A drowned mouse, a stuffed dog, and marky mark

Who was the asshole that told me this shit falls in threes and that it's safe to come out now? Who was it? 'Fess up! Cuz this shit is still fallin' and my umbrella's about busted up.

Again, like before, it all started so innocently. I was outside hanging my laundry. Don't rub your eyes. There's nothing wrong with the monitor. I was hanging my laundry. Outside. In the sunshine. A very unAmerican thing to do, admittedly. And yet oh so Heather. A good deed to boot. And green. Good, green Heather.

Paving the way to hell.

So as I'm hanging my laundry, I hear I banging on the sliding glass door behind me and turn to see my sweet baby, wireless mouse in hand, pounding a rhythmic beat to the refrain so often heard from her, "Da-da Da-da Da-da Da-da." So adorably smiling and happy, I almost forgot to get angry.

But then I remembered.

"No, no, no! Put that back. Do not play with Mama's things!" I shouted through the door as I wrestled a gigantic, wet bra onto a deck chair.

"Heeeeeee!" Iryna laughed and stomped her feet with glee. "Da-da Da-da Da-da," she sang and pounded some more.

I dropped the bra which luckily just missed my toes or I might have been seriously injured with the weight of it, and took off to save my mouse. As I grabbed hold of it, ripping out of the hands of the babe, I notice something that sent me off the edge of Mommy Sanity and into the Abyss of Mommy Dearest: there was water, pouring out, draining out of my poor little wireless mouse. A steady stream of water. I just watched it like a mini Niagra Falls splashing onto the hardwood floor below.

"Boo da-da da-da duck duck. Whish frooo duck duck. Froo-ish duck," said Iryna in a language understood by her and her alone.

I don't recall much after that. I know I put her in her crib to cry her sad little self into a tizzy. And then I sat at my computer, cradling my dead mouse, mourning the loss of my only link to the outside world. As I've said before, the internet is my village. To lose it is like the Vikings coming in, stealing everything, kidnapping the women and children, and slaying all the men, leaving me all alone in the world. My village was burning down and my sweet little Iryna was the Vikings.

I know a few people called me during this time of shock and grief. I answered the phone with a curt, "In a bad place right now. You don't want to talk to me. Call back later." Funny, nobody called an ambulance or a firetruck. I guess my people know me.

Fortunately, there is happy ending here. Microsoft is sending me a new one. In fact, they are sending me a whole new set. Can you believe it? I called them up, and a very nice lady asked me, "What's the problem?"

"My daughter drowned my mouse and now it's dead," I explained.

"What's the name of your mouse?" she inquired.

"Ummm..." I hummed lowly. Then, to myself I thought, "I did dial Microsoft and not the vet's office, didn't I? I'm not that far gone into Lala Land to have done that. Or am I?"

"I... uhhhh... I didn't actually name it," I confessed.

"That's okay," she giggled, "There's a name imprinted on the underside."

So, wow. How's that! Your mouse, provided it's from Microsoft, actually has a name. And they're replaceable! Just don't tell Bill. I know he's generous and all. What with that killer foundation and his donating all those whoozy whatsits to the developing world. But I ain't in the developing world and I'm afraid if he hears they're giving out his mice to dumbasses who drown theirs, he'll put a recall on 'em and I'll be back to being the lone survivor in a burned out Internet village.

That was yesterday.

Last night I noticed Truman was panting a lot. But it is hot. And I've got the temperature set at 80 in an attempt to cut back on energy consumption. Good deed, green, yada yada, blah blah blah. Then he started drinking a lot of water. Again, though, it's hot. I put him to bed and forgot about it.

At about 5:30 this morning, he started barking and wouldn't stop. I figured he must have had to pee with all that dang water he guzzled. I dragged my half asleep ass downstairs and let him out. He made a bee line straight for his water bowl and drank the whole, freshly poured bowl all the way down. That's 18 oz. Without a break. Something was definitely wrong.

I let him out to pee and he hardly managed to get himself back up the two low steps of our deck. I picked him up and he yelped in pain. His belly was very large, distended, and hard as a rock. While he's fat and fluffy, nothing about Truman is hard or rock like. He's soft and jiggly. Rock hard is cause for concern.

I woke the kids, tossed a few cheerios at them, and we headed out to the animal hospital. After a quick exam, the vet came back to proudly display the xrays.

"I've got your problem!" she cheered.

At this moment, I envisioned swallowed magnets or a Hot Wheel. Maybe a baby diaper. Or one of my beautifully line dried towels.

"He's eaten himself sick," she said and smiled. "I'd heard that dachshunds are food driven, but he's practically eaten himself to death!"

I just sat there with a silly grin on my face trying to figure out what he'd eaten.

The vet pointed to the xray. "His stomach is four times as big as it should be. I'd say he has at least three cups of food in there. Perhaps more. Can you think of what he might have eaten?"

