

Especially when I was physically unable to open my eyes upon waking up the next morning.

I almost lost it.

Borderline hyperventilated.

Whacked the Wooly Husband at 6 o’clock in the morning.

Me: I can’t see. I can’t open my eyes! How do I open my eyes?!!

WH: ~incoherent mumbling~

Me: Help please! ~tears~ ~fetal position~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The WH sweetly went to get me a warm washcloth and then my sight was restored.

Luckily, the WH had also located the nearest Doc-in-a-Box that might be open in a tourist town on New Year’s Day which was also, conveniently, a Sunday.

We left all of my family sleeping in a rental condo and drove to the nearest doctor.

We passed the clinic on our first drive by. When we turned around and confirmed the address, I was still confused.

 

I thought it was a pet shop.
There was a coonhound painted on the window.

 

Also, it did not look open.

The sign said otherwise, so we walked right in.

I was instantly transported back to 1979 complete with wood paneling and teased hair.

I did not care. They gave me drugs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The doctor gave me a shot laced with antibiotics, a steroid, a pain killer and vitamin B-12, and a prescription pad with a list of 5 additional drugs including more steroids and more antibiotics.

The Doc-in-the-box does not play.

Also, he did not touch my eyes, but declared from a far that it was indeed pink eye.

The relief of finding the doctor alone made me feel better, but it was short lived when we had to drive two towns away before finding a pharmacy that would be open.

Then the pharmacist made me cry (which is not difficult) and gave me my medicine.

I took the medicine and proceeded to feel better in short increments, followed by short naps, followed by convincing the Little Brother’s Girlfriend to look at nature. Overall, the vacation was salvaged.

 

 

I’m still not 100%, but I’ve been sitting still for about an hour and I haven’t fallen asleep, yet. This is progress.

I have also been back to work, and my kids are concerned because I look “different.”

I have worn no eye makeup, and I will not until I am finished with my eye drops. Conjunctivitis is not worth the vanity.

(Rest assured because I have bought completely new makeup.)

 

Also, I have had a talk with the year 2012.

Our relationship will be better from now on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yeah, I love him anyway.

I would like to think that the Wooly Husband is a relatively mature young man, especially considering his age.

He takes very good care of me, our Christmas shopping is largely done because of him, anything technical that I need done or anyone who knows my name needs done is valiantly taken on by him, my bills are paid every month, my laundry gets clean, the dishes are done because the good Lord knows I don’t do dishes if I can help it, and he tells me everything will be fine when I have my periodic meltdowns (which are sometimes more than only periodic).
Sometimes it seems like our relationship is a little one sided, until Christmas comes around.

Now, when we were dating, this side of him was less prominent.

I mean, no one says on their first date that they will cut you over Christmas presents, but maybe this is a conversation you need to consider having before the wedding.

Even our first married Christmas was not so bad, a fact that I contribute mostly to the fact that we couldn’t buy too many presents, but now that I work full-time, it’s a different story.

The following is an account of what happens EVERY Christmas.

First of all, the Wooly Husband is an excellent gift giver. He is responsible for everyone’s gift ideas, and I am always overwhelmed by how accurately he can pick whatever gift I wanted most any given year.

I, on the other hand, am a horrible gift giver.

It’s not that I give everyone fruitcake or a blender each year. My gifts are thoughtful but impractical.

Once I got the Wooly Husband a canoe for Christmas. It was awesome, and I worked really hard to keep it hidden. I mean, how would you hide a canoe?

We floated it in the swimming pool and everything on Christmas morning, classy, I know.

I imagine if the Mama had any neighbors that might not have been the case.

He liked it, but it was December. Who’s going to use a canoe in December?

We tried.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I lost a phone, a camera, and I nearly got hypothermia.

My great uncle thought it was hilarious, like knee-slapping, tear flinging hilarious.

We might have used it more, but I was a little apprehensive every time we tried. Like overcompensate for the WH and consequently almost dump us anyway, aprehensive.

We sold the canoe.

But, it’s like the Wooly Husband doesn’t realize how large the chance is that his gifts are only mediocre. More likely, he doesn’t care.

The issue doesn’t present itself in the fact that he loves giving, except I did get one of my presents last Friday.

