I used to pride myself and my rock star skills at being able to accurately diagnose my kids with two separate ailments: broken bones and strep throat. It never failed; I was right more than 99% of the time. I could tell when one of my children had broken a bone just by how shrill their cry was. There is a definite difference when a child cries because a bone is broken compared to when they twist an ankle. I told my friends they could start to call me The Bone Whisperer. "Seriously, " I'd say. "When one of your kids gets hurt and you're not sure if anything is broken, just put them on the phone so I can hear 'em wail. I'll tell you either to get to the doctor right away or just ice and elevate it."
One time two of my daughters were having a handstand contest in the living room. In retrospect, probably not the best idea. I was in my bedroom folding clothes when I heard the collision. I didn't even have to see Sophie holding her arm to know what happened...I just heard her cry as she came down the hallway. I had already grabbed my purse and told everyone "Taking Sophie to the ER. Pretty sure she broke her collar bone." Two hours and over a thousand dollars worth of xrays later....I was vindicated. Ding, ding, ding... we have a winner.
When it comes to strep, I can usually tell by how my kids' voices sound. They sound different, like their tonsils are all swollen. Sometimes they have strep-breath and it smells like aluminum and medicine-y.
But lately my instincts haven't been so spot-on. Two summers ago Chloe fell off the back of the couch. A week later we were at a pool party and some of the adults were throwing the kids into the water. After the second time I noticed Chloe cradling her arm I got a little nervous. Sure enough, the next day at the doctor's office a broken arm was confirmed. "I feel horrible," I told the doctor. "I can't believe she's been running around for a WEEK with a broken arm."
The doctor just laughed. "Don't worry about it. Doctors' kids have it the worst. We never bring our kids in. My kid went weeks with a broken bone once."
This morning I had to bring Chloe in for a med check. While we were there I casually mentioned to the nurse, "I guess strep is going around the third grade. I got a note from her teacher. Can you give her a throat culture...she mentioned her throat hurt when she yawned last night..." Sure enough, the test came back positive. Boy I lucked out. Good thing I didn't wait for her voice to sound different.
I think I'm going to blame it on multi-tasking. The older the kids get the busier I get. I feel like I can never do just one thing at a time. I have to do several things at once to feel I'm "checking things off my list."
Last week I even successfully drove down I-94, steering with my knees while I used both hands to eat a Smashburger. Good grief, if I keep up activities like that it will be ME with broken bones.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Super Hero Sniffers
I am constantly amazed at my kids' ability to sniff out a source of food, usually on my breath. They can be walking by, not even paying any attention to me, and instantly stop. They'll slowly turn around, level me with a gaze (cue the Clint Eastwood music) and ask: "What are you eating Mom? I smell something."
This morning I got home from the gym and decided to reward myself with a handful of Doritos. After I was done, I carefully (aka quietly) folded the bag back and put it in its hiding spot. Thirty seconds later Wyatt padded into the kitchen. "I smell something," he said with an accusing look in his eye. "Really?" I asked him. "Like what?"
"Well, not like a cupcake, something else." He held his arms up in the air and said, "Pick me up." I hoisted him up and he took a whiff. "You know what I smell, Mom? I smell Doritos!! I knew it!" Busted.
One time about a year ago my daughter was sitting next to me on the couch. I had popped a truffle in my mouth about 5 minutes earlier. All of a sudden she turned to me and inhaled. She crawled up on my lap and demanded, "What is (sniff) that on your breath? (sniff) Is that (sniff sniff) CHOCOLATE??!" I don't think a bloodhound could have tracked down an escaped prisoner faster than Chloe determined what I had eaten.
They're very selective about what scents they acknowledge, though. They'll claim they didn't notice the steaming pile of dog crap less than two feet away. "Really?" I'll ask them. "You didn't smell that?"
"No!" they'll assure me. They do this thing when they're lying and trying to convince me of their innocence. They open their eyes super wide, so they all look like a bunch of Little Orphan Annie cartoon characters in front of me. The wider the eyes, the bigger the lie.
A couple years ago a friend of mine, we'll call her "Molly", picked me up to go to a movie. Within three minutes I realized she was smashed. It was confirmed when we sat down in the theater and she opened up her purse and said, "Look what I just bought!" It was a tiny miniature pinscher puppy, about the size of can of Coke. She placed the puppy on her chest, then promptly passed out for the rest of the movie. I spent the rest of the movie trying to make sure the dog didn't bark or slide off my friend and hit the floor. After the movie my friend drove me home (still pretty buzzed; I should have taken a cab.) She walked in my house to show my kids the puppy.