I rambled on and on about the baby throwing her food down to him. I admitted not having sat down to have a meal with my kids since Mike left. Something about how that is one of the few times I have to myself. Reiterating that my husband is gone for six months and that I am normally much more in tune to what is going on with my dogs and kids. So I really couldn't say how much food the baby's given him. But it couldn't be that much. Could it? On and on and on I went.

Then Reilly Kate piped in.

"He ate Freyja's treat bag," she said.

Then I remembered. I had found the treat bag laying on the floor of the family room, torn open and the contents eaten. I had assumed it was Freyja. And I didn't think it was that much. But it wasn't Freyja. It was Truman. And it was the better part of two enormous bags of Pupperonis, cut into tiny bite sized pieces.

They kept Truman all day, giving him IV fluids and some injections to keep his digestion moving. And cleaning up after his "plentiful bowel movements" (their words, not mine). All to the tune of $300. And I get to bring him back tomorrow for more xrays and fluids.

By the way, Reilly Kate admitted to having watched him do it, too. She just didn't think it was a big deal. And she didn't feel like taking it away from him. But $300 is about the cost of a kid's birthday party these days. Guess who just had her birthday party at the vet's office, complete with xrays and IVs and Pupperonis? Yep. RK.

And lastly, it was same said daughter that allowed her dog to eat himself practically to death that also decided she didn't like any of the pencils she had at her disposal and would instead take down all her Daddy's writing implements and find one she did like. Leaving the rest of said writing implements well within grabbing range of her baby sister who then grabbed herself a black Sharpie marker (why? why? why always the BLACK SHARPIE marker? Why is it never a pastel pink, washable Crayola marker?) and wrote all over herself, her clothing, the carpet, the guest bedding and the guest bed.

And it just ain't comin' out. Nor can I be bothered to try. Nope. I'll just sit here on the internet, hanging in my burning village and waiting for the shit storm to ease up. Anybody got a shitty umbrella they wanna send me?

This post has no title

I'm a bit busy right now feeling sorry for myself. No time to blog. There's pizza in the fridge. And ice cream. I ate all the cake, though. I kind of figure if I ain't having sex, I better be having chocolate. Or I might die.

That said, however, I gonna put up some pictures. For Mike. And anyone else who cares to look.

I'll be back to cheery, blogger self in no time, I'm sure. Meanwhile, maybe you guys could entertain me. Ya think?




His shirt says it all, doesn't it?





Because really does a pretty girl want onion breath? No, of course not. But we don't waste food, either. We reuse! Red Onion Bracelets. It's so hot! That's Mama's Little Green Girlie Girl.





Every night the kids gather 'round the laptop to listen to Dadda read them a story. he recorded one for every day he's gone.





Showing off her Champs/All Stars ribbons. Little brag on the Devil Girl: She qualified for Champs on her backstroke which means she was one of the top seeded for her age catagory. She placed 5th, missing 4th by .2 seconds. She missed 2nd place by 1.34 seconds. Next year we're shaving her bald to make up time. She also got 4th place in Freestyle, but she only qualified for All Stars on that stroke. Which is still awesome, don't get me wrong.

The sad part is she's too good a swimmer now to even bother throwing her overboard. She'd just swim to shore.





And our boy. Who dumped a whole glass of water on his cast during dinner last night. Which means I get to wake up at the ass crack of dawn to take him back to the hospital so they can do a cast change which then requires yet another xray. Next time he eats with a garbage bag over his whole body.

Could it be the Kombucha?

It seemed like such a simple thing. I was going to brew sweet tea in order to make my beloved kombucha. So much do I love my kombucha that one may call it an addiction. And yes, when you almost lose all you hold most dear in life for a mere sip of kombucha, it may be time to seek a 12 step program. If they indeed have such a thing for kombucha addicts.

But my addiction to kombucha is not where this tale of woe is headed. It is only the beginning. It is the first step in a long journey to...

... THE VORTEX OF HELL.

It was Friday morning when I filled a pot with water and set it on the stove. I have a flat top range that I use as a counter top when not in use. So I pushed everything over to one side and turned the free burner on. Or so I thought.

I sat at the computer reading the news when I happened to glance across the room and saw three foot flames leaping up off my stove and licking the cabinets above. A thick black smoke flowed from the flames that seemed to spread across the range. Immediately, I began screaming for the kids to leave the house.

"Fire! Get the hell out of the house. FIRE! FIRE!! FIRE!!! Get your sister and get out!!"

