Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Getting Schooled

Time for me to bless the world with a little more of my sage advice/wisdom. (Actually, I am probably just going to bitch a little.) I spend so much time reading other people's blogs and not enough time spewing on my own...maybe that is what I should do...just post all the comments that I leave on other blogs on here. Although, it probably won't make any sense.

As I start my day off with my usual cup of coffee I was dreading making the return phone call to my daughter's "supposed" school. I say "supposed" because she hardly ever goes to school. We are actually averaging about once a week at this point. Why, might you ask? Gee, little grasshopper, let me enlighten you. It seems that our track record with the public school where my child has been assigned it not that great (deadly, sarcastic understatement there for those that don't know me.) The first week of school, they lost her. Yup, you read that right, lost her. The bus comes careening around the corner because the old lady that drives just plain scares people that way. (That is to say, when she is driving, although when she is parked she slumps over the wheel to nap? Told you she was scary.) As the bus passed my house on the way deeper into the neighborhood, I thought, oh well, I guess they are going to drop her off on the way back out, since there is only one way in and out of my 'hood that way. Well on the way out the bus slows to a stop in front of my driveway and the creepy little male assistant climbs out and asked me if there was something he could help me with. WTF?? Uh, yeah, genius. Can I have my child, please? Oh we don't have her, he says. She wasn't at school. They told me you had already picked her up. O.M.G! What do you mean?? I haven't picked her up? WHERE IS MY CHILD?!?!?

Any parent who has ever gone through that momentary lapse of not knowing where their child is located, knows that feeling of utter dread at the thought that something terrible has happened. Your heart either skips a beat or drops to your ankles. Now, take that feeling, multiply it by 10, and for shits and giggles, add in the persnickety ticker factor. Thank goodness there was a nice soft concrete driveway for me to collapse into a puddle on. After calling the school and frantically pleading with the twit on the other end to please tell me they had not lost my daughter, oh and of course, the 10 minutes of HOLD they had me on, they finally manage to locate my child. She was with her teacher the whole time. To make a long story short in this instance...heads rolled. The bus company had a mandatory meeting about procedures and the school had a mandatory meeting about covering their collective asses. They each blamed the other for the "mix up." I was apologized to profusely by anyone and everyone. I was miffed. And swollen. To the size of ewwness. (my word, shut up, it's my blog) You see, having a stressful event in my life causes me to blow up like that fish in Nemo. Stress=POOF. Something about the damaged heart not being able to keep up with the increased pace and blah blah blah heart failure blah blah cardiac episode blah.

"You should try meditation! It really helps!" NO thanks, Doc, I prefer voodoo dolls. Much more soothing.

Needless to say, you can tell this event should have been a screaming lit up billboard of things to come. The events that followed involved MANY, MANY illnesses. Injuries that don't get reported to me until I call the school in a undie-bunching rant wanting to know WTF happened. The teacher trying to "save my soul" on the playground one day by asking me if I believed in JESUS-CHRIST-AS-MY-SAVIOR-OR-YOU'RE-GOING-TO-HELL!! That little conversation happened after she asked me how many times I've been dead (Seven for the record, no wait eight..It was a bad month last month.) Then there was the school nurse calling my daughter's pediatrician to get confidential medical information, which of course is AGAINST THE LAW! There was also an incident where the teacher put a sticker on my child's arm. My daughter suffers from extremely sensitive skin. Once I saw the offending sticker it was too late. I removed it and put some medicine on it, but the next day I get a call from the school saying they had "concerns about abuse" because my daughter had a welt on her arm. The resulting puddles of quivering school personnel was a sight to see after I showed up to personally INFORM them of the CAUSE of said "abuse."

You would think by now that any incidents concerning my child would be non-existent. Not so. My child came home from school last Friday with a fist-sized welt on her left side. My clue to the injury? She wouldn't let me hug her. When my kid DOESN'T want a hug from me? SOMETHING IS VERY WRONG! I lifted her shirt to find said welt that was turning into a bruise. Gave myself an hour to calm down and call the doctor, and called the school. Left a seething yet controlled message on the appropriate voicemail and waited. I got two frantic, apologetic, concerned phone calls yesterday. I didn't answer either one. I wanted the ammunition of a doctor's diagnosis about what happened to my child, and since the pediatrician's office is so swamped with sick kids (go figure) they couldn't see her until yesterday afternoon. Over the weekend the welt turned into a rash that covers her whole stomach. Turns out, the doc was stumped. So he calls in another doc and a nurse. They are all stumped. I get a prescription for cream and told to bathe her in oatmeal. With of course, the warning that if anything WORSE happens to call them back. Gee, I feel so REASSURED now.

As of this post, no word from the school and nothing WORSE has happened (banging head on desk to knock on wood.) The kiddo seems no worse for the wear, yet she is still apprehensive about hugs. I guess whatever it is, it hurts. Poor thing.

Her solution to "heal" the boo-boo? Sprinkles. Yes, as we are sitting in the exam room yesterday, she tells me in her little matter-of-fact way..."Mommy, I'm a good girl. Yes I am. I need a cookie to make the boo boo all better. A cookie with sprinkles. And a cupcake. A cupcake with sprinkles. Mommy my boo boo needs a cookie with cupcakes and sprinkles on top. That will make it all better."

Boy I only wish that were true. After this latest episode of being "schooled" I am going to need a cookie with sprinkles the size of Montana.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Childish Insight

As I am playing a computer game, my daughter comes in and says, "Mommy, whatchoo doing? What is those ducks?" (She's 4, vocabulary leaves a little to be desired.) "They're creepy."

Where in the world did my 4 year old learn "creepy" from?? So then she starts poking at my arm fat that she thinks is so much fun to do and she says, "Look, Mommy, squishy."

Yup, that's me. Squishy. Rolls and rolls of squishy. So she then lifts my arm and points to my pits and says, "Eww...what's that?"

I look at the stubble and say, "I don't know, Baby, what do you think it is?"


After I started breathing again from laughing myself blue, I kissed her sweet little forehead and thanked her for the lovely 4 year old perception of me. I am a squishy mommy, with grassy armpits, that plays with creepy ducks. The world is good.