Child.

First day back at school.

Vomit.

I surrender.

See the white flag?

Done.

Moi.

Little Man: No, Mommy, you’re not a whale. You’re more of an elephant.

Kia (to Hubs, a few minutes later, sulky and all woe-is-me-ful): Our son told me I’m not a whale. I got all excited and thought he was going to pretend that he couldn’t tell I’m a whale. Instead, he told me I’m an elephant. An elephant!

Hubs (rolling eyes, ‘course): That’s actually a good thing. Whales are bigger than elephants.

Kia: Feck off.

Ok, for egads sake now, Little Man needs a Hazmat. Or at least a bubble. I’m so fecking sick of my child being sick.

He’s got an ear infection. Didn’t see that one coming. He hasn’t had one of these for a couple of years now, I think. It’s usually a chest infection or pneumonia or something along those lines.

Know what happens when your kid has an ear infection? I’ll tell you. Antibiotics. That’s what happens. And, you know what happens when you have a child with Sensory Processing Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder who’s EXTREMELY orally defensive?

WHAT??!!!! You don’t know?!! Consider yourself blessed. OH, and somewhat less vomit-coated.

Little Man is allergic to ariththromycins (Azithromycin, Biaxin). That limits the doc’s choices. I’ve FINALLY been able to convince our family doc that liquid, banana-flavoured, cherry-flavoured, disgusting-excuse-for-fruity-flavouring-flavoured shit is useless. I’ve had that spit out at me enough times that I simply refuse to even leave the pharmacy with it. Doc gave me a script yesterday for pills and instructions to crush them and dissolve the powder in Little Man’s drink.

Riiiiiiiiiggggghhhhhhhttttttttt……..

‘Cause that’s gonna work like a fecking charm bracelet.

I put the powder (only a 1/4 of a pill’s worth, meaning 1/8th of a day’s worth) in his drink when we got home yesterday from the pharmacy. Little Man took a swig of his drink (not knowing about the meds), proceeded to look at me with that WhatTheFeckAreYouTryingToPutPastMeThisTimeYouFeckingSorryExcuseForAMother face, told me it tasted disgusting and that I tried to give him medecine.

Being the (apparent) fecking idiot that I am, I lied. Like, duh. Of course there’s no medecine in there Sherlock.

He showed me.

Fecking vomit on my family room carpet. Huge amounts of it. (What the FECK is WITH that? Isn’t his stomach supposed to be the size of his fist or something small like that?) Dooooooods, this vomit could have kept a small country in Africa hydrated for at least a year, for shiz. What the bullshitty feck?

You have to understand: I don’t do vomit. I don’t vomit, I don’t go within 50 feet of vomit, I don’t clean up vomit, I gag when I do the laundry that results from vomit. Let’s just say that I’ll never become bulimic like, evah. Vomit is Hubs’ dealio, doooooods.

I had to do it. Hubs wasn’t due home for another hour and the smell was killing me. I kind of threw a towel in Little Man’s general direction with a (go ahead and report me for being a shitty mother, get in line) comment about vomit being strictly limited to the hours when Hubs is home and HowCouldYouPossiblyForgetThisRuleBecauseIt’sRightFeckingHere,WrittenInStone, or something like that.

2 Rolls of paper towel and an entire bottle of Spot Shot later, and there’s still a telltale stain on the carpet. I’m sweating like hell, holding my breath and scrubbling while waiting for God (Satan?) to come and kick me in the fat ass while I’m down there ’cause that seems to be the theme these days, and Little Man says, “Mommy, don’t you DARE try to give me any more medecine. You’ll regret it even more than you regret this. I promise.”

WHA. THE. FECK?

I’m so done-in and so outsmarted.

So I sat there and cried. Then I took 2 Xannies and sat in the corner of the couch, rocking baaack and forth, baaack and forth…

It’s 24 hours later and he still has no meds in him. I have nothing left. My will to prevail has been sucked out of me and replaced by gobbledeegoop and resignation.

Sigh.

And how are you, my lovelies?

Kia

P.S. To the WordPress users, wtf is up with replying to comments these days? I used to just hit reply when I received the email notifying me of a new comment. Now when I do that, it gives me some freaky wordpress address and I don’t think any of my commenters are getting the replies? Do I need to change a setting or something?