At the time, a friend of ours was living in our basement. Her name was Amy, and she was a blast. Still is. Amy was in her early 20's at the time and bartending and living the single girl life. My girls thought she was the coolest thing ever. Anyway, this one evening with the puppy Molly leaned toward Chloe (who was about 4) and grabbed her face and said, "You know what? I think you are the Cutest. Thing. Ever."
Chloe looked at her and replied, "You know what? Your breath smells like Amy."
Poor Amy. We still laugh about that and use that tagline when one of us has had too much to drink. "Dude, we gotta go home. Your breath is starting to smell like Amy." Thank god Amy is a good sport and laughs whenever we bring up this story.
So my children have years of experience honing their scentabilites. One time I heard this comedian talk about "Dad breath." He described it as "a cross between bad luncheon meat and bus exhaust." My kids will be quick to point out if they're not happy with my breath, either. "Gosh, Mom... is that Red Bull? Ewww!" For some reason they think that is the grossest smell ever.
"Oh yeah?" I'll respond. "You don't know how good you kids have it. Back in the 70's all the moms' breaths would smell like Merit cigarettes and Tab."
They of course just roll their eyes. And quickly lean forward to inhale. Just in case I recently devoured a Little Debbie snack cake.
This morning I got home from the gym and decided to reward myself with a handful of Doritos. After I was done, I carefully (aka quietly) folded the bag back and put it in its hiding spot. Thirty seconds later Wyatt padded into the kitchen. "I smell something," he said with an accusing look in his eye. "Really?" I asked him. "Like what?"
"Well, not like a cupcake, something else." He held his arms up in the air and said, "Pick me up." I hoisted him up and he took a whiff. "You know what I smell, Mom? I smell Doritos!! I knew it!" Busted.
One time about a year ago my daughter was sitting next to me on the couch. I had popped a truffle in my mouth about 5 minutes earlier. All of a sudden she turned to me and inhaled. She crawled up on my lap and demanded, "What is (sniff) that on your breath? (sniff) Is that (sniff sniff) CHOCOLATE??!" I don't think a bloodhound could have tracked down an escaped prisoner faster than Chloe determined what I had eaten.
They're very selective about what scents they acknowledge, though. They'll claim they didn't notice the steaming pile of dog crap less than two feet away. "Really?" I'll ask them. "You didn't smell that?"
"No!" they'll assure me. They do this thing when they're lying and trying to convince me of their innocence. They open their eyes super wide, so they all look like a bunch of Little Orphan Annie cartoon characters in front of me. The wider the eyes, the bigger the lie.
A couple years ago a friend of mine, we'll call her "Molly", picked me up to go to a movie. Within three minutes I realized she was smashed. It was confirmed when we sat down in the theater and she opened up her purse and said, "Look what I just bought!" It was a tiny miniature pinscher puppy, about the size of can of Coke. She placed the puppy on her chest, then promptly passed out for the rest of the movie. I spent the rest of the movie trying to make sure the dog didn't bark or slide off my friend and hit the floor. After the movie my friend drove me home (still pretty buzzed; I should have taken a cab.) She walked in my house to show my kids the puppy.
At the time, a friend of ours was living in our basement. Her name was Amy, and she was a blast. Still is. Amy was in her early 20's at the time and bartending and living the single girl life. My girls thought she was the coolest thing ever. Anyway, this one evening with the puppy Molly leaned toward Chloe (who was about 4) and grabbed her face and said, "You know what? I think you are the Cutest. Thing. Ever."
Chloe looked at her and replied, "You know what? Your breath smells like Amy."
Poor Amy. We still laugh about that and use that tagline when one of us has had too much to drink. "Dude, we gotta go home. Your breath is starting to smell like Amy." Thank god Amy is a good sport and laughs whenever we bring up this story.
So my children have years of experience honing their scentabilites. One time I heard this comedian talk about "Dad breath." He described it as "a cross between bad luncheon meat and bus exhaust." My kids will be quick to point out if they're not happy with my breath, either. "Gosh, Mom... is that Red Bull? Ewww!" For some reason they think that is the grossest smell ever.
"Oh yeah?" I'll respond. "You don't know how good you kids have it. Back in the 70's all the moms' breaths would smell like Merit cigarettes and Tab."
They of course just roll their eyes. And quickly lean forward to inhale. Just in case I recently devoured a Little Debbie snack cake.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Church Guilt (or Lack Thereof)
The other night while I was on the computer my mom called. After a few minutes she said, "You know what I think you should do Vanessa? I think your family should give up TV for Lent. Then you could walk the dog, read together as a family and work on your marriage."