If it was up to him, I’d have them all now. They’re currently all wrapped under the tree.

I’d probably get them if I thought “Gee, I’d like to open Christmas presents, now,” loud enough. But, unlike him, I love the surprise of having things to open on Christmas.  (As I’m writing this, he says, “I like to have stuff on Christmas… I just like to know what it is.”)

No, the problem arrives when he finds out that you have Christmas presents for him.

We probably never should’ve told him the “truth” about Christmas, because at least then he couldn’t harass someone who lives at the North Pole and only comes once a year.

I’ve had one present, and he knew this.

He knew that it was not at our house, so there was a very low probability that he could find it or talk me into giving it to him.
So, no big deal.
Then, I went shopping on my lunch break last Friday, for him. And he knew about it.
(Come to think of it, that’s probably why I got that gift. It was a bribe.)

The reaction was mild.

He looked around our tiny apartment without success, so then he tried another tactic.

WH: I found those presents you have hidden in the back of the pantry.

Me: *gasp* Oh, no! (complete snark)

WH: (judging my sincerity) Dang it… I found those presents you have hidden in the bathroom.

Me: Did you like them?

WH: Dang it. I found those presents you have hidden under all the stuff in our car.

Me: Nope.

So, for the weekend, while we were away from home, he had seemingly forgotten… until last night.

WH: Sooooooo, aren’t you going to wrap some presents?

Me: Sure.

I grabbed the Wooly Mother-in-Law’s present, which is at our house incidentally because this condition is genetic.

WH: No, not that one, you can wrap it later.

Me: Ok, which one, then?

WH: Mine! Where are my presents?

Me: I’m not going to wrap them in front of you!

The following reaction ensued.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(I love that these illustrations imply that I fold laundry or make the bed. Ha!)

There was also threatening.

WH: You will have to do the DISHES!

WH: I will open all of your presents and throw them at you, now!

WH: I will take you present back!

And then there was the bribery.

WH: You can have all of your present, now!

WH: You will never have to do dishes again!

And finally, pleading.

WH: Please!!! Please!!!! Tell me where they are!

I don’t know what will happen when we have children… We’ll probably have a modified present plan.

No, he hasn’t found them, yet.

They’re in a witness protection plan of sorts.

Unicorns and Anxiety

This weekend the Wooly Husband and the Mama have embarked on a project to place our Christmas festivities on a roll.

In order for the Mama’s Christmas Tree to be put up, we need to move the Booger Bear’s (Nephew #1, in case you don’t remember) crib out of its current position in the living room and into the room that my older brother just completely vacated.

This is a bigger undertaking than it sounds like it is.

We began by repainting the walls. Not a big deal, I know, but then the Mama and the WH tore out all of the carpet.

And the carpet pad.

Without a real plan about what new floor would go down

So, the WH and I randomly stopped at our local “Do-it-yourself” store to “look” at carpet.

And by “look at carpet” I mean we bought 16 feet of Full Throttle Suede and a carpet pad.

 

Of  course, we were driving the sport wagon.

So, when we bought this massive amount of carpet, the WH spun a web and turned my car into a unicorn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not only were we very likely pushing the Sport Wagon beyond its intended limits, but we also needed gas, and we could not wait until my car no longer looked like a mythical creature because we should have gotten gas twenty miles ago.

The unicorn pulls into the gas station, and the WH pumps the gas and goes in to pay.

Cashier looks out the window at the unicorn sitting by the pump: You gonna lay some carpet later today?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No m’am, we’re planning to throw that in the yard, so we won’t ever have to cut the grass again…

 

Come on, people.

 

And in other news, my kids at work are supposed to sing Christmas Carols to the local assisted living residents. I’m super excited for them, and most of my kids are excited about singing.

 

Except one.

And, I would never expect it from this child, but she is having some major anxiety about singing in front of anyone. I didn’t mean for it to be scary or tough.

Everyday that we listen to the songs on the van she asks questions that tells me she is trying to avoid singing without flat-out saying she doesn’t want to.

Little Girl: When are we singing? Is it after recess? Because I think I’ll be gone by then.

LG: Are we going to dress up in really nice clothes? Because I’m already embarrassed that we’re singing.