I don't know if it was my hysteria, the kids running and screaming, the ever thickening smoke, or the flames themselves, but the dogs scattered and hid. All but Freyja who was the first to head outside, but in an effort to Darwin herself right out of the gene pool, kept running back in. The kids waited and wailed outside as I ran back and forth trying to put out the fire and find the dogs. Of course, my efforts would have been more effective if a) I would have turned off the offending burner and 2) I would have stopped screaming like a freakin' banshee. But alas, I am not that level headed and completely allowed panic to rule the space between my ears.

After breathing in enough toxic fumes to cause Erin Brokovich to quarantine me, I sparked a smidge of reason and not only turned off the burner, but removed the melted and burning jar of peanut butter that sat on the burner I had mistakenly turned on. I then grabbed a hold of the dogs, threw them out of the house and blocked their return with an upturned picnic table. I opened the windows and we spent the rest of the day sitting outside basking in the thick, black smoke that poured out of our house till there was just the faint stench of burned plastic and torched peanuts.

When we braved it back in, I rummaged around in the pantry till I found another jar of peanut butter. Tragedy averted.

On the following Sunday, however, fire struck twice. As I was out with the kids, running the dogs, I couldn't tell you exactly what happened. Mike was home alone, grilling our dinner, unsupervised, and he ain't talking. Suffice it to say that when we returned, the house again smelled of burning appliances and our smoke detectors sat tabletop with their batteries disengaged. The neighbors have since told me there were four foot flames leaping out of our gas grill and one woman said she almost called 911.

Our dinner was charred, but we still had that jar of peanut butter. Tragedy twice averted.

And then, Monday. Monday is when things really started to catch steam, rolling downward to new depths of pathetically tragic.

Envision if you will, one fat housewife running with three children in a double jogging stroller and a German Shepherd Dog on either side of her. And so it was I, running along, midmorning on an enjoyable day. Until. A 60-something year old woman with her fluffy, well manicured poodle turned the corner and upon seeing the above mentioned vision of terror, screamed out to God and jumped straight into a bush, designer dog and all.

So shocked by this strange activity was Alyx that she didn't see the street sign and walked on the wrong side of it, causing the leash to jerk down on my thumb with such force that it tore my ulnar collateral ligament. I didn't know all that technical hoo-ha, however, until I decided the next day to take myself to the ER where the three kids and I sat on a gurney in the hallway (because they were so busy they had no free rooms) for three hours. The ER doctor and I had a discussion about casting my arm. It went a little like this:


Me: You can't put a cast on me. My husband is deploying in a few days. I need to be able to take it off.

Him: You can't take it off. Your hand has to heal.

Me: My kids need baths. And clean dishes. A torn UCL takes weeks to heal.

Him: But you need a cast.

Me: Are you gonna come by and do the scrubbing for the next month or so?

Him: What's the alternative?

Me: How 'bout a half cast thumb spica I can easily remove and put back on myself.

Him: Nurse! Fix our patient up with a half cast thumb spica she can easily remove and put back on herself. [then to me] How do you know all this, "thumb spica," "torn UCL?"

Me: [shrugged] Common knowledge?

Him: [walking away with a bested chuckle] Hell. I had to go to medical school for that "common knowledge."

Yes, I should have been on the high school debate team. I'm that good. But I got what I wanted. A very nice, sturdy half cast thumb spica that allows me to wash dishes, kids, dogs, and my hair.

Tragedy averted.

And so it was on Wednesday that I found myself one handedly doing laundry. The kids were helping me. Iryna was sorting lights and darks while Roman and Reilly Kate loaded the washer with towels. I turned the faucet in the sink on to start a tub of stains to soaking when I heard Iryna scream out in pain. The iron, which sits atop the ironing board in our laundry room, had fallen down. I assumed it just scared her or perhaps even fell on her foot. I bent down to pick it up with my one good hand and my concern turned to ice cold fear: Mike had accidentally left the iron on.

Just a quick touch had left my finger tips red and sore. Thank God, the iron hadn't landed on Iryna. It seemed she had just grabbed it as the palm of her hand and the outside of her thumb were the only parts burned. She screamed in pain as I iced and soaked her hand for the next two and a half hours. It blistered up and seemed very hot and angry, but not third degree. We contemplated another ER visit, but decided against it, opting for home first aid treatment and vigilant watching for signs of infection.

Once more, tragedy was averted.

With this much averted tragedy, however, one must ask how long can our luck last and what will befall us once we've bankrupted the pot of blessings?

The answer came the next day and has permanently changed our lives.

Thursday morning, as I one handedly emptied the dishwasher, Reilly Kate and Roman decided to rob the couch of its cushions and pillows to use as a means of creating a mountain. The stacked up their ill gotten boulders and when completed, jumped on said mountain. This then turned to something a bit more sinister: rough play involving jumping not just on the mountain, but on each other. We will never know the full story. I doubt even they know the truth of what happened that day.


