It felt like things really started falling apart on Easter afternoon. That's when I made my audacious attempt at lying down on my bed, fully dressed in my "Easter best (polo and khakis)," in search of the ever-elusive ten minute nap. It actually seemed like it was going to work out, too. Beth even got down for a moment. Then, in the span of about a nanosecond, here's how it all was foiled:
1. Courtney started crying from her crib next door. Not a big deal. I figure she was hungry. "Do you want me to get her?" I asked, with absolutely no authority or intent behind it. "Yes," answered B. Shit. Maybe if I just lie here, Beth will realize that the baby needs to be fed, and she's the person to do that right now, and I can keep napping. Wait...success!
2. The phone rings. It's my mother in law. Take those two sentences, repeat them about 87 times, and that's what it's like around here over a typical three or four days. The M-I-L has a hideous two-pronged telephonic attack technique that makes me want to cultivate a drug habit. First off, she always, without fail, every single time, finds the need to call five minutes after she was just here. Maybe I'm a son-in-law cliche for it, but I find this a bit of an annoyance. Secondly, and even more painfully, I think she must have installed some sort of pressure-sensitive feature onto my pillow that connects to her home phone and alerts her when my head lays down, because again, WITHOUT FAIL, EVERY GOD DAMN TIME I try to sneak a nap, she calls. And we're not talking about a lot of occurrences here. I just don't get those chances anymore. A couple of times a month, maybe. And the damn phone rings every single time.
3. Within mere moments of all this going on, Beth has gotten up, grabbed the baby, and gone downstairs to let the mutts in. They spent the day outside on Easter, which they do only occasionally. They're fine with it. They are dogs, and sometimes we even treat them as such. Previously mentioned dear M-I-L took it upon herself to find the empty dog water bowl--without any dogs in the house--and fill it to Niagran proportions. I have no idea why, but she felt oddly compelled to take a big, empty bucket that had nothing to do with anything, and to fill it to overflowing. For dogs that were not in the house to drink it. Does everyone see where this is going?
4. The thirsty/hungry/neglected/annoyed dogs bolt into the house. I'm actually still trying to fight through that nap at this juncture. This quickly ended when I heard, from all the way downstairs, clear as a bell: "Fucking asshole dog. FUCKING ASSHOLE DOG!" I'm a betting man, so my mental wager is that Pedro, our older mutt, has made some sort of fluid-related violation. My nomination of which particular canine is quickly validated, as his brother makes a beeline for my side of the bed, cowering there on the adjacent floor in full-on "I didn't do anything" mode.
5. Yeah. Pedro yakked all over the floor because of the big, full water bowl.*
*6. I'm not sure where to put this one, but since it is also related to the M-I-L fucking with drinks that have nothing to do with her, now looks good as a pseudo-footnote. On late Sunday morning, before Na'Nan and Aimee came over to celebrate Easter, I was already hurting. I had that infection going last week, and as it has done once or twice before, it ended up causing a pinched nerve in my back that really kills. So I took a painkiller to sleep and decided that a nice, heavily spiked iced coffee was just the ticket to help me get things rolling Sunday. Beth and I tossed back and forth a couple of jokes about her mother's relationship with alcohol, one in which Aimee is not so much on the wagon per se, but clinging madly to some out of control alcohol carriage.
Cut to: The M-I-L's arrival. I've got my big Bailey's and iced coffee working in a Red Sox pint glass. It is opening day after all. I'll say, being somewhat generous, that M-I-L was inside the domicile for about seven seconds when her beady eyes laser-locked on my glass. "Ooooh, what's that?" she asked, practically rubbing her little nicotine-stained hands together. "It's Daddy's coffee," I say, somehow thinking that the use of a paternal pronoun will lend even more ownership to my beverage. No such luck. "Let me try," she says, flinging her frail body across the room, landing on the breakfast table in a flying leap, scrawny fingers clutching my beloved glass.
(Okay, maybe not exactly like that. But that's how it felt.)
"I'd be happy to make you one," I counter, which any idiot should take as "Get your filthy fucking paws off my drink." She did not hear it as such, and quickly grabbed my half-full coffee and took an all-too-healthy pull. "Ooooh, that's good," she purred. At this point Beth enters. If I had planned to write how this all was going to go down, I could not have come up with it myself. And if I had, I surely would have thrown it out as being too sensational and completely impossible to believe. But it happened. I just grabbed my drink, turned tail, and left, a twitching ball of wide-mouthed, silent words. We laughed about it later. I think.
