Boobies, trauma and poop

It's soggy soggy soggy here, and not at all cold, or even cool.  It's downright balmy!  Nobody knows how to feel... not the animals, not the plants, not the bugs and least of all, me.  The power's gone out during the middle of a laundry cycle and cleaning frenzy.  We are having company for the next 4 days, beginning tonight, and we are unprepared.  It's been that kind of week.

Today aside, this week's been all about mammary worship. trauma, and  poop stains....  Yea, I know, weird.  Earlier this week, my 4 year old, out of the blue, squeezed my (ah hem) boob and then ran away, spinning and squealing.  I asked him what he was doing.  He says: "The booby dance of joy!"   I am here to tell you that the booby fascination begins early my friends...   Like, at birth! And while it is very funny on the one hand, it is also just a bit too strange at times.  Stranger still, this was probably the most purely joyful/normal moment of my week.

More antics this week include: gathering poo for lab testing, and yet another semi-traumatic blood draw...  I am not sure why, but for some reason, ER nurses and lab flub-otomists must not be trained in how to handle children these days.  Unless of course you happen to be at a hospital with a pediatric unit, or you luck into a lab with someone specially trained, I suppose.

So, we go in to the tiny and I mean TINY room at the lab.  This room was was the size of a phone booth! Way too small for one person to turn around, let alone 4 adults and one child, but there we all were. ugh.  So I try to quietly explain to the nurse that this is the child that we called ahead about, the one who had the trauma at the hospital a few weeks ago, so you know, let's go slow and easy.  "What do you mean?" She says... (Marc called ahead and was assured that they handle children all the time, and it would be fine)  Apparently, our flub-otomist does not understand what the word "trauma" means.  Then even more dumbly, I find myself explaining to her in as small, quiet and non-traumatizing language that I can muster. (Since I didn't have the sense to pull her dumb ass out of the room and talk to her in the hall.)  Ok, so I was also a dumb ass. sigh.   After I tell her, she leaves and comes back with an older nurse who proceeds to get so in my son's face, so much so, that you couldn't slip a piece of paper in between their noses, honestly.  Then she explains what is going to happen. (Which I had already done earlier that day, but ok, this is good... Just not in his face!)  So already he is reacting to her aggressive posturing.  I have to actually TELL her to back off.  Anyway, that started the semi-trauma rolling.  Dad was talking too loudly in his attempt to sooth Harley and get his attention off of the needle going into his fleshy arm, and on a little Frisbee he brought in to distract him with.... I was apparently holding the arm too tightly in an attempt to keep the boy from wriggling out of the chair and pulling the needle out.  This meant that the blood was flowing s-l-o-w-l-y, and therefore taking longer to fill the little viles.  double sigh.  I loosened up, and then we were told the blood was still flowing slowly because "he was moving".  We finally got er done, but not without tears and screaming, and pleading for Mommy to make it stop. Triple sigh.  At least this time, no blood spurted like that bad SNL Julia Child's bit.  I am amazed at how forgiving and resilient he is, all children are.  So as soon as it was over, it was over.  No more tears, no more screaming. He got a sticker and we went out to see the geese and get a treat.

We also had to take a poo sample this week, because not only are we testing for basic food allergies, but we are also testing for parasites.  This procedure was much less traumatic for Harley, and much more comically tragic for the mommy.  The doctors office neglected to tell us that we have to pick up the poo receptacles from the lab, and we forget to ask.  We get home and start trying to figure out what in the hell we are supposed to put this poo in...  and how to get it there.  Ok, so we finally make a few calls and figure out where we need to get the poo jars.  We get the said jars, and  are now simply waiting for the poo.  I mean, we are not literally sitting around waiting, but, you know.  So, finally the poo comes, and although we have the receptacles, we are not real sure how to catch the poo....  So, thinking fast, but again, not well, I get a large freezer bag, I have Harley lean on my knees and squat over the bag.  All was going well till the poo seemed to sort of take a turn... Most of it got in the bag, but well... uh.  yea.  When we get enough poo, I set Harley on the pot to finish, and dumbly, but proudly trundle to the kitchen to hand the bag over to dad for administration.  By the time I got back, my toilet and a small quadrant of my bathroom were smeared in poo.   There was nothing to do but toss him in the tub and hose him down.  Thank God for detachable shower massages!  

I'm hoping things get back to normal soon. Even if our normal is the booby dance of joy.  I'm hoping ya'll have a nice normal weekend too.

Peace.