My Level of Awareness

Four weeks of allergic bronchitis has finally caught up with me. 

It became obvious even to me on Wednesday that it was time to seek medical assistance.  This is a huge admission.  When you work in the medical field, you view doctors with a level of suspicion akin to that attributed to car mechanics.   You just KNOW they are going to run too many expensive tests to tell you what you know anyway and recommend fixes that outstrip your pocketbook.  The diagnostics are even frighteningly similar.

The verdict?  Either I have pleurisy or a fractured rib (from the coughing).  She’s treating me for the pleurisy.  Why?  Because you can’t do anything about the rib.  (Welcome to the real-life version of House.)

Oh.  And I needed a flu shot.  Because I have a son in that cesspool alternatively named daycare.

So I get a shot in my arm, a shot in my hip, and no less than FIVE prescriptions designed to empty my wallet.   I filled them all, except the $60 cough syrup.  I am simply not coughing $60 worth.

Among the array of drugs in the bag handed back to me by the pharmacist is a one-week course of steroids to reduce the inflammation in my lungs.  Which, would be dandy, except for one little problem.

Steroids suppress the immune system.

And how do vaccinations work?

By stimulating the immune system.

Thus, to cure my lungs, I must render my flu shot worthless.

So, the lesson for today is:

 If you put your trust in someone with four years of medical school and a prescription pad, don’t forget to read the labels.

Just in case.

(I have to say, the narcotic painkillers, however, are quite nice.)

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I want to thank Shep over at “Do Something!” for paying a nice compliment to my slack-blogger self.  He thinks I’m fabulous!

What makes this so cool is that he and I share a special kind of relationship.  We are both people that have a deep appreciation for blunt honesty and the ability to respect people based on their character, not their opinions.  When we disagree, we disagree passionately, but respectfully.  It’s a rare human being that can separate who you are from what you think, and he is one.  I respect his integrity, and I am truly flattered he thought of me with this.

I want to pass this on to Whymommy over at Toddler Planet.  She has turned personal adversity into a chance to educate, advocate and grow.  I am inspired by her every day.  She is Fabulous.

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Just over a week ago, my son, at the relatively late age of 27 months, was given his first haircut by his aunt while sitting in a chair at her salon. 

Amongst tears and the oohs and ahhs of his extended family, he completed the transformation to a full-fledged little boy, red gossamer curls floating to the floor like autumn leaves.

But when it was all over, my newly minted little man reached out his arms for the comfort of his mommy.

No man is too big not to need his mommy, every now and then.

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In an attempt to avoid watching “that racecar movie that shall remain nameless” for the 132nd time, last Thursday evening I introduced my son to “Toy Story.” I had apparently forgotten the parts that I, even as an adult, found darkly disturbing.  When we got to the surreal scene of the dismembered and bizarrely reassembled toys (which were highly reminiscent of my son’s artistic namesake), Harry turned to me, wide eyed, and said “No more movie, Mama.”  I hugged him close and told him not to be afraid, and we finished the movie together.  Kiddie horror.  Great.

Last night, with my husband at choir practice, Harry and I had our regular movie night.  Harry asked again for the “racecar movie,”  but as we were flipping through the disk changer, we came across “Toy Story” again, and Harry asked me to stop.

“The Toy Movie!” he said excitedly, and we cued it up.  We sat together on the couch, side by side, drinking chocolate milk, singing “You’ve got a Friend in Me,” and settling once again into a story of childhood innocence and enduring friendship.

It was so sweet, my teeth hurt in time with my heart.

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Well, in a continuation of my incredible bad travel luck, they broke my plane.  My flight out of Little Rock was delayed because my plane was broken, and the part they brought in didn’t seem to fix it.  After an hour delay, they announced it was fixed, changed my connecting flight to a later one, and put me on the plane.  The plane that was previously broken.  The plane with the non-functioning part.  I buckeled myself into my seat and tried to take my mind off of what kind of impromptu fix had turned the non-functioning spare part into a functioning one.  It was not an easy preoccupation to banish.

 Apparently the bubble-gum/rubber band/paperclip repair worked, because I did arrive intact, but unfortunately one hour too late to meet a local friend for drinks.  One of the consolations of business travel is the ability to see far-away friends and charge your clients for it.  But apparently that consolation was to be denied to me.

 So I had to be content with the other little compensations of late-night travel:

They inevitably rent out all the little cheap cars if you arrive late at night.  So, hello, Chrysler 300M for me.  With an auxilary input for my mp3 player.  Thank you, Alamo Rentals. 

I also arrived late enough that someone stole my reservation out from under me at the hotel, so, with profuse apologies, I got upgraded to a suite. 

