Bags of Cancer

 

I’m not fit for human consumption today.  Stressful weekend with an ear infection that went a little something like this.

Friday night. By. Myself.  No husband.   

I look relaxed, right?  I was.  I was catching a buzz and watching Grimm.  Kids were nestled in their new bean bags watching movies, dozing off.  Then at precisely 11PM this happened.  Bukka, age 5, woke up.

Intense, uncontrollable screaming.  Lovely.

I won’t bore you with the rest of the night’s events.  It involved more pain and anguish, over the counter—whatever I could find, snuggling, trying to get the rest of my herd settled back down, more screaming, more crying, more sobbing, more snuggles, falling off the couch, phone calls to nurse lines, phone calls to husband, more sobbing, more snuggles, more crying, a gem of otic anesthetic drops (say that 5 times fast) found at the bottom of the medicine basket (there is a God), marital discord, sleeping upstairs with ear pained child, etc…

The next morning, I was beyond exhausted.  BEYOND.  First thing Bukka says to me when he woke up?

1.  Thank you for taking care of me.

2.  We are still going to eat pancakes at Brookie’s, right? (my bff waitresses Saturday’s at a breakfast place)

3.  Then the doctor?

Off we went to breakfast.  Just the boys and me.  They were gems.  Then we stopped at Urgent Care.  You know it’s going to be a long fucking day when the receptionist doesn’t even want you to sign in.  She’s all, “Ummm… it’s at least going to be 2 hours.  AT. LEAST. Most people are leaving.  Don’t you want to leave?”

I had been up all night.  For those of you who don’t have any children, all illnesses become 96% worse when the sun goes down.  I don’t know what that’s about… it JUST IS.  SOooooo I opted to wait, less I be up another stupid night.  The receptionist begrudgingly handed me the new patient paperwork. Sorry to put you out, doing your job and all.   I set to task.  It wasn’t until I was nearly to the end of the first page that I realized in my sleep deprived state, I’d filled it out for myself.  Yeah… like I had an ear infection.  I looked up at the reception area, sighed, and resolved to scribbling out information.  Fuck em.

While I was filling out paperwork, my kids started going batshit crazy.  There are two circumstances in this world where my children will not be normal.  Photo shoots and ER/ Urgent Care waiting rooms.  I told myself Bukka was being loud, because his hearing was affected.  I told myself that------------ to avoid the urge of grabbing him by his hurt ear.

 

 

Situation #1- Why do kids always roll around ON THE floor of the most potential germ infested areas (i.e. waiting rooms)? 

Situation #2-  I swear to All That is Holy, I have taught my children “inside voices.”  Howevercomma Fat Sucker disregarded any attempts to speak at a normal level. 

Fat Sucker:  I CAN’T REMEMBER HOW TO PLAY TICS, TACS, and TOES.  HOW DO YOU PLAY?

Me:  Let’s not shout.  We’re all right here.  Let’s take it down about 7 notches. 

Fat Sucker:  SO YOU DON’T KNOW EITHER.

Me:  Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Fat Sucker:  WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Me:  Why?  Why are you doing that?  What are you “weeeeing about?”  *whispers* Sssssssssstop it right now!

Fat Sucker (despite his brothers’ close proximity):  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.  LET’S PLAY.  YAY. hahahahahahahah.   LET’S PLAY.  I NEED TO POOP.  MOM, I NEED TO POOP.  DID YOU HEAR ME?  I NEED TO POOP. I BET THEY GIVE BUKKA A SHOT IN HIS EAR.  HEY.  I HAVE TO POOOOOOOP.

Me:  Of course, you do.  I wouldn’t expect anything less.

Situation #3-  Bukka.  *Jumping. Yelling. Climbing.  Also speaking like an old deaf guy.*  LET’S LEAVE.  *sigh.* I JUS.  I JUS.  I JUS WANNA LEAVE.  LET’S GO.  CAN I PLAY MARIO CART?  I DON’T CARE ABOUT MY EAR ANYMORE.  I WANNA GO HOME.  DO YOU HAVE A MINT?  CAN I GO WITH FAT SUCKER TO POOP?  I’M THIRSTY.  ARE WE LEAVING?  WHY DOES THAT GIRL LOOK LIKE THAT?  WHEN DADDY COMING.  IS THAT A BOY OR A GIRL? MAMA.  MAMA. MAMA.  MAMA. WILL THEY SHOOT MY EAR?   

For. Two. AND a half. Fucking. Hours.  They each took turns driving Tim & I bananas in that waiting room.  Have you ever just wanted to get up and leave your children somewhere?  Just leave like they weren’t with you.  No?  Then me either.

Then as an end to a perfectly disastrous weekend, my oldest son shows me this on the new bean bags, this morning.

The chemicals used to make this bag are considered hazardous in California.  Why just in California?  WHY not make the tiny sign on the bag bigger?  AND why in the fuck are they selling these in the first place if it can cause anything but intense comfort and laziness?

I will have to pry these bags from Fat Sucker and Bukka’s hands now.  They love these damn things.  WHAT THE FUCKITY FUCK FUCK?