Hi. I’m Erin, and I watched Jackass 2.

Crowd answers: Hi Erin.

I feel like I should attend a 12-step meeting¬† [much love and respect for those using the 12-steps ūüėČ ].¬† Not because¬†I watched the¬†entire movie.¬† Not because I laughed so hard. Because I cannot get the freaking bad boys’ bare a$$es out of my mind.¬† I lost count of how many times the bare buns and naked gen@tali@ were showcased.¬† I spent most of the movie¬†either trying not to laugh obnoxiously¬†or vomit.¬† One prank (the funniest, IMHO) involved the group of guys shaving a portion of their private parts body hair and giving the resulting harvest to a professional ‘makeup artist’¬†who then glued the coarse hairs onto a man’s face as part of a disguise.¬† I just about¬†peed my pants¬†¬†I was laughing hysterically!¬† The movie only got more vulgar from that point on…

The next night, my DH and I watched Clerks II.  Same gross humor, minus the stunts.

So, my question is: Are there anonymous meetings for grown women who have a teenage-boy-prankster sense of humor?  I think I need help!


Systemic Infection

 The first two weeks of Anatomy and Physiology have been spent learning that all living things are made up of cells.  Human Beings? 100 Trillion cells.  There are 200 different kinds of cells in the human body, all doing different things.  Some cells group together to make up tissues, like our skin that protects us from bacteria. Some are white blood cells that attack invading bacteria and fight off infection. 

¬†Suffice it to say that my first-defense skin cells let me down this week by allowing in a bacteria that has taken over my body. I sat for four hours straight in class on Tuesday, so my butt was sore.¬† Later that evening, my husband pointed out a red place on my left hip.¬† Wednesday, I was still sore, but went to class anyway.¬† My husband was available, so we ate lunch together after class, then went home.¬† Upon returning home, I was really not feeling well.¬†¬†DH¬†took a look at me and knew right away.¬† I tried to make light of the sudden illness:¬† I thanked him for the wonderful Chinese lunch, which¬†I promptly threw up on the drive to the doctor’s office.¬†When we reached the doctor’s office, my temperature was 101 degrees.¬† She took a look at my hip and spoke the acronym:¬†MRSA.¬†

 MRSA is a bacteria that produces an enzyme to break down the antibiotics before the medicine can be of any real danger to the invading bacteria.  The infection spread so rapidly that by the time I was hurting, it was already in my bloodstream.  The oral dose of antibiotic was not working fast enough, so I had to have a large bolus injected into my hip on Friday morning.  The doctor asked me to return Saturday morning for minor surgery to remove the most concentrated site of infection (on my left hip). 

Please keep me and my family in your prayers this weekend and through the first few days of my healing.

I’ll keep ya’ll updated!

**UPDATE** Saturday @ 5:30PM

Special thanks to all of those who prayed for me and those who commented about MRSA.  It used to be only contracted in hospitals, but after 60+ years of penicillin, the bacteria have gotten smart. Some have even learned how to neutralize antibiotics we take to head off the infection.  Darn those smart bacteria!

I saw the nurse practitioner this morning, who gave me a couple of lidocaine (deadening) shots, then cut the site open with a scalpel to drain it.¬† The lidocaine did not deaden the area, so it was the most excruciating pain that I’ve experienced. EVER.¬† Afterwards, a sizable hole remained, which she promptly packed with sterile gauze.¬† Say it with me, dear readers “OW!”¬†¬† The nurse assistant then gave me yet another large bolus of antibiotics.¬† You guessed it – in the other hip this time.¬† Good thing I’m not afraid of needles.¬† The nurse practitioner called in some more Vicodin and asked me to see my doctor on Monday to change the packing inside the wound.¬† *sigh*

We’ll see what Monday brings, eh?

Potty Training 201

1After learning that Rosie was not expected to be toilet trained before she begins preschool,  the pressure is off of me.  Thus, the pressure is off of Rosie learning to use the potty! 

Saturday evening my husband was home early, so we ate dinner as a family: I cooked chicken and broccoli with rice, and all three girls ate every bite.¬† NO sooner than we had dishes all cleaned up than I heard the familiar RIP of Rosie’s diaper coming off.¬† She has a habit of taking them off.¬† Before I could get to her, I heard the alsoway-too-familiar sound of blobs of poop hitting the Pergo floor.¬† When I got to Rosie, she saw me and ran to the leather sofa, climbed up and plopped down – in my favorite spot.¬† I called for my husband to help.¬† DH walked into the room, and began trying to stifle a laugh.¬† Of course, that’s all it took to get me laughing¬†at our predicament.¬†¬†We agreed that I would clean Rosie and the small disaster on the sofa while he cleaned up the copious amounts of poo on the living room floor. My husband had just¬†cleaned the floor¬†and heard Rosie giggling from me tickling her belly as I was getting her clean.¬† He walked over to the sofa, locked eyes with Rosie, pointed his finger and told her “This sh*t ain’t funny!”¬† Then, he burst into laughter. WAH-HA-HA-HA-HA!

