Hello Society, I’m Back

Today I have returned to the working world. I’m, as they say, a contributing member of society again. Unless of course you consider lolling around on the couch with one eye closed while a nanny tended to my child “contributing.”

It was actually fine. There is a reason that I decided to work there which I was reminded of today. Being away for so long–7 weeks–made the best thing about the place–a pervasive niceness and friendliness–fade a bit.

Kate and I were happy to see each other at the end of the day though. She is getting more adorable and delightful by the minute, so being away from her rots.

Speaking of which, yes, her leg is in fact broken again. They mumbled something to Mark about maybe not having kept the first cast on for long enough. Greeeeeaat! The color of her new cast? Neon green!

The damn thing comes off on August 13th and we’ll hopefully not be in the “what color cast to get next” quandary for quite some time (if ever).

Oh for the Love of God

On Friday the 13th I woke up and opened both eyes. This is an involuntary, un-noticed act to most humans, yet it was a great stride for me since I’d been suffering in a (thankfully) temporary state of Cyclops-ism for five weeks.

Opened as it was, it still didn’t look right. And by “look” I mean both appear normal, and see very well. At times it doesn’t want to work and play well with the left eye, and strikes out on its own. And it just doesn’t like looking to the left or up or down. So I just manage to tilt my head at odd directions to focus in on things.

Forget being in the car though. Everything passes by in a big swirling blur, so I’ve still got to keep the right eye on Clamp Down. And that lid is still kinda droopy, though seems to be opening more widely as the days go by.

Thank you God, thank you God.

But while I have you on the line, Sir, can I ask how it is that you have this giveth and taketh away thing going for us?

Just when it seemed like we were trending toward health here Chez McClusky, Kate took a digger off the swing at the park today and appears to have BROKEN HER LEG AGAIN. Yes, the same one that just got out of a cast less than two weeks ago. Could anything be more rotten and miserable?

To magnify my Bad Mother Guilt for even letting this happen, it took one solid hour of her bawling maniacally for me to grock that her leg was hurt. The fall wasn’t that bad at all and I assumed she was just scared by how suddenly it happened, and/or was just hungry and tired, it being noon.

So I carted her home where she continued to whine, whimper, and weep. Then I finally noticed she couldn’t put any weight on her left leg–the recently fractured one. And it was like someone hit Replay on the huge bummer that was the first time this happened.

Fast forward through three-and-a-half hours at the Children’s Hospital ER–which I need to tell my single gal friends (what few remain) seems like a decent place to meet cute compassionate young medical professionals. We triaged, we waited, we moved to an examining room, we waited, Kate was examined, we were sent up to x-ray, we waited, we moved to another inner-sanctum waiting room closer to the x-ray room, we waited, she got the x-ray, we went back out to inner-sanctum waiting area, they sent us back down to the examining room, we waited, we ate pretzels, I realized no one knew we were waiting, I told the nurses, then more waiting, examining once again, putting on of a splint, and waiting for nurse rotation, then (huzzah!) discharge. We stumbled out onto the sunny sidewalk squinting like we’d been hiding in a hovel with Saddam Hussein for weeks. (Something which well could have been more fun.)

Towards the end of the whole ER process Cute Doctor “Tom” explained that the x-rays show what the radiologist referred to as a “progressive fracture” (i.e. a break that broke more). Though, it could just be that they were seeing the first break and how it healed. Ah, I love a definitive diagnosis.

So today she has a splint, and tomorrow while I’m at the neuro-opthomologist Kate sees the orthopedist, and likely gets a cast. Again. For God knows how long this time. (And what color do we get this time? Pink again? No. Been there. Maybe red? But will it clash to much with a lot of her clothes? It’s all just too overwhelming.)

I’m exhausted.

Farewell summer, I say with dramatic flourish. Farewell any chance we’ll have to swim this year. Farewell my reporting to people, “Her cast? Oh she has it off and you’d never even know anything had happened to her leg!”

Poor Kate, not even two and she knows how to work the hospital racket. Today as I’m filling out some registration paperwork she looked at the administrator and asked in her most innocent and beguiling manner, “Stickers?” She totally had that woman dialed in as a Sticker Giver Outer. At least she managed to resist saying “Fork ‘em over, lady.”