So here we are on Tuesday night. AJ was out sick today after racking up a temp north of 102 this morning. Courtney clearly isn't herself either, and is probably catching the express train that already knocked out the poor boy. I had an afternoon appointment at the doc because my back now kills when I do any of the more mundane things I'm required to do during the day, like, say, pick up my daughter. Beth had a huge day at work and still came home at lunch so I could go get my shot and some meds. It didn't clear things up right away. It hurt, and it still aches, and open my return the only way to soothe my daughter was holding and bouncing her in a way that makes the back worse. Totally worth it. Shortly after five, I take her downstairs for a quick feeding. AJ is being great despite clearly not feeling well--he and I launched a rare quadruple-header of movies earlier, and the poor boy should be bouncing off the walls by now, but he's chilling like a champion. It's quiet. A little too quiet. Maybe I'll lie down and stretch my back for a minute. Flat on my bed really does feel best of all. Yup, that's just what I'll do. I might even fall asleep for a minute before we need to get AJ's dinner. This could work. Ahh, yes. The back feels better. It's quiet. I'm absolutely going to nod off for a brilliant five minute snooze.
And then the phone rings...
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
How easily the wheels can come off
The overdue health update: I was doing very well, until things came apart a little in completely predictable fashion. My last weigh in was a week and a half ago, and that day saw me post a number that put me almost 40 pounds down for 2010. I'm slowly inching back down to my lowest weight of the last two years, with my recent all-time lowest of the last eight or nine years within striking distance. I'm happy with all of this.
Then I went to Arizona for my annual boys trip.
This goes probably exactly like you think it would. I managed to keep things under control out there for the first couple of days--grilled chicken at lunch, some egg whites with chicken and asparagus for a breakfast out, and even a solid workout at the hotel gym. But the reality is that we go on this trip to party like rock stars. And that's what we did. As my good friend Erik surmised, we begin the trips trying to stay healthy and we wrap them up just happy to survive.
Things bottomed out for me on Sunday evening. I had a redeye flight back, which actually seemed like a decent idea at the time I booked it but turned into a nightmare. I was exhausted, so I hit the airport about six hours early, at least thinking that way I'd score a choice exit row window or aisle for sleeping purposes. No such luck. Instead, I grabbed a burger and fries and tried to nap in the terminal. By mid-flight, my previously sore throat now hurt so much that even swallowing water was arduous. I finally got back to Little Rock around 9 AM, grabbed a fast food breakfast on the way home, and made a beeline for my bed. I napped blissfully from about 9:30 to 11, then woke up feeling roughly ten times more tired than before. This was...odd. If it was a prizefight, my corner would have thrown in the towel. I was done. I checked in with B and the kids, who were making their own way home from Memphis at just about that time, meaning I had a few more lovely hours alone to rest. A couple of hours later I dragged my self out of bed, got a sandwich for lunch, and made an appointment to see my doctor the next day.
Diagnosis: sinus infection en route to full blown bronchitis if I hadn't come in. Lovely. The remedy? A steroid shot to dry me out, and a z-pack. While this does aid the short term sinus recovery, it also makes me sluggish, irritable, and starving. Lovely combination, especially coming down from a five day road trip. The wheels are thus off for the moment, because I just need to make it through the weekend before I can ride the healthy train again.
* * *
Then I went to Arizona for my annual boys trip.
This goes probably exactly like you think it would. I managed to keep things under control out there for the first couple of days--grilled chicken at lunch, some egg whites with chicken and asparagus for a breakfast out, and even a solid workout at the hotel gym. But the reality is that we go on this trip to party like rock stars. And that's what we did. As my good friend Erik surmised, we begin the trips trying to stay healthy and we wrap them up just happy to survive.
Things bottomed out for me on Sunday evening. I had a redeye flight back, which actually seemed like a decent idea at the time I booked it but turned into a nightmare. I was exhausted, so I hit the airport about six hours early, at least thinking that way I'd score a choice exit row window or aisle for sleeping purposes. No such luck. Instead, I grabbed a burger and fries and tried to nap in the terminal. By mid-flight, my previously sore throat now hurt so much that even swallowing water was arduous. I finally got back to Little Rock around 9 AM, grabbed a fast food breakfast on the way home, and made a beeline for my bed. I napped blissfully from about 9:30 to 11, then woke up feeling roughly ten times more tired than before. This was...odd. If it was a prizefight, my corner would have thrown in the towel. I was done. I checked in with B and the kids, who were making their own way home from Memphis at just about that time, meaning I had a few more lovely hours alone to rest. A couple of hours later I dragged my self out of bed, got a sandwich for lunch, and made an appointment to see my doctor the next day.
Diagnosis: sinus infection en route to full blown bronchitis if I hadn't come in. Lovely. The remedy? A steroid shot to dry me out, and a z-pack. While this does aid the short term sinus recovery, it also makes me sluggish, irritable, and starving. Lovely combination, especially coming down from a five day road trip. The wheels are thus off for the moment, because I just need to make it through the weekend before I can ride the healthy train again.
