Well, it's a good thing I'm not headed to med school any time soon...
When my son was born almost twenty-one months ago, a sweet nurse told me that all I had to do was kiss his forehead to gauge whether or not he was running a fever. This was a relief to me, because I have bad luck with thermometers. I can never seem to get a correct reading and always end up with a number below what I think sounds normal (though this could explain why I'm always freezing...)
Anyhow, my husband and I were fine with the "kiss test," but of course bought several different thermometers to keep in the house just in case. We tested them on ourselves (orally and ear!) to make sure they worked, and both got readings in the 96 degree range. So that means neither of us can work a thermometer. I'M kind of slow, but my husband enjoys writing computer code, studying algorithms (not that I know what those are), and reading historical non-fiction; so that makes me feel a LITTLE better that he is just as baffled by such a simple device. We're perfect together!
Fast forward to this week: my little angelic ball of dough woke up on Tuesday sweaty and miserable. He had a rough situation in the diaper region, too, and didn't feel like eating or drinking. But the most alarming part was that he was incredibly fatigued, and if you know my son (or any toddler) that's just not normal. BUT I did the "kiss test" and confirmed that he was not running a fever.
I took him to the doctor, and she thought he seemed okay (no fever, ear, nose, or throat issues). She prescribed a special ointment for his "diaper situation" ($60 WITH insurance. I'm assuming it's made of gold leaf... but naturally it's worth every penny if it makes him feel better). We went home, I called out of work, and we spent most of the day curled up together on a Thomas the Tank Engine bender.
Today he seemed a little better, eating and drinking and even playing a little, but I was worried because he was still exhausted. I called the pediatrician's nurse line, which I've always had good experiences with. A woman called me back a couple hours later. I immediately detected that she was an older woman and DEFINITELY from New York, possibly Queens.
From the beginning, she seemed impatient with me. She asked me if Grant had a fever. I tried to explain that I had felt his forehead and it was cool, but I might as well have said, "My psychic believes he's fine." Now to her credit, I probably sounded like a moron. But I can't take Grant's temperature! Besides the fact that I can't work a thermometer, that kid often won't stay still long enough for me to do it. This nurse was appalled. In a high-pitched, Fran-Drescher-like voice, she insisted that I take it immediately and she would "cahwl" me back in ten minutes.
Eleven minutes later, Nurse Fran called back and boy did I get it. I felt like my grandmother from Flushing was yelling at me."I just can't seem to get a reading!" I whined back. "He won't stay still!"
"YOU'VE got to make him stay still! You're BIGGAH than him, and he needs to learn! YOU'RE bigg-aaah!"
Oh, really? I'm bigger than my 21-month-old son? Thanks, Nurse Fran. I can take it from here... What is it with strong-accented women pointing out my son's size lately??
Nurse Fran finally gave up, exasperated with my parental ineptitude. She told me to keep taking his temp throughout the day and monitor his eating, drinking, and general behavior. She might as well have told me not to shake him vigorously; she clearly thought I was THAT much of a dunce. I guess I can't really blame her..
BUT... as soon as I hung up, I used all my big-person force and finally held the thermometer under Grant's doughy arm long enough to get a reading. I eagerly brought the thermometer up to my face to read it and discovered that the freakin' thing was in Celsius.
That's it; I'm cancelling my plans for pre-med.
")
P.S. Grant is doing much better this evening, thank goodness.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Martinis on Me!
Recently my husband and I had a night out in Bath, England, while my in-laws took care of our son. We walked all around, eventually ending up in a pub where a seemingly friendly local began telling us about some places to check out. He then asked us what we "do" back in America. Howard gave a brief description of his job, then told him that I was a "childcare provder." The man laughed condescendingly, looked at me, and said:
"Ah. So you spend HIS money."
Wow. What a completely accurate description of my day-to-day endeavors. Why, just earlier that morning I had asked my "hubby" for some cash so I could go to the martini bar, purchase a new fur coat (I don't have one that matches the Manolos I bought last week), and test-drive the Ferrari that I was planning on making him buy for me. I rubbed my ears, which were weighed down by the 15-carat diamond earrings I had just purchased with Howard's credit card, and smiled. It was like this stranger had known me my whole life...
I don't think I need to defend what it is I "do," since my family and friends already get it. That said, there are many jobs more stressful and difficult than looking after my sweet baby boy and taking care of an equally sweet six-year-old in the afternoons. Like the man in the pub's job, which apparently required him to drink beer and grade papers. He was also waiting for a wife who never appeared while we were there. I just assumed she was running around town on a shopping spree, like so many of us wives are wont to do...