So I am blogging to you from my comfy clean sheets in the spacious Holiday Inn Express Suite, in brand new Victoria’s Secret jammies (a gift from my mommy for my birthday).  Tomorrow I will get up and ease myself into a big, beautiful, brand new silver 300, plug in my Zune, and cruise through the Smoky Mountains in the foggy beauty of a Tennessee autumn.

 The one thing that would make this a perfect landing is if those clean comfy sheets also contained the most beautiful tall bald baby-daddy in the universe.

I miss you, honey.

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The only aspect of having a two-year-old more mortifying than seeing your worst habits parroted in miniature is the fact that your FRIENDS see your worst habits parroted in miniature.

 Trixie was watching my son on our anniversary (thank YOU!), and she happened to pop in a Toddler Yoga DVD that was sitting in the disc changer.  The video features little kids doing fun yoga poses such as “the butterfly” and “driving the car”  Harry was only too happy to give her the full floor show. 

When they got to the “driving the car” pose, Harry obligingly got down on the floor in a sitting position with his legs straight out, and pulled down the imaginary steering wheel.

And then put his imaginary cell phone to his ear before driving off.

Sigh.

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In a moment of temporary insanity, I mowed the grass last week.  This despite knowing that I have raging allergies to only two things in this world - cats and grass.   The resulting bronchitis has left me with coughing fits that bring my co-workers to the door of my office with concern.

So, to alleviate their distress and provide a quiet work environment for my employees, I am standing the the cold medicine aisle of my local Target, perusing my choices of cough suppressants.  In the process of contemplation, I have a coughing fit that literally drives me to my knees.

Picture if you will, a woman outstretched on the linoleum, one hand grasping in futility toward the Hall’s Mentholyptus, barking like a seal.

Yep.  It was exactly like that.

Pity me.

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Whymommy grew up in the same city, just across town from my husband.

Jodifur lives but two miles from my parent’s old house in the DC suburbs.

And,

Trixie is now working for me.

 So if you read things about her crazy boss on her blog:

Lies.  It’s all Lies.

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Forty-(cough, cough) years ago today my poor sainted mother was too drugged and tired to tell the nurse what name to put on the birth certificate.  I was supposed to be named Desiree.  Instead, my grandmother stepped in and saved me from my future career as a New Orleans pole dancer and wrote “Robbin” on the birth registration.  Probably why I turned out a bespectacled academic instead.  Even worse, a bespectacled FORMER academic. It’s all for the best, I suppose.

My celebration was low-key.   It so happens that yesterday was my wedding anniversary.  This conveniently means that my husband is only at risk of getting in trouble once per year.   But he is also kind enough not to roll the two events into one.  So last night, we went out to a nice, candlelit, restaurant for a meal where (thanks to Trixie) I didn’t have to fill a sippy cup or pick food up off the floor.  We then indulged in another rare luxury - a trip to the bookstore for coffee and an hour of book browsing uninterrupted by the need to pry my son off the top racks or search for him under the sale tables. It was sheer nirvana. When we arrived home, we found that Trixie had survived Disney movies and toddler yoga AND that Harry had fallen blissfully asleep moments before we walked in the door.  Which means we got to celebrate our anniversary in much the same way we celebrated our wedding night.  Yeah, me!  It’s enough to make a girl wobbly in the knees.  At least if you do it right.

To top it off, I got a cool set of Zune-compatible speakers for my office:

And just when you think life just can’t get any better, I got cards for both my anniversary and my birthday.  If you don’t know my husband, this doesn’t seem like a big thing. If you do, you can appreciate the level of miracle this involved.  I had to look out the front door to see if the blessed Virgin herself was waving from my front lawn. 

My natal day itself was spent quietly between church, the Italian buffet at the bowling alley (hey, we have class, you know), and home.  There was triple chocolate cake and real vanilla ice cream (the kind with the little vanilla bean seeds in it) for dinner, which I pre-emptively ran off the calories to account for.

My run was made more bearable - heck, BEARABLE, there is no “more” - by my birthday present:

As a gadget girl, I married my dream husband.  Yes, he gave me the last of the iPOD line that really excites my interest.  My desire for a Shuffle to inspire my workouts was brought to a fever pitch by the fact that they introduced PURPLE to their 3rd-gen Shuffles.  It’s so cute, it’s almost jewelry.  Better than diamonds.

Only kidding. 

For future reference, jewels are also perfectly acceptable.

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Ooooooooh!  Shiny.  Red.  Sleek. Sexy.

 Sigh.  Talk gadget to me, baby.  I’m listening.

And I take back all my prior irritation with Microsoft.  Because this may have just cemented my loyalty to my Zune.

Poopy on you, Apple.

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