I’m sorry I’ve been pretty much non-existent lately. I’ve been busy…wallowing in self-pity and wanting to blow my fecking brains out from the mind-numbing-ness that is my life. I’m whining to you, my fellow boogers, because I know you “get” it. None of my real-life friends do.

Little Man is killing me. The poor kid is struggling and I’m just so fecking bitchy and impatient. I’m sure I’m ruining him for, like, ever. His latest trick is pretending that he’s deaf. Actually, that’s a lie. But that’s what it feels like. His reassurance-seeking is going to kill me. I can’t ever say anything once. Everything I say, he asks me to repeat. Hubby thinks this is hilarious and that I’m over-reacting, but he deals with it for about 2 hours a day and I get it all day, every day.

The other thing? Little Man’s sick ALL THE FECKING TIME. Literally. We’re lucky to get 5 healthy days out of 30. Going to shoot myself. This means a LOT of time spent together for him and I. Alone. At home. Playing Bakugan and Pokemon, neither of which I fecking understand AT ALL, but don’t think that gets me out of playing with the shit. Did I mention I’ve considered blowing my fecking brains out?

I know I’m whining and complaining and being entirely negative about entirely everything, but this is my only outlet. Hubs thinks I just need to find some patience (Why the FECK didn’t I think of that?), my doc just writes me a script for my Xanax and Doxepine, and Little Man’s psychologist has referred us to a psychiatrist. I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but I hope to fecking GOD the shrink gives us some meds for Little Man to try. My family and real-life friends try to understand, they really do, but they just don’t.

Have I mentioned that last week was Spring Break in this part of the world? Have I mentioned that Little Man was sick and therefore home from school the entire week and a half leading up to Spring Break? Oh, and have I mentioned that Little Man’s school (feckers) likes to take TWO FECKING WEEKS for Spring Break just because they fecking can and that this means that I’ve been shut in the house with my spawn child for 2.5 weeks already and I have another fecking week to somehow survive without jumping from a second-storey window? Have I mentioned?????

I know I mentioned my diet before. I was doing really well up until yesterday, when I decided that I might just eat myself to death because surely it’d be less painful than stabbing my eyes with ice picks, non? So today I’ve had several pieces of chocolate cake, some banana muffins, some chocolates and (ha!) some sugar-free candies? Yeah. Washed it all down with a diet soda, of course.

Mes amis, I adore you. I’m so sorry I’ve disappeared time and time again. I’m hoping to find some forgiveness and understanding. In fact, I’m sure I’ll find it. I promise I’ll try to get around to reading some bloggage in the next week. You know, before I die from over-eating.

Toodles and all that shit,

Kia

The scariest part of all? Bitch paid $99 for the bracelet and $129 for the necklace. No. Fecking. Shit. Peeps. I’m pretty sure that she should be sent to hell immediately just for having such bad taste. I mean, really? Really??!!!

So Pixie Mama will get her prize when I decide what it is. How many of you think that I should send her the shitastic jewelry?

(Insert evil laugh and just a touch of hand-wringing.)

How about we discuss the depression and woe that appears to be rampant in my little bloggy circle? That sounds like fun, no? Shit. I think it makes me extra fecked up that I kind of take pleasure in knowing that everybody else is just as miserable as I am, doesn’t it? Very well then.

Little Man celebrated his 6th birthday on January 2nd. We’re having his party this Saturday at the Tae Kwon Do club. He’s totes excited. He’ll apparently get to cut his cake with a real. live. samurai. sword. Like, totally wow. Seriously, he jumps up and down and oozes jubilation whenever he talks about it. Actually, it’s kind of amazing that he can be so ornery and disgruntled so much of the time (Who fecking knows where he gets that from?) and yet so over-the-top excited just 30 seconds after ranting about the injustices in his world. No, I’m not kidding.