")
"Ah. So you spend HIS money."
Wow. What a completely accurate description of my day-to-day endeavors. Why, just earlier that morning I had asked my "hubby" for some cash so I could go to the martini bar, purchase a new fur coat (I don't have one that matches the Manolos I bought last week), and test-drive the Ferrari that I was planning on making him buy for me. I rubbed my ears, which were weighed down by the 15-carat diamond earrings I had just purchased with Howard's credit card, and smiled. It was like this stranger had known me my whole life...
I don't think I need to defend what it is I "do," since my family and friends already get it. That said, there are many jobs more stressful and difficult than looking after my sweet baby boy and taking care of an equally sweet six-year-old in the afternoons. Like the man in the pub's job, which apparently required him to drink beer and grade papers. He was also waiting for a wife who never appeared while we were there. I just assumed she was running around town on a shopping spree, like so many of us wives are wont to do...
")
Monday, June 4, 2012
Wubs on a Plane
Boy, do I love my son Grant. He is sweet, funny, active, and affectionate. His little smile and voice melts my heart, and his curiosity of the world around him is a adorable. I love my son. That said, I will not be taking him on another airplane until he's old enough to vote.
A few weeks ago, my in-laws treated us to an incredible trip to the UK. We had all been talking about it for months and eagerly anticipating seeing my husband's extended family and introducing Grant to his Welsh great-grandmother. But alas, there was an elephant in the room. And that elephant was "How is Grant going to hold up during a 7.5 hour international flight when a ONE HOUR flight to Boston is difficult?"
Funny how not many of us wanted to address this proverbial elephant. My mother-in-law, who travels internationally like most people ride subway cars, insisted that taking a 20-month-old boy on a long flight was incredibly doable, adding that she had taken my husband and his brother many times when they were young. This was my first red flag, as it is common knowledge that my husband was THE MOST PERFECT BABY TO EVER LIVE and could sit still and quietly entertain himself. According to my mom, I was similar. And according to Grant's mom, ME, he is the exact opposite. Perhaps some recessive genes from my rebellious brothers? Who knows...
We arrived for our night flight with Grant already in his pajamas, PRAYING that the sheer hour of the day would knock the kid out and he would sleep through to when we touched down in bonny England. We ran into another couple waiting to board, and remarked on how their young son already looked sleepy. They leaned in and let us in on a little secret: BENADRYL. "Oh no!" I thought, reacting less to the fact that they had drugged their child out of convenience and more to the fact that I hadn't had the common sense to do the same.
After dinner and a couple hours of Grant of sprinting around the terminals, we boarded the plane. The lights were off, and Grant was showing signs of grogginess. My mother-in-law had scored my husband and me some bulkhead seats, so we had extra room. "Maybe this won't be so bad, afterall!" I figured.
We asked the flight attendant for a bassinet to put Grant in. She returned with one and I tried to ignore the fact that it was about three-quarters of his size. That fact became harder to ignore when a different, heavy-set Scottish flight attendant stopped short when she saw us and gasped, "YUUUU CAAAN'T UUUUSE THAT! HE'S FAAAAHR TUUUUUU BIIIG!" My husband and I agreed immediately, but she didn't seem to think we were getting it and continued. "Yuuu seee, that seeeat is fer a young baaaybeee and yur child is faaaahr tuuu biiig to yuuuuse it!" Yup. Roger that. We read you loud and clear, m'am! And yet she went on for the next five minutes to prove her theory, demonstrating some obvious points related to size. Grant was starting to lose it. And the plane was still on the ground.
We soon got a bigger seat to strap to a fold out table in front of us, but by then the lights had been turned back on and Grant was overtired and furious, having already rejected the toys that my mother-in-law had thoughtfully packed and spilling two drinks. When I had to strap a seat belt around him for takeoff, his cries and whines were promoted to full-on SCREAMS. I should also mention that the baby in the next row from us was behaving perfectly, making our son look like even more of a loose cannon by comparison. Perhaps the other baby was my husband's illegitimate child...
After we were in the air, I was both relishing the fact that we stood very little chance of being kicked off the plane AND wishing I could trade places with anyone else for the next seven hours. ALL OF THE LIGHTS stayed on for the entire flight. When poor Grant's exhausted tantrum hit its peak (he wanted to run freely down the aisles of the plane) we finally had to strap him into the seat. After an amount of effort that compares only to that of a circus performer, my husband FINALLY got him to fall asleep, lights glaring and all.