But this much we've gathered from soulful confessions and angry accusations: Roman fell with his arm positioned awkwardly on the couch. Reilly Kate then either stomped or jumped on his arm. She confessed to me that she stomped on his arm, only intending to "leave a bruise." Roman insists she jumped on his arm. I hope he is right. Jumping has an element of fun to it. But if she did as she confessed and stomped with the intent to inflict pain and injury, I see no other element but sadism. And that scares me. I think it has also scared her.

When it happened, he began crying out in pain. As they are pretty brutal when playing rough, I naturally assumed he was hurt, but as has always been the case till then, he'd be okay. I yelled something akin to, "Knock that shit off right now! Pick up those fucking cushions and help me pick up the house. Roman, you'll be fine. Now, hush up and get to work."

Five minutes later he was crying just as hard as he had been when it first happened. I came out into the living room and inspected his arm, where he pointed. I saw nothing other than a little redness.

"You'll be fine. But this is why I always fucking tell you," I crescendoed, "not to rough play! When will you kids learn your lesson?"

And I stomped off to continue my one handed dish sorting. When five more minutes passed and he still was writhing in pain, I went back to take an even closer look. I turned his arm over to look at the underneath and that is when I saw a large knob sticking out, right above his elbow.

"Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my fucking GOD!" I cried out. Then turning to lash my fury on the one I knew broke my baby, "YOU!! YOU, Reilly Kathleen!! YOU BROKE YOUR BROTHER'S FUCKING ARM!!"

It was about 10:30 and we'd blown off swim practice that morning because both Reilly Kate and the baby had pretty bad coughs, so this caught us in the midst of an extremely rare, lazy summer morning. The baby and I were still in pjs. No one had brushed their hair or teeth. The dogs had been let out, but not exercised. I hadn't even eaten breakfast. I whirled around, only partially sane, throwing on clothes, grabbing diapers, and making a couple of quick calls.

We were back in triage in under an hour. Same administrators. Same nurses. Different doctor, thankfully. Oh, and with our own room this time. No measly gurney in the hall for us this time! No sir! Everyone was convinced that the arm was broken, but he was no longer crying or seeming to be in much pain at all. In fact, according to Roman when it first happened the pain "felt like squirrels chomping on my neck," but "now it feels like giraffes chewing leaves."

There was a glimmer of hope that, in the ER doc's words, "we may have escaped tragedy." But as the xrays would reveal, no, we hadn't. Not this time.

He had broken his humerus, right above the elbow, or more aptly, Reilly Kate had. It was a bad break, too, but not an uncommon one. The orthopedist explained that the problems with this type of break are many as the area is unstable and filled with arteries and nerves that complicate the mending process. He'd have to have surgery, the doctor told me, in the next few hours.

On Tuesday after my own ER visit, I had gone to the Verizon store as my phone seemed to have crapped out. So crapped out indeed was my phone, that they were unable to transfer any of the phone numbers out of my phone book. So, there I was on Thursday with my new phone in the ER being told that my son needed emergency surgery and the only numbers I had were Mike who wasn't picking up his phone (despite knowing that Roman's arm was most likely broken), my mom in Chicago, and my friend Nicole who while local was unable to help me as she had just had IVF and was on bedrest. Thankfully, my mom was able to grab the next flight out and Nicole's teenage daughter picked her up at the airport and dropped her off at the hospital. Oh, and Mike turned his phone back on.

Sending my baby off to have surgery just might be one of the hardest things I've ever done. As they wheeled a terrified and wailing Roman down the hall, my insides broke down and quivered with fear and guilt. I spent the duration of his surgery stuffing myself with pizza and ice cream while praying as fervently as... well, as a mother with a child in surgery.


The doctor put in two pins. But, he explained, that may not be enough to hold the parts of the bone together. He's hoping the bone knits quickly enough to hold it. We'll know if he'll need another surgery later this week. If he does, it'll happen shortly after the dr decides it. The nerves that control the fingers and hand run right through the area that is broken and subsequently pinned. Those nerves can be impacted by the break, by the surgery, by the pins, and/or by the post op swelling. The worst case scenario (that which the drs hate to tell you, but must) is that he will completely lose the use of that hand (his left, Thank God). It may be that he just loses strength and dexterity in that hand, or just the thumb, or even not at all. So far, so good. He's wiggling all the digits just fine and the swelling, while scary, seems well managed.

Most likely, even with all the best possible outcomes, he will need additional surgery during his lifetime. As he grows, the bones will grow irregularly and will become deformed. An osteotomy (like I had on my forearm) will hopefully fix this.

At this point, it's all wait and see.

Mike is still leaving on Tuesday for 6 mos in Afghanistan. My mom will be staying with us for at least the week.

Roman is still in a lot of pain and is on painkillers. But he's a trooper and is really coping well. Despite the pain. And anger he has at his sister. Please keep him in your prayers. He has a long, hard road to recovery.