Thar She Blows!

“Her bowels blew!” said Beth’s teacher, describing Beth’s explosive trip to the potty this afternoon.

The “big” potty at home took the brunt of another sudden burst this evening. When you get a good deal of the product on the under side of the toilet seat, you know your dealing with a powerful force not to be reckoned with lightly.

Pop Quiz: What do you get when you take an extremely constipated young girl to a specialist; he gives her Enulose (to loosen her up); she takes it for four days without a movement; she goes to her regular doctor for something unrelated; he determines that she has a sinus infection; and, he prescribes an antibiotic which she takes for two days (along with the Enulose)?

Answer: A great big mess.

Break out the 409, it’s Bounty time.

Reflux Redux; and, why do I bother sending these to Christy?

Reflux rears it’s ugly head, and Christy’s email probably remains unaccessible; but the show must go on.

Beth went to see the latest doctor in what has been called, “the Grand Tour of Pediatric Specialists”; or, in honor of my in-laws: “le Tour de Docteur Medecin Enfant Specialiste.” (Bet you’d never guess I don’t have a lick of French in me, and I made that all up on the fly.)

The most recent addition to the tour was the G.I. specialist. We went because Beth was full of crap, or so we were told. The G.I. Guy said it was more likely our primary was full of it. The good doctor said Beth’s only problem was a strong desire to hold it in. He prescribed lactulose to loosen her up – to force the issue, if you know what I mean.

We quickly passed that however, because he seemed to be more interested in another one of her quirks: her thing with mixing-up a common cliche. In Beth’s case it’s: “what goes down must come back up.” He seemed to think she still has reflux, noting it’s not normal to throw up so often. He prescribed Zantac and Reglan.

As a result, our mornings now start with a virtual parade of prescription medications. To finish off her bronchitis and ear infection, we start the morning with Zithromax. We immediately follow with a Zantac/Reglan/Delsym cocktail chaser. She gets a half hour break to eat breakfast. If we’re lucky we get a pinch of vomiting in between. Last, before leaving for school, we give a dose of lactulose to send her off on her day nice and loose. When we all get home, we get to do much of it all over again, with a vitamin and Zyrtec added into the mix.

Ah, the joy of prescription medications. Perhaps an appropriate toy for our next child (if we have another) would be the Fisher Price “My First Pharmacy.”

Life is a classroom.

Beth, with her faux medical bag in hand, explains “this will just take a minute daddy.” She opens her bag and produces a stethoscope. She puts the ear pieces up to her ears, pulls up my shirt and reassures me, in her best bed-side manner: “this won’t hurt daddy, this won’t hurt, this will just take a minute daddy. . . .There, you feel better now daddy?”

Where does she come up with this stuff?

A Nice Story.

On the day your first child is born you are at once overwhelmed and at peace.

When he or she first learns to walk you are enveloped by a sense of wonder; things you typically took for granted seem like tiny miracles.

When he or she first learns to talk its like their personality is finally breaking through the shell of infancy.

When he or she first defies you, you question wether you patience will hold out for 20 odd years (or longer).

When he or she first brings punishment upon his or her self, you fear that you have been too harsh.

When the punishment is over, you really want to apologize.

When he or she first falls asleep on a long car trip they are at once the picture of innocence.

When he or she first climbs up on the roof, you wonder how the hell they got up there.

When you read this, relax, I made that last one up.

When the alarm doesn’t sound.

About two years ago, my department gave everyone a personality test. This test gave everyone a score based on how strongly each of four defined personality types appeared in a person. One of these defined types, labeled “gold”, was for those who valued rules, structure, organization, well defined plans, thinking things out ahead of time, and being well prepared. Since taking this test, I’ve held the notion that Cheryl had more gold than a goldfish.

Well, a certain “gold” individual had their worst nightmare come true this morning. I woke up on my own this morning and immediately determined that it was much too bright outside for 5:45 am. I went through a hopeful, half awake “is it the weekend or am I late for work” self examination before succumbing to the awful truth; I was indeed late for work (or soon would be). Depending on the type of person you are, this realization speeds the waking process significantly. As you can probably guess by now, the alarm did not go off. Without naming any names, it appears. . .aw hell. . .CHERYL did not remember to set the alarm. Being a sworn non-gold person**, this awoke a healthy dose of anxiety even in me. Cheryl on the other hand was having tremors that likely registered on seismographs out west. Since she had more responsibilities, and would get into more trouble for being late, I volunteered to diaper, dress and deliver the young one on my own.