LG: Do we have to sing to them?

LG: I don’t think I feel good. (fake coughing)

She’s trying.

I’m not even positive that she will be at the daycare on the day we go sing, and she does not have to participate if she doesn’t want to, but she is trying so hard to be ok with it, and I admire that because wee me would have pitched an epic whining fit and cried incessantly.

 

No, I would not have put up with wee me. Bless the Mama.

 

So, the last time we listened to the music in the van the little girl with anxiety fell asleep from what I can only determine was anxiety induced tiredness, while one little girl in the back was screaming, “Turn it up!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Night and day, people. Night and day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waiting for Thanksgiving…

I’m going to assume that since you are on this webpage, that you do indeed want to hear about my Thanksgiving Holiday.

So, the day before Thanksgiving I spent approximately forever sharpening five-hundred colored pencils with a manual pencil sharpener.

There were blisters…

and perhaps weeping.

Perhaps.

I was waiting, alone, in my classroom for some kids to watch. Any kids to watch. And I was being productive, dang it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And the kids came, eventually. There were four.

Most parents had the day off, so teacher 2 and I compromised. I would work the day before Thanksgiving, and she would work for me later. Not a problem, except that makes for a really, really long, boring day.

All in all, the day went smoothly, and we had our annual Thanksgiving feast for the whole center when some parents came to eat with their kids.

We usually regulate what the children eat pretty closely and make sure they’re making pretty healthy choices, but during a feast with parents, some of the rules went out the window.

And THIS was the result…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chicken Leg in one hand. Cupcake in the other.
Running. All. Over. The. Place.

Sugar Rush.

And reason #312389382409348 that I love kids.

Can’t make it up.

Not only that, but  she was distributing cupcake and cookie paraphernalia to all of her friends, but none of us were saying anything.

Then one of my kids got stuck in his sweatshirt, which was mildly entertaining, and everybody went home.

So, at the end of the day, I spent 10 and a half hours at work before my Thanksgiving holiday.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ah.

‘Tis the nature of being employed. We colored. It was fun.

So, when my actual holiday actually began, the comic relief of my family was much appreciated.

For example, when the Wooly Mother in Law, elbow deep in boiled potatoes, threw a boiled onion at the Wooly Father in Law because it had “served its purpose already,” I enjoyed that laugh.

And when the Granny, who is notorious for mixing up words, suggested that my husband may need to artificially “reciminate” me instead of resuscitate, we all enjoyed that laugh, especially since it sounded mildly suggestive. Even the Granny.

And then, when the sweet Wooly grandmother realized that her “Save the Hooters” t-shirt was not talking about owls, but was really supportive of Breast Cancer Awareness, I enjoyed that laugh, too.

So, I come by things honestly, and my future children have no chance, but I think it makes everything more fun. Including holidays.

Turkeys and Tornados

So, here in the lovely south, the weather is always changing.

Like, let’s have 80 degree temperatures and a tornado in November!

Run, Turkey, Run!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yeah!

So, you should know that I absolutely lose it during tornadic weather. All of it.

Since I was a little bitty thing, my reaction was something like this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But!

I no longer assume the fetal position in the corner, I am proud to say.

And, I have decided, since I’m a grown-up now (haha, right), that I will deem my condition as a severe anxiety.

So, when I noticed there was a threat this morning, the anxiety began.

Blessed by the Lord, when the actual tornado came through our smallish town, I was lucky to be home in my own bathroom during my hour long lunch break with the wooly husband, so that I could freak out all on my own. Not in the basement of a church with 75 children between the ages of tiny babies to four-year olds.

Which is ALWAYS fun.

But later when it was over, I did enjoy a lovely van ride with my school kids who told me harrowing stories of having to sit in the hallways, and one child who looked outside to see a “big wind blow the leaves really hard, so it must’ve been a tornado!”

Precious, I know.

Then they did get to see the real damage on our route to the different schools, which I thought was probably good for them and which was also more intense than I had anticipated, but I took it as an opportunity to say:

“This is why you freak out and assume the fetal position in small places! And thank the Lord that you are safe! And stay away from serious storms! And make good choices!” (Except in more appropriate, teacherly terms)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Yes, M’am.”