Saturday I woke up feeling like, well, poo. I felt very sick, and I tried to convince myself all morning that my constant throwing up would magically stop in time for me to go to Brian and Atsukos for a late lunch, and then onto a friend of Nana’s house for dinner. I didn’t want to cancel on them (again), and I thought that getting out of the house would do me a world of good.
This mind over matter thing just doesn’t work well for me.
I must have been the WORST lunch guest ever. I spent the entire time trying to avoid moaning and mooing out loud, and instead tried weakly to make conversation from the closest chair to the guest bathroom. Man, I really embarrassed myself. I think I managed to eat about ten noodles, which is a pity, because Atsuko is an excellent cook.
I got home and called Doris, my Nana’s friend. I apologized profusely, but told her that I was just too sick to come to her house for dinner, and I was sorry that I couldn’t give her advance notice. She was noticeably pissed on the phone.
Crap. Pissing off nice old ladies is not my idea of fun.
Dim took the baby to his dad’s house for dinner, and I lay in bed moaning and mooing out loud. I had to give myself a pep talk to roll out of bed to get myself some water. It took about 30 minutes for me to actually convince myself to do it. I was pathetic.
I told Dim that I was thinking about going to the hospital to get fluids, even if I had only been sick for 12 hours, not the 24 that the doctor recommended. He said that I should wait the 24 hours, but I was MISERABLE. I was weak and dizzy and not able to do the whole subject-verb-object routine while speaking. I called the insurance company’s 24-hour advice nurse (I can’t get my doctor to answer phones on weekends) and she told me to get my ass to the ER, and don’t bother to wait the full 24 hours, since dehydration can lead to pre-term labor.
Dim came home and took me to the hospital. I went to the Maternity ward, since after 20 weeks gestation, the ER doesn’t want to deal with you, and I created an embarrassing mess in the waiting room restroom while waiting for a bed.
I like the Labor and Delivery ward. The beds are (a little) more comfortable, the nurses are all really nice, and Dim had a cot to sleep on while they pumped me full of fluid. After a few bags of fluid, I felt better, and they sent me home.
So, yeah. Hospitalized twice for uncontrollable vomiting with this pregnancy. I will remind him of this when he comes home with a C.
So that was Saturday. Sunday was much better. We took Bean to a pumpkin patch to pick out a pumpkin. Of course, we don’t have actual pumpkin patches in town, we have these mini-carnival things on street corners with bouncy houses and pony rides and hay bales and stuff like that. They charged admission – rides were extra. Admission? To shop for a pumpkin? Jerks.
Bean picked out a little pumpkin, kissed it on the top of the stem and carted it around as best she could. She walked up to ghost decorations and said “boo!” in a quiet little voice. I made Dim put back the pumpkin that he wanted when the carnie/owner/barker guy told us that he’s give it to us for $28 instead of $30. $28 for a pumpkin? They’re 25 cents a pound at the grocery store. No way, buddy. I didn’t have the heart, though, to tell Bean to put her new little friend back, so we paid for it and left.
Now Bean carts her little pumpkin around the house and pats it every now and again. She sets it in my desk chair and spins the chair around in circles, saying “Wheeee!”
And that? That only cost me the equivalent of a 32 pound pumpkin at Smith’s.
Dear Kid’s Flu Shot for 2007-
You suck ass.
Yours sincerely,
Jen
Piffle.
The washer was going all night, washing load after load of crib pads, crib sheets, stuffed animals, and barf-coated pjs. I stopped counting the baths we drew for her (and us). The whole upstairs smelled like old corned beef. It was so bad.
My poor little pookie is resting now, and is managing to keep simple, bland foods down. I try to rest while she sleeps, but I’m just not a good napper, even after no sleep.
And we won’t be eating corned beef any time soon.
Bean and I have been holed up in the house sliding along on a river of snot. She got sick, and then gave it to me. Now both of us spend most of the night hacking and not sleeping well. At least she doesn’t have to get up to pee three times a night.
Last night I called my mom and begged her to come watch Bean so I could stare blankly from the couch. Thanks, mom.
Bean’s newest trick is stretching both arms out at you and saying BOO! when you ask her what a ghost says.