Now Beth is accustomed to getting up with us at 5:45. The normal routine is to get her up, give her food, turn on the TV, and let her do her thing while we get ready for work. After we are ready, and she has had a chance to eat (or smear half chewed, formerly dry cereal in her hair like mousse – one of the two), we get her ready and head out the door. I followed this same formula this morning. It was apparent that Beth knew something was amiss (and I found it amusing) when she walked into the bathroom while I was shaving and said, “daddy, something is wrong. The clock doesn’t say five this morning!” What could I possibly say to that?

**Slowly but surely, I feel I am being pushed to the dark side by an unstoppable, determined force; Cheryl.

A Scene from the Lowry Park Zoo.

Today we learned that the animals can go wherever they want to.

We were visiting the baboons, and a very large male baboon was facing us just on the other side of the retaining mote. We were right a eye level, staring at each other; the large male baboon and I. Not much more than ten feet of water separated the two of us, when I confirmed that the baboon was a male. He had been just siting on a rock directly above the water when his shoulders visibly relaxed, and it almost appeared that he had cast a fishing line into the water. The lack of fishing pole and the faint sound of running water ruined the metaphor. I was barely able to contain my amusement when a stuffy looking yuppie mom was excitedly snapping pictures of the large baboon with her compact 35mm (with built in zoom), false enthusiasm in her voice while yapping with her small child. By the tone of her voice (a kind of distracted, doing two things at once tone – trying to take pictures and carrying on meaningful conversation with a small child at the same time sound), I’m quite sure she did not notice the baboon had his line set. I’m taking all of this in, and I wonder at what her reaction will be when she notices all of this, after the pictures are developed: “Here’s that great big baboon I was telling you about. He was right up close, looking ri. . .wha. . .oohh?”

No laughing matter, really.

What do you get when you don’t take a crap for a week?

I’m afraid that there is no punch line to this one. But it does describe Beth’s condition last week. She was full of crap. As of Friday, she had not moved her bowels since the Friday prior, and she was not happy. We went to see the good doctor, and he had us give her two (yes two) enemas per day for the duration of the weekend (Friday – Sunday). Adding insult to injury, he also prescribed a prescription strength laxative which made her throw up. Beth, still wary of things being poked into any of her body cavities, particularly those south of the navel, was not pleased by this solution.

The phone rings. . .”Hi, I’m Elizabeth Kauffman’s mother. She’s a patient of Dr. Hennessey. . . .The prescription he gave her seems to be making her throw up.” “Well, throwing up is not a side effect of that medication.” “Well, she was not throwing up before she started taking it, and now that we stopped giving it to her, she isn’t throwing up any more. . . ”

Beth did have several industrial sized deposits in her diaper throughout the weekend, so hopefully the bank will continue to except regular withdrawals without such drastic measures in the future. We therefore did make it through the weekend, aided by plenty of KY Jelly.

The phone rings this evening. . .

“Hello.”

“Hi, this Marie from Dr. Kornfeld’s office. Can I speak with Elizabeth please?”

“Ah. . . well I guess you could, but it wouldn’t be a very meaningful conversation. . . .”

(As it turns out, they were just calling to confirm an appointment, but I thought it was funny that they asked to speak with Beth. It was a first.)

A Lesson in Physics

Beth, doing her best impersonation of Isaac Newton, reaffirmed a couple of principles this evening: mommy and daddy’s rules are for good reason, and gravity plays no favorites.

Beth was in the family room when she decided Stuart Little was no longer worthy of her undivided attention. “Daddy, could you please give me my balloons?” I promise you I handed them to her innocently, with no idea what she would do with them… despite a couple years of practice as a parent.

Beth has taken to throwing things since staying in the hospital, in any direction that is convenient. Tonight it had unintended consequences.

Back to the balloons. Balloons in general, particularly the large foil – helium filled variety, are not very good for throwing. They’re all surface and no mass. Enter the rock ballast. Wrap it in foil, tie a couple of foil balloons to it with ribbon, it’s still a rock; and it still hurts when its dropped on your scull from 2 – 3 feet in the air. This is just what Beth achieved when, from a lying position, she awkwardly heaved the foil covered rock in the direction that tragically was most convenient at the time – straight up. Actually, I’m not sure if the rock technically hit her in the scull – unless the jaw/mouth is considered part of the scull (high school anatomy escapes me at the moment). Since teeth don’t bruise, and none of them were knocked out, the mishap left no visible marks or scars. There was just a bruised ego (if a 3 year old’s ego can be bruised), and hopefully a lesson as to why she should listen to mommy and daddy when they tell her not to do something.

Anyone got odds on wether I’ve learned anything?

You must be proud. . .

Today, Beth and her classmates did face painting in class today. The only problem was they were not using paint, the activity was not sanctioned by the school, and Beth was the leader. And to top it off, it turns out Beth contributed more than her leadership skills, she also “contributed” the “paint”, obtained “south of the border.”