It's a Mystery

I won't lie; this back to school routine is kicking my arse. Between the school sports, the paper work, the never-ending lunch making, I'm about done with school. 

You'd think after doing this for so many years I'd have mastered the art of parenting during the school year. Of course, you'd be wrong. I thrive on disorganization. Well, not really. I just can't seem to escape it.

It's been a particularly rough week around here. 

Knox's ear went missing.

Well, not his ear so much as his brand-new-only-11-months-old-so-not-really-brand-new-but-newish bionic hearing aide, but to be honest, it would be cheaper if he lost his actual ear and not just the insert.

From all accounts, his hearing aides were freshly inserted at 3 pm. He was loaded on to the bus and an hour later, just after getting off the bus his ear was gone.

It's not to be found. No one can find it.... Which, you know, is the definition of 'not to be found.' (Clumsy writing for the win!)

It's a mystery. A mystery worthy of Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle.  

In the span of sixty minutes I am out THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS (please please please let insurance cover this cost) and everyone is like *shrug, whatcha gonna do?*

Let me tell you what *I'm* gonna do:


Then pout.

And then YELL some more. 

I may even kick a rock. Down the driveway.

Then kick a rock again. Back UP the driveway.

And then I'm gonna YELL some more. Randomly. And, possibly, at strangers.

But only old people strangers. Old people who aren't wearing their hearing aides. So they can't actually hear me yelling at them. Because I don't want to seem rude. I'm fine with seeming crazy but I draw the line at rudeness. 

And then, after all the yelling, pouting and rock kicking, I won't lie. I'm going to cry. Crying makes everything better.

I just don't understand it. He went on the bus with both of his ears and got off the bus with only one of them.

Are kids these days selling hearing aides on the black market? Melting them down to snort them? 

Hoarding them to build a giant robot that they will set forth upon the world to rule it with the super power strength of its bionic ears?



And before you ask, no, Abbott did not eat it. He's an arsehole but he's a fussy arsehole that way. Also, he was nowhere near Knox when it was discovered the hearing aide was missing or even before. He was too busy chasing the Chihuahua who is in heat.

Did I mention my dog is an arsehole?

I'm not an arsehole Mom. I'm a HORNY TEEN.

I only wish he ate the hearing aide because I would gladly excavate poop than pony up the THOUSANDS of DOLLARS it's going to take to replace this necessary equipment. 

I don't have thousands of dollars. I'm jobless and I mooch off my husband.

My husband who is GOING TO BE SO MAD.

I'd rather excavate poop than tell my husband. AND I DON'T LIKE POOP. 

Google is going to forever think I have an excrement excavation fetish. Hello perverts brought here by Google. Welcome to the party!

So. To sum up: Knox's shiny bionic ear disappeared into the realm of 'never to be seen again,' shoulders have been shrugged, the dog has been cleared and the insurance people are going to be uncommonly kind and generous because if they aren't, the poor kid who lost all his teeth not two months ago and can't get them replaced will also have to wheel around deaf as my 66-year-old father who refuses to get his hearing checked.

And I already have to cope with one relative yelling "WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU," I can't handle another.

Please universe, bring back my kid's expensive medical equipment. The aliens don't need it. But Knox (and my bank account) certainly do.

*Kicks rock.*

Thumbs Down

I'm obsessed with thumbs. 

I can't stop worrying about my son's thumbs.

Especially his right one. It refuses to listen to me. It's stubborn and willful, defiant in it's rigid deformity. Every day and every morning, I take those thumbs, especially that right one and I hold it up to my lips and I kiss it. 

I whisper to the air around it, trying to coax it out of it's tightly held position and beg it to just open up. 

"Come on little piggy, you know you want to come to this market," I'll say. Right before stretching it wide open and holding my breath.

Did I break it?

Oh my god, I just broke my kid's thumb.

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

Oh wait. No. Nope. Not broken.

Damn it. It was almost there. 


And then the circle repeats itself. Everyday. 

I wrestle those thumbs into neoprene and metal splints. I have nightmares about those thumbs. 

Maybe it's not about my son's thumbs. Not really. Not any more than it is about his feet that are so rigid we can no longer get them in splints. Or hips so tight they dislocate themselves with a diaper change.

Those thumbs, those contorted disfigured little pieces of bone and tissue represent it all. More. Everything. 

My inability to control his health, his future. His siblings stubborn insistence on growing older and the fact that soon, too soon, my son will be raised in a household without any big brothers or sisters around to pester or annoy. Time slips by and I can't keep up or hold on. Everything is changing. Nothing ever changes.

Those thumbs are my dreams refusing to be crowbarred into reality and yet declining to evaporate into the ether of forgotten and lost hopes.

Two little difficult digits that refuse to bend the way I want them to, the way Knox needs them to. Instead they twist and grow, following their own inclinations and desires.

I'm powerless to reverse and prevent the damage, no matter how many times I try and force them into conformity.

Those thumbs, his sweet little thumbs are him. They are his siblings. They are me.

I'm weary from worrying about the thumbs.

I need a thumb-cation.

Most Especially Snotty

I didn't write here this week because I was dying.

Okay, not literally, but at moments I was certainly wondering if death would have been kinder. There are a lot of jokes made about man colds and how whiny men can be when they get sick and to be honest, I've never really understood them. (Even though I've been known to make them.) (The depth of my hypocrisy knows no bounds, really.)

The truth is, Bruce is rarely ill and when he does succumb to the latest virus or plague, he's terribly stoic about it. It's very annoying.

Mostly, because I am the least stoic person around when I'm snotty and congested.

I whine. Loudly and often. 

I don't do well sick. I do sick even less well when Knox is also home sick. Because you know what is worse about being knocked on your arse with the plague? It is having to take care of someone else who is more plagued than you.

It was the sick caring for the sick, which is worse than the blind leading the blind. Or so I'd assume.

There is no solace in whining to Knox as I feed his fever and starved his cold. Or vice versa. Whichever. Whining to Knox is useless. He can't hear me. And to be honest, that's probably a good thing. If suffering were a contest, he's always going to win.

If this week was a test on my inner strength and maturity levels, I'll admit it, I likely failed. So you know, it wasn't much different than most normal weeks. 


Luckily, Knox and I are on the upswing, the snot is receding and fever has broken. My teenagers won't have to mutiny this ship after all. I'm sure they were each considering it at some point this week, as they listened to Knox and I trying to out whine one another.

I wish I were one of those stoic people like my husband who can be ill and do it with grace and dignity. But over the past 37 years I've learned that as much as I'd like to be refined and elegant, I can't manage it. Most especially when I'm ill. 

No. I'm always going to be the girl who is loud and brash and irritating. Most especially when I'm ill.

To you classy genteel folks, I salute you. I sincerely wish I could be more like you. Most especially when I'm shoving tissues up my nose to absorb my snot.

Have a good weekend everyone.