I’m in the process of getting rid of my personal library to make room for the new baby. I have thirteen boxes of books downstairs waiting to go to the used bookstore. Sigh. Part of me is really sad to see them go. They were like a security blanket for me; old friends that would always be near if I needed them. But they have to go. I’m keeping a few – like my old yearbooks and my Norton Shakespeare (I want to be buried with that one) and my old diaries (MAN is it embarrassing to read those. Maybe I’ll get rid of them, too.) My Nancy Drews didn’t make the cut (sniff, sniff) and neither did any of my old textbooks. Dimitri swears that he needs to keep all of his old computer books – for reference, he says. I think that’s akin to keeping stack of National Geographics or old Almanacs, but I choose my battles these days, and that’s not a hill I want to die on.
The moral of the story here is that I have three (perhaps four) bookcases that need good homes. Any takers, Las Vegans?
I also have a magnificent oak rolltop computer desk and an oak TV stand that need a home, too. Perfect condition. If not, anyone willing to show me how to list them on Craig’s list?
This weekend I had a Stitch and Bitch scheduled at my house. I invited all the usual suspects, and heard back from a lot of them that they would come.
Yeah, so they didn't.
I had sandwiches and sodas and juices all ready. I even MOPPED, people. MOPPED.
My 10-12 expected gals turned into two: Nicole and Kat.
I had a nice time chatting with them and working on crafty things for a few hours. I'm glad that the two of them came, but I still felt like the unpopular girl in Junior High.
Sigh.
This weekend I found myself jilted for an appointment and subsequently had time to kill in Henderson, the town next to Vegas, which, when my parents were growing up, was nicknamed Hooterville, on account of the rednecks that densely populated the city, but has now come to be all gentrified and now calls itself Green Valley, even though the envelopes still need to be labeled Henderson in order to get to anyone of import.
Aaaaanyway, there I was, poking around the Trader Joe’s in Henderson. Trader Joe’s is great, decently priced, and NOWHERE near my house. I took advantage of my jilted-ness and relished the thought of visiting a Trader Joe’s that happened to be right across the street from where I happened to be on Sunday. I was thinking to myself: “Hey- (I often start my inner monologues with interjections, I don’t know why.) Susan lives in Henderson, and shops at Trader Joe’s. I wonder if she’s here. That would be cool if she were.”
I haven’t seen Susan in the flesh in a long time, although I read her blog every day. I enjoy her company, though, and STILL haven’t been invited over to see her new (now old) kitchen countertops. Ahem.
So I’m padding around the aisles at TJs, and I find a can of tofu-studded organic, free range, fair trade, hormone-free, massaged daily chili. I catch myself thinking “Hey – I remember that Susan said that she makes tofu dogs and veggie chili from Trader Joe’s stuff. Gee, I miss Susan. I wonder what she’s up to.”
Susan wasn’t in the store, but it would have been cool if she were. But Susan, if you’re reading this, a can of hippie chili made me think of you this weekend.
Bean has an appointment to get her picture taken at JC Penney today. It’s been months and months since I’ve had a “real” picture taken of her (You know, one that doesn’t show empty Diet Pepsi cans in the background or Dim in his boxers) and we’re overdue for new ones.
I have a cute little dress picked out for her, and her cousin Earen has a matching outfit to wear to take pictures with her. So everything should go fine, right?
Sigh.
Bean woke up with extra special electrified hair this morning. At the best of times, what little hair she has looks like it’s making a break for it, like it can flee her little skull and float about until it finds some other baby’s head, but this morning’s arrangement was extra special. Think: Einstein meets Phil Spector meets Buckwheat.
Just wet it down and tame it a little, Jen. Thanks, interior monologue. I’m so glad I have you around to point out the OVERLY OBVIOUS AND NEVER EFFECTIVE solution. Plus, she doesn’t sit still long enough for me to attempt anything involving a hair dryer or hair spray.
Plus, she taught herself to jump off the top of the mini fridge this morning. Of course, she didn’t do it well, and didn’t land on her feet at all, so now we have a nice purple bruise on her pale little forehead just waiting to be photographed.
Oh, and did I mention the explosive diarrhea that showed up today? And did I mention that I discovered it by feeling it dripping down my forearm as I picked her up out of a pile of live electrical cords and power strips? No? Well, today has been FUN.
At least I’ll have photographic evidence.
Wish me luck.
Me, this weekend:
“Bean, stop crying. Go play with daddy for a minute. It’s Saturday and on weekends I GET TO POOP ALONE.”