I sighed deeply and rested my head on the keyboard. First of all, I thought it was just Catholics who gave up stuff for Lent? Not us pseudo-Lutherans. I'm pretty sure the only thing we need to excel at are the ability to make a minimum of three hotdishes that contain cream of mushroom soup, and being able to whip up a batch of lemon bars for a funeral with just an hour's notice. I'm not good at sacrificing things, especially those that involve food and/or vices. My hips can attest to that.
At Christmas time my mother also admonished me for not bringing the kids to church every Sunday. "I mean, your son didn't even know it was Jesus' birthday!"
"Oh he does, too," I told her. "He was probably just under a lot of pressure from the Grandparents Inquisition."
She kept on. "You know, you need to be bringing these kids every single Sunday. We did that when you kids were growing up!"
"I know," I said. "And I ended up hating having to go and now I hardly ever step foot in a church."
She was less than impressed with my reasoning.
I mean, hey... my older girls go to confirmation and have a bible with their names on it and can recite all sorts of verses. By sending them every week it's one more thing I can check off the parental-duty list and appease my relatives. I consider myself religious, but I have some profound questions about organized religion, especially how the bible was written and interpreted. When my kids were really little, I used to say we were "Chreasters" (Christmas and Easter only). Then they got older and we got more busy and now I use a phrase that I heard once: The BMB club. Baptism, Marriage and Burial. That's when we go to church. None of those terms amuse my mother. The older she gets the more likely she is to give her opinions. She learned it from HER mother, my Grandma Tillie.
Everyone who has ever met Tillie absolutely loves her. She has a heart of gold and an incredible spirit. She also doesn't hold back when something's on her mind. It's part of her charm.
Years ago, when my oldest was only a few months old, I needed Tillie to babysit for an hour or two while I ran errands. I quickly vacuumed up all the stinky dog hair and put the vacuum cleaner in my bedroom, with the windows closed and zero ventilation. After I ran my errands I came back and asked Tillie how everything went.
"Say, Vanessa," she said leaning forward. "I went into your bedroom and BOY does it smell bad. I had to open up the windows to air that room out. Oh, and your baby's head is flat on one side."
Duly noted. Thanks Grandma.
I'm a grown woman now and capable of making my own decisions. That still doesn't stop me from tensing my shoulders when my mother gives advice. Who knows what she's going to suggest? First church attendance, then what? Next thing I know some relative is going to suggest I give up my occasional Vicadin-for-fun.
I sighed deeply and rested my head on the keyboard. First of all, I thought it was just Catholics who gave up stuff for Lent? Not us pseudo-Lutherans. I'm pretty sure the only thing we need to excel at are the ability to make a minimum of three hotdishes that contain cream of mushroom soup, and being able to whip up a batch of lemon bars for a funeral with just an hour's notice. I'm not good at sacrificing things, especially those that involve food and/or vices. My hips can attest to that.
At Christmas time my mother also admonished me for not bringing the kids to church every Sunday. "I mean, your son didn't even know it was Jesus' birthday!"
"Oh he does, too," I told her. "He was probably just under a lot of pressure from the Grandparents Inquisition."
She kept on. "You know, you need to be bringing these kids every single Sunday. We did that when you kids were growing up!"
"I know," I said. "And I ended up hating having to go and now I hardly ever step foot in a church."
She was less than impressed with my reasoning.
I mean, hey... my older girls go to confirmation and have a bible with their names on it and can recite all sorts of verses. By sending them every week it's one more thing I can check off the parental-duty list and appease my relatives. I consider myself religious, but I have some profound questions about organized religion, especially how the bible was written and interpreted. When my kids were really little, I used to say we were "Chreasters" (Christmas and Easter only). Then they got older and we got more busy and now I use a phrase that I heard once: The BMB club. Baptism, Marriage and Burial. That's when we go to church. None of those terms amuse my mother. The older she gets the more likely she is to give her opinions. She learned it from HER mother, my Grandma Tillie.
Everyone who has ever met Tillie absolutely loves her. She has a heart of gold and an incredible spirit. She also doesn't hold back when something's on her mind. It's part of her charm.
Years ago, when my oldest was only a few months old, I needed Tillie to babysit for an hour or two while I ran errands. I quickly vacuumed up all the stinky dog hair and put the vacuum cleaner in my bedroom, with the windows closed and zero ventilation. After I ran my errands I came back and asked Tillie how everything went.
"Say, Vanessa," she said leaning forward. "I went into your bedroom and BOY does it smell bad. I had to open up the windows to air that room out. Oh, and your baby's head is flat on one side."
Duly noted. Thanks Grandma.
I'm a grown woman now and capable of making my own decisions. That still doesn't stop me from tensing my shoulders when my mother gives advice. Who knows what she's going to suggest? First church attendance, then what? Next thing I know some relative is going to suggest I give up my occasional Vicadin-for-fun.
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