Twenty minutes later, we hit some mild turbulence and our favorite flight attendant told us we had to take him out of the seat. Yes, he woke back up. Yes, he screamed. He fell back asleep. He woke up. More screaming. It pretty much continued like that until we mercifully touched down at Heathrow hours later. My husband and I had aged about fifteen years, and it was then that I decided that I was moving to England, because there was NO WAY I was making my son do that flight again.
All in all, we survived and ended up having a wonderful visit. And I kept telling myself that at least the plane didn't crash. And on the flight back, I tried to keep that in mind...
")
A few weeks ago, my in-laws treated us to an incredible trip to the UK. We had all been talking about it for months and eagerly anticipating seeing my husband's extended family and introducing Grant to his Welsh great-grandmother. But alas, there was an elephant in the room. And that elephant was "How is Grant going to hold up during a 7.5 hour international flight when a ONE HOUR flight to Boston is difficult?"
Funny how not many of us wanted to address this proverbial elephant. My mother-in-law, who travels internationally like most people ride subway cars, insisted that taking a 20-month-old boy on a long flight was incredibly doable, adding that she had taken my husband and his brother many times when they were young. This was my first red flag, as it is common knowledge that my husband was THE MOST PERFECT BABY TO EVER LIVE and could sit still and quietly entertain himself. According to my mom, I was similar. And according to Grant's mom, ME, he is the exact opposite. Perhaps some recessive genes from my rebellious brothers? Who knows...
We arrived for our night flight with Grant already in his pajamas, PRAYING that the sheer hour of the day would knock the kid out and he would sleep through to when we touched down in bonny England. We ran into another couple waiting to board, and remarked on how their young son already looked sleepy. They leaned in and let us in on a little secret: BENADRYL. "Oh no!" I thought, reacting less to the fact that they had drugged their child out of convenience and more to the fact that I hadn't had the common sense to do the same.
After dinner and a couple hours of Grant of sprinting around the terminals, we boarded the plane. The lights were off, and Grant was showing signs of grogginess. My mother-in-law had scored my husband and me some bulkhead seats, so we had extra room. "Maybe this won't be so bad, afterall!" I figured.
We asked the flight attendant for a bassinet to put Grant in. She returned with one and I tried to ignore the fact that it was about three-quarters of his size. That fact became harder to ignore when a different, heavy-set Scottish flight attendant stopped short when she saw us and gasped, "YUUUU CAAAN'T UUUUSE THAT! HE'S FAAAAHR TUUUUUU BIIIG!" My husband and I agreed immediately, but she didn't seem to think we were getting it and continued. "Yuuu seee, that seeeat is fer a young baaaybeee and yur child is faaaahr tuuu biiig to yuuuuse it!" Yup. Roger that. We read you loud and clear, m'am! And yet she went on for the next five minutes to prove her theory, demonstrating some obvious points related to size. Grant was starting to lose it. And the plane was still on the ground.
We soon got a bigger seat to strap to a fold out table in front of us, but by then the lights had been turned back on and Grant was overtired and furious, having already rejected the toys that my mother-in-law had thoughtfully packed and spilling two drinks. When I had to strap a seat belt around him for takeoff, his cries and whines were promoted to full-on SCREAMS. I should also mention that the baby in the next row from us was behaving perfectly, making our son look like even more of a loose cannon by comparison. Perhaps the other baby was my husband's illegitimate child...
After we were in the air, I was both relishing the fact that we stood very little chance of being kicked off the plane AND wishing I could trade places with anyone else for the next seven hours. ALL OF THE LIGHTS stayed on for the entire flight. When poor Grant's exhausted tantrum hit its peak (he wanted to run freely down the aisles of the plane) we finally had to strap him into the seat. After an amount of effort that compares only to that of a circus performer, my husband FINALLY got him to fall asleep, lights glaring and all.
Twenty minutes later, we hit some mild turbulence and our favorite flight attendant told us we had to take him out of the seat. Yes, he woke back up. Yes, he screamed. He fell back asleep. He woke up. More screaming. It pretty much continued like that until we mercifully touched down at Heathrow hours later. My husband and I had aged about fifteen years, and it was then that I decided that I was moving to England, because there was NO WAY I was making my son do that flight again.
All in all, we survived and ended up having a wonderful visit. And I kept telling myself that at least the plane didn't crash. And on the flight back, I tried to keep that in mind...
")
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