Another fun fact to intensify feelings of parental inadequacy: At one point today I lamented to the doctor that I wish Kate didn’t have to have so many x-rays–today’s being the forth she’s had in the past two months. By way of comfort, he assured me that the amount of radiation she gets from these x-rays is far less than what you get, say, flying cross-country.

Oh great. We’ve only flown cross-country with Kate eight or so times… I feel much better knowing she’s gotten more exposure to harm voluntarily from us, versus by accident. We’re at least controlling the situation, right?

Tune in for more on Kate’s Cast, Part 2.

Keep Yer Shirt On

It’s nearly impossible to anticipate the associations Kate will make.

Some of them are smart and surprising. Like when I mentioned to Kate in our recent trip to RI that we’d see my cousin Nancy, Kate said, “Pretty dress!” When Kate had seen Nancy at Easter Nancy commented a few times on Kate’s special holiday dress. “Ah yes, mother, your cousin Nancy. The one who commended me on my fine taste in formal wear.”

When she was younger and I was getting her used to sleeping in her crib, I’d prime for going to bed by saying it was time for “night night.” In turn, she made the connection that “night night” meant nursing, since that’s what we did before she went to bed. And she still has that concept in her mind a year later. One of her books shows a mother dog nursing puppies, and another a pig mama feeding her piglets. Kate, whose vocabulary has mushroom-clouded and can easily describe what she sees in a book, still points to those pictures and say, “Pig night night!”

So several months ago when Dr. Robbins proclaimed Kate precocious, he recommended we get her a potty and offer her a chance to use it before she takes a bath at night. If she didn’t want to, no biggie. Just get the concept going. (I’ve since learned this is called “toilet teaching” versus “toilet training.” William Saffire take note.)

Since Kate would always be undressed for her bath at potty time, she determined that using the potty is something one does naked. And now that she’s developed an interest in using the potty at other times of day, I have to vehemently encourage her to not strip down entirely for a quick tinkle. She doesn’t trust me when I say this though. So I’ve had to use the potty myself while pointing out in a loud sing-songy now-learn-this tone, “See? When Mama uses the potty she keeps her clothes on! It’s how big girls do it!” (Suggesting “big girls” do things a certain way is generally the key to Kate’s instant and enthusiastic compliance.)

So today, as I’m pulling down my own pants and outlining the merits of keeping them around my thighs versus taking them off to tinkle–along with my shoes, socks, and shirt–I remembered that this scenario has actually already been played out on the show Seinfeld. There was an episode where George was caught buttoning up his shirt after leaving a restaurant restroom. Jerry and Elaine manage to get to the bottom of the disturbing fact that George takes his shirt off to poop.

I’m open to Kate developing into whatever person she turns out to be, but George Costanza?

A few years ago (pre-Kate) I got together for dinner with my friend Marian. She was all aglow with news to share. Surprisingly, the news was that her daughter Nola had “pooped in the potty” that morning. Mar was beaming with pride. You’d have thought she’d won a MacArthur Fellowship. Childless at the time, I immediately concluded she was mad and/or that all parents are.

But today I too am bursting with poopy pride. Mark came into our room after getting Kate up this morning to announce that she’d pooped in the potty. He gleefully relayed the news: “So she peed, then she said, ‘Poopoo?’, and I said, ‘Yes! Yes! You can poopoo in the potty! And then–she did! I mean, so then I looked in the potty and there was totally a little turd in there!”

I was proud like a Jewish Mom on her daughter’s wedding day. I nearly regretted that Mark had flushed the evidence. (Nearly.) I should have called Marian then and there to apologize for my earlier ignorance. How was I to know?

Once I concepted the scrapbook page that would mark this scatological milestone (okay, not really), Mark and I immediately launched into a small parental panic over the fact that Kate’s interest in potty training has surpassed our research on the matter (though by now, 8 hours later, Mark has probably read everything ever posted online in English on this subject).

Our shared anxiety: What if we’re already doing something wrong? What’s the proper way to continue to encourage this delightful potty-pooping behavior? What are the best books on this topic?

And, of course, does this mean that she’s really advanced?

At any rate, one thing is for sure. I have every intention of breaking her of the stigma of becoming a Shirtless Pooper. She may be short, a little pudgy around the middle, and even a little whiny at times, but George Costanza she is not.