I’ve started a diet (Yes, again, but who’s keeping track?) today and let’s see, it’s 2pm and I haven’t cheated yet. New record, chicklets and doooooodettes. This time I’ve asked my doc to hold me accountable. If I go back to him and I haven’t lost at least 4 pounds in a month, I have to write a cheque to the charity of my choice. So, really, if one were to look at this completely logically, it’d be better if I didn’t lose the weight because a charity would benefit. This said, I would be doing the world a favour by continuiing my life as a beached whale. You know, logically and all…

Little Man’s doing mostly well at school. He’s excelling academically (no surprise, really) and adjusting as well as can be expected in every other way. No, he doesn’t eat a lot, but he eats enough so that I’m not worried that he’s writhing in agony all day from the hunger pains (food obsessed much, Kia?). He pees now, so that’s a plus. He has even made a couple of new little friends who seem quite wonderful. His teacher is truly a godsend and she seems to be handling his perfectionism (that I didn’t even notice, MOTHER OF THE FECKING YEAR!!), well, um, perfectly.

Tae Kwon Do is still going fantabulously and Little Man is due to get his third belt in about 2 weeks. I still can’t believe just how fecking amazing this sport has been for my boy. Wonderful.

So my life, aside from the shitty jewelry from the Joan Rivers home shopping channel collection (No, I’m not fecking yanking your chain. Get it? Chain?), is pretty faboosh, right? Isn’t it? I really have nothing to complain about, right?

Well, let’s just say I’m pretty creative. I’m good at finding things to be miserable about. I’m also very good at making those around me aware of my misery. Poor Hubs. Poor, poor Hubs.

I must go. Little Man has just fired me. Again. I must escape the house before I am re-hired. And yes, unfortunately, that happens. The re-hiring bit. Shit.

Kia

Ahem.

Update: Yes, the pic is of a necklace and bracelet. I need more details, though. Whose are they? Where did they come from?

It appears that I am not dead. I am not dying. I am not even (atthisverymoment) sick. Hallefeckinglujah.

It also appears that I’m just insanely boring, lazy and disinterested in almost everything that life has to offer. How very cliche of me, non?

Sigh. (It’d be extra-dramatical if you imagined me lounging on a loungy thing and resting my arm across my brow right now.)

It’s true.

Ok, Ok. I’ve got it. Let’s get the ball rolling around here again. I’ve got a new game for us to play. It’s called,

WHAT THE FECK IS THAT, ANYWAY??!!!!

Are you ready? Here’s how it’s going down: I take a pic. You get to see it. The first one who guesses (in proper detail) what the feck it’s a pic of, wins. We’ll decide on the prize later.

So, without further bee ess, here’s your first pic:

Go ahead, guess what it is. You know you want to…

I wish I were kidding but sadly I’m not.

The swine flu, he has it. The swine flu he’s got.

Yes, my boy has a fever of one hundred and three(s).

He’s achy and breaky from his head to his knees (ok, ankles, but ankles doesn’t rhyme with three(s)).

We got him a ‘script for the meds, Tamiflu.

They’ve run out of liquid. What shall we do?

We open the capsules and pour out the powder.

We stir it up well and make iced-tea-swine chowder.

I’m kicking myself for avoiding the vaccine.

I feel like an idiot…do you know what I mean?

I’m sure that some family members are tut-tut-ing and sighing.

I think I’ll substitute drinking for crying.

We’re stuck in the house for a week, if not more.

For feck’s fecking sake, I need to go to the stores.

So here we two sit in our germ-house, all bored with each other.

On days like this, I wish Little Man had a  brother (with whom to play endless rounds of Monopoly).

Kia

Honestly? I’m feeling shit-ish and depressed and bitchier-than-thou lately. I’m healthy now, but my house looks like fecking animals took over and my Hubs looks at me like I’ve grown a pair of antennae from my nostrils when I ask him to lift a fecking finger and help out. Gads. I’m seriously considering getting a job just for the purpose of paying someone else to clean this shit hole.

Case in point? There are wrappers from Halloween chocolates under a table in my family room. Little Man doesn’t eat Halloween chocolate (it may have been contaminated, you see) and I am more than capable of putting my wrappers in the gar-baw-ge.

This leaves but one culprit. The Hubs. Fecker.

I mean, gaw-wed. The guy is a gem in so many ways, but he’s a pig’s arse when it comes to cleaning up after himself. I almost went postal on him yesterday. He looked at me with the “Are you pms’ing again?”  question in his eyes. KILL. KILL. KILL. Oh, and yes. I am. Whose business is that exactly, anyway? Postal. Epic-ly postal.

