Face Plant

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A man walks in to a bar. Stop me if you've heard this one...

I love the blog A Moon Worn As If It Had Been A Shell. I can't remember how I even stumbled upon it but have been an avid follower for a while now. A prolific poster and gifted writer and poet, Elizabeth has a feature she calls, How We Do It where she shares happenings of daily life which I should point out rarely happens to anyone else in daily life. Not only does it crack me up but it makes me feel soooo much better about my own life.

I thought of Elizabeth yesterday when The Baby did a face plant in her wheel chair on the ceramic tile floor.

As Montell Jordan said, "This is how we do it."

Here is the abbreviated version of our week in the nuthouse in a nutshell:

The morning starts when The Teenager walks down the stairs stating, " I know how it's done. Moses was NOT a slave. The people had to work."

No. I have no clue.

While she is bathing I run into the downstairs bathroom in a panic.

"Let me guess," she states. "You have to pee like a racehorse?"

I have a doctors appointment. Iris/Virus asks me twice, "who has the apportionment?" It suddenly dawns on her I have an appointment. She is stunned into silence primarily because I never have an appointment. I don't have time. Why I can't even remember my last pap smear. Was it this decade?

I go see my Thursday morning clients and then to the doctor.

He schedules surgery on my foot on November 22nd. I say happy Thanksgiving to me as this is the perfect excuse to eat more pie and stuffing which will aid in my recuperation. The foot is pretty terrible so I already knew I'd probably end up sliced and diced if I actually sought medical attention. What I didn't know is that it is also broken with a nice piece of bone poking around in there. Doesn't it hurt?

Yes.

Does it slow me down? No.

Fortunately, I have the pain tolerance of a yeti which all family members have except The Genius and The Teenager who I suspect may be the more normal members of the Yeti clan.

The Family

I get The Baby off the bus and the driver tells me I need to wash her hair because she is itching. I am highly offend and use all the self control I can muster not to smack this idiot into the gutter. The Baby has some pretty serious hormonal issues from the extensive neurological damage she sustained after being squeezed out of the birth canal on a hallway floor and then left for dead. This includes facial and scalp acne and some pretty potent adult sized body odor. Do I really need to explain this to the bus driver?

I make a mental note to speak with The Baby's teacher as now, in my paranoia, I am thinking they are discussing our personal hygiene behind my back.

I then go to Elizabeth's blog and read the note from her daughters teacher.

"please try to send Sophie in with a proper coat since it's freezing out and we want to take her for a walk."

I like the comment from Birdie regarding the coat:

Do these teachers not take courses in communication?

"Please try to send Sophie in with a proper coat since it's freezing out and we want to take her for a walk."

How about,

"We are really looking forward to taking Sophie for a walk. It is getting cold and the leaves are beautiful! Sophie looked so warm and cozy today but could you send her coat along tomorrow just in case the temperature drops?"

If only sweet Birdie were our children's teacher! Because it doesn't end there.

I call a friend to discuss my hair humiliation and she informs me she had just received a nasty call from the school demanding she cut her autistic child's nails. One nail takes approximately an hour and creates a tremendous meltdown.

She suggests the teacher cut the nails herself.

And yet a third friend who just returned from a meeting with the middle school principal after a teacher told her daughter in front of the entire classroom, "Yes, you may go to the bathroom as I talked to your mother and she told me you have already wet yourself twice."

Bad enough to be humiliated in front of the peers when you are 13 but also lied to? The teacher never spoke with her mom.

Welcome to public schools where many of the employees received their sensitivity training from culturally corrosive comedy acts like Carlin and the school bus drivers moonlight as Endocrinologists.

Then the face plant occurs. The Teenager pushes The Baby's wheel chair in to the living room but The Baby slams on the brakes. The Teenager shoves and The Baby tips forward and lands face down, buckled in, on the ceramic tile, with the wheel chair on top of her. The Baby, who never cries, is hysterical clutching her head. I become hysterical. The Teenager becomes hysterical.

We are all hysterical.

And the weather is beautiful and all the windows are open. I expect the police to arrive at any moment.

I drop The Teenager off at the nail place where Iris/Virus is having her nails done and The Teenager walks in to the nail place and melts down as only The Teenager can do. Two black woman are glaring at me. The entire nail salon is upset, thinking I am an abusive white foster mother who has terrified this poor black child. Iris/Virus calms The Teenager down and the Vietnamese employees throw her in a massage chair which lulls her into compliance. I expect the police to arrive at any moment.

I rush Face Plant to the ER where she checks out fine and we are sent home in record time. The ER doctor hands me her phone as we are leaving informing me our pediatrician wants to speak with me. The pediatrician informs me I am not to go to the ER without calling her first unless it is life or death because of Medipass.

WT?

I tell the pediatrician I've dealt with Medipass for 18 years with dozens of foster kids and have never been questioned once since it is not an HMO.

As usual, I get no where. I expect the Medipass police to arrive at any moment.

I pick up The Boy from Mrs. M's who simply picked him up from school without any explanation on my part other than my hysterical slobbering and screeching over the phone. I then drive to retrieve the Teenager from Iris. The Teenager begins to melt down again while walking to the car.

Mental note: Make appointment with the neurologist regarding the outbursts which have become worse with the onset of Epilepsy.

We make it home. I arrive to discover that my adult neighbor across the street has confiscated The Boy's go-kart from my garage and is allowing every kid in the neighborhood to speed up and down the busy street between cars. Without helmets or parental permission.

Law suit anyone?

I march over to the neighbor and informs him it is now HIS go-kart as I will not be sued when someone cracks their head open or worse.

Bye Bye Go-Kart

This morning Mama Mia Maria and I were going to hang out, have lunch and go fabric shopping. By ourselves. I've been looking forward to this for two weeks.

Instead I had to keep The Baby home from school since she was awake, blabbering total nonsense and singing from 1 am to 5 am non-stop. Concussion anyone?

Nonsensical blabbering is fairly common in our home but generally it's origin is me. And a darned good thing I kept her home to observe her closely as The Baby had explosive diarrhea down to her ankles and up to her neck requiring a change of clothing before I could walk out of the front door to pick up Mama Mia Maria.

Twice.

In my paranoid state I am certain the school would blame the diarrhea on me as well.

Hours later I still can't get the smell of poo out of my nose.

Elizabeth...my comrade...this is how we do it.