¬†I went to get a¬†fresh diaper from the closet, tossed it into the living room, in Rosie’s direction, saying¬†“You took it off – you put the new one on!”¬† By then, all of our family was out in the living room and we continued with the laughter.¬†¬†Rosie climbed onto the freshly cleaned sofa and took her place between me and DH.¬†Looking up at me,¬†Rosie touched the side of my face and¬†said “Fank You, Mommy.”¬†

Say it with me now: AWWWWW! 

Summer Swim?

Part of my daughters’ nighttime routine involves cleaning their respective bedrooms and gathering any personal items from the living room that may have grown legs and wandered out there.¬† Earlier tonight, Halie must have thought she was alone in her efforts to clean up, since she called out to her younger sister, “Catie? What are you doing?”¬† I heard a familiar voice, but I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from.¬† It was Catie, telling her sister (from the hallway bathroom), “I’ll be right there! I’m just dropping off the kids at the pool!”

Dilemmas, dilemmas

As part of our evening routine (read: T-minus 90 minutes until bedtime), one of my daughters chooses a book for me to read to them, and one for them to read to me. Halie and Catie each have ‘choosing days’, where they can sit in any seat in the house/car, choose what books we read, but has also been pre-determined to be bathed first. Odd days are Halie’s, Evens are Catie’s.

That said, yesterday was Halie’s choosing day. She chose one of David Shannon’s books to read to me, A Bad Case of Stripes. He offers straightforward stories that are written from the child’s perspective: No David, David Goes to School. Halie also chose a book that she loves for me to read at bedtime: Where the Wild Things Are, by author/illustrator, Maurice Sendak. Beautifully illustrated, featured in the picture above.

Halie read her chosen book to me, Catie and Rosie, with some help of course. All of my daughters get serious when I read about the Wild Things, and I was at the point in the story where Max is sent to his room without dinner, when I heard a resonant rumble against the leather next to me. Halie and I locked eyes, and she said, “Pardon me.” I thanked her and was about to continue the story when the smell hit me – like a wet wool blanket – heavy and unbearable. Catie, who was seated on the other side of her well-mannered sister, reached to pinch her nose and hold it closed. Catie drew in her first breath through her mouth, and said, “Yuck! It tastes bad, too!” Halie just smiled.

So that is always a dilemma. Would you rather Smell it or Taste it?

My daughter is an artist!

Although it has been a few weeks since I’ve seen her exquisite artwork, I’d venture to say that each masterpiece that Rosie creates is truly priceless. It never lasts long, though. About as long as it takes me to scrub down the walls in her room. Rosie is far too young for paint or markers, in my opinion, and at just two years old, she’s still eating enough crayons to turn her diapers unbelievable colors. So my toddler does not have access to what normal folks consider necessary for ‘art’. Lacking the proper supplies for art hasn’t slowed Rosie down. My first grader coined the word for Rosie’s fecal fingerpainting. The word, Pooptastrophe, rolls off the tongue so smoothly, when it’s fairly hard to make any word sound nice while pinching one’s nose. Genius, such great creative genius, my first grader possesses.

Without exception, Rosie needs more than a few piddly wipes to get clean. I believe that she must share her sister’s genius. I think that only a very creative child would cram her own poop into every orifice and crevice on her tiny body. Forget wipes. It takes a new Brillo pad, and maybe my husband’s power sprayer to get all the poop off. Then, lots of Neosporin and bandages for the baby’s skin… Honestly, we chose to paint the baby’s room with Kids Paint, making the walls a nonstick surface, so it wipes clean easily. Occasionally, my DH gives me some time outside our home. In turn, occasionally, Rosie treats her father to a piece of her distasteful design. My DH naturally reached for wipes, and Rosie just laughs, like:

‘Mwah-ha-ha-ha. Silly man! You think those will rescue you?

When my DH and I are at home together, and such a fragrant episode occurs, my DH defers to me on the cleanup. I guess he figures that I naturally have a stronger stomach than he does. (read: DH thinks that the time I spent riding in the back of an ambulance/serving in the ER and getting various bodily substances on my clothing makes me less likely to barf while cleaning and make a bigger mess.) I’ve got news for him. Having our three children, under five years old’ under one roof, in my exclusive care is what did it! Some days were all about survival. Whew!

Rosie has not suffered enough boredom in her crib lately to resort to creating another Stinky Masterpiece for me to marvel at. We have given her near freedom, by removing the gate from her crib, and putting the mattress on the very lowest setting. She can get in and out as she wishes. That’s good and bad. For now, I’ll quote Martha when I say, “It’s a good thing.” Okay, let see: No gate on the crib = no pooptastrophies. Why didn’t I think of this long ago?