Today is a holiday. It didn't seem so long ago when the very word "holiday" inspired visions of relaxation and simple enjoyment. Now it just means finding ways to fill the day when AJ is home from school. Case in point: today. I'm still highly medicated and in my easily agitated-sluggish-state of mind and being. Not exactly ideal conditions for kid-minding, but that's my job, and I do the best I can. Everything was going smoothly enough this morning--a casual little breakfast for the boy while we watched "Cars" burned some time, and Courtney got a nice nap in. Then, as so often seems to be the case, came the miniature version of Death of Calm by A Thousand Blows. First, our next door neighbor started mowing his lawn. Not a big deal, except for two things: one, it always sets the dogs off. Al. Ways. Without fail. Secondly, and this is actually kind of impressive, Mr. Carl's house is on the market, I think he actually lives in St. Louis at the moment, and he still finds a way to get back here and cut the grass seemingly three times a week (NOTE: this might be a slight exaggeration, but very slight. I don't know how the man does it).
Okay, so the mutts are barking. Lock them in the library, done. The girl is up and needs a bottle. It's warming. Get her up. Get the bottle working. Grand. Then, the boy chimes in: "Daddy, I need to poopy!" Of course you do. He has an uncanny knack for needing to drop a deuce at times when I find both of my hands otherwise involved. But that's okay. We can handle this. He's getting better at the solo routine, so we get that started. I bring her and the bottle in to help him finish up and he's basically done his business. Mr. Carl is now mowing the area right outside the library window. Dog volume increases. Set daughter down in her basket for a moment so I can help the boy wipe, flush, etc. Phone rings. It's my wife's grandmother. Dear woman that she is, she wants to pick up a Thomas train or two for the boy's Easter basket. She knows that he has amassed quite a collection and wants to know how she can get one he doesn't own. She remembers hearing something about a Toys R Us registry. I promise to check and get back to her.
Boy is now dressed and clean. Grab daughter with one arm, surf the web with another--a skill I have pretty much perfected at this point. Check the Toys R Us site for the registry. Long story short: their registry stinks. It's wildly confusing and painfully not helpful. Instead, I grab a pad and pen and do a self-inventory of the trains that I can find, writing them down by name. I call Na'Nan back and tell her to come on over. I give her the list, fill her in on the beauty of a simple little item called a "gift receipt," and we're done with that. While this exchange is going on, AJ decides he wants to play with his cars. Which are, at the moment, locked in the library. With the dogs. Who remained there because either one of them could knock poor, petite little Na'Nan over in a heartbeat. Dogs run wild, but luckily all humans avoid incident. Round one of Mr. Carl's Mow-O-Rama has completed, so I stuff the mutts out back. Daughter's bottle is done. Na'Nan is out the door, happily armed with a workable list. Things are once again quiet. For a moment. Until...
"Daddy...I need another Easter treat."
And so it goes...
Okay, so the mutts are barking. Lock them in the library, done. The girl is up and needs a bottle. It's warming. Get her up. Get the bottle working. Grand. Then, the boy chimes in: "Daddy, I need to poopy!" Of course you do. He has an uncanny knack for needing to drop a deuce at times when I find both of my hands otherwise involved. But that's okay. We can handle this. He's getting better at the solo routine, so we get that started. I bring her and the bottle in to help him finish up and he's basically done his business. Mr. Carl is now mowing the area right outside the library window. Dog volume increases. Set daughter down in her basket for a moment so I can help the boy wipe, flush, etc. Phone rings. It's my wife's grandmother. Dear woman that she is, she wants to pick up a Thomas train or two for the boy's Easter basket. She knows that he has amassed quite a collection and wants to know how she can get one he doesn't own. She remembers hearing something about a Toys R Us registry. I promise to check and get back to her.
Boy is now dressed and clean. Grab daughter with one arm, surf the web with another--a skill I have pretty much perfected at this point. Check the Toys R Us site for the registry. Long story short: their registry stinks. It's wildly confusing and painfully not helpful. Instead, I grab a pad and pen and do a self-inventory of the trains that I can find, writing them down by name. I call Na'Nan back and tell her to come on over. I give her the list, fill her in on the beauty of a simple little item called a "gift receipt," and we're done with that. While this exchange is going on, AJ decides he wants to play with his cars. Which are, at the moment, locked in the library. With the dogs. Who remained there because either one of them could knock poor, petite little Na'Nan over in a heartbeat. Dogs run wild, but luckily all humans avoid incident. Round one of Mr. Carl's Mow-O-Rama has completed, so I stuff the mutts out back. Daughter's bottle is done. Na'Nan is out the door, happily armed with a workable list. Things are once again quiet. For a moment. Until...
"Daddy...I need another Easter treat."
And so it goes...
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