Fecker.

Anyway, I’m buying a new dishwasher as a result of my rants yesterday. So see? It does  pay to whine and bitch and throw shit around complain.

Or something.

Tae Kwon Do. We read in several places over the past couple of years that martial arts are very good for kids like Little Man (i.e. with Sensory Processing Disorder and/or OCD). Who knew? Sometimes “they” are right. We had Little Man try out a couple of classes at a local club in July and he’s loved it (Perhaps obsessively, but who’s counting? Or checking? Get it? Counting? Checking? OCD? Oh, never mind.) ever since! In fact, we’re at the club 4-5 days every week. He loves it that  much.

Seriassly, doooooods. If you’ve read that it might be good for your kid, it probably would be good. We can’t get over the change in LM’s confidence and physically fitness and coordination since he started. He’s already advanced in rank and just today his instructor told us he would like LM to try the class with slightly older kids in it. It’s that  good for him.

Anyhoo, I’m off to bitch at Hubs some more. I’m on a bit of a roll here. Does anyone know how many calories I can burn if I throw approximately 3 dinner plates, 2 water glasses and a pair of mislaid sunglasses, all at the speed of light and one right after the other? You know, just for the sake of conversation???

Kia

P.S. Remind me to call my doc. I think I need my meds adjusted. Just a thought.

P.P.S. Here’s a Little Man-ism for you. In the car, driving home from school one day last week, LM made a suggestion: “Mommy, I think we should put a big sign up on the outside of our house that says, “(Insert LM’s real name) lives here.”" I asked why. Duh. He replied, “so that when I’m rich and famous people will know where to come when they want my autograph.” Bah. Dum. Dum.

Little Man has a snotty nose today. Colour me a shitty weekend.

Dooooods and doooooodettes, I’ve missed you. Not enough to, well, you know, like, pay attention to any of you or anything, but enough to wish that I had something new and exciting to say.

Which I don’t.

At all.

Really.

Well, except for the fact that Little Man is doing mostly well at school except, except, for not eating, like, anything, and for erasing his written work over and over and over again (totally NOT prepared for that one, by the fecking way – thankyouverylittle) and he’s an absolute ((bi)-polar) bear when I pick him up at 3:30 on M,W and F’s.

Fun fecking wow, chicks and chicklets.

Oh, and I have been coughing up brain matter for going on a month now and the only response I get from the doc is an ever-so-mind-numbing – settling “It’s a virus. Get lots of rest and take cough syrup.”

Really? Really? Why didn’t I think of that. Oh, right. I did. Feckers. Just give me the gee dee antibiotics and wash your bloody hands of me for feck’s sake. Zeus.

Sidebar anyone? Taking a dose and a half of Nyquil after consuming copious amounts of red wine will knock one out sufficiently to secure almost an entire night’s sleep. Or so I’ve heard.

Little Man is ok. He’s ok. He’s going to be just fine. He’s good. He’s ok. I’m not. He’s ok. (Picture Kia rocking back and forth slowly, eyes almost closed, legs crossed Koom-bye-fecking-yah style while she repeats this mantra.) (Laugh.)

I’m loving the fact that LM’s teacher is so openly communicative with me. LOVING. IT.  As I said, he’s apparently used up the entire class’ supply of rubber erasers for the whole school year (that bill shall be lovely, no doubt – I kid) already and it’s only the middle of October. I find this fact somewhat amusing because why the FECK can’t he be that way about his room?! Whatev’s, it means he’s spending way longer than he needs to on his worksheets and the teach wants to know what to do about it.

Cue Dr.Psych.

Incoming!

See? I told you she’s wonderful. Dr.Psych, that is. She is. Wonderful.

She is also coming to visit Little Man at school on Friday of this week to observe and hopefully offer some suggestions to help him get through his days with less perfectionism and more lunch. We shall see. I’m actually doing surprisingly well with NOT stressing to the max about Little Man’s school happenings. (Pssst! Lean in close. Closer. Ok. Shhhhh….The reason I’m not stressing to the max about his school day? It’s because I’m enjoying the HELL out of my time to myself. Ahem. Or something like that.)

So there we be. We’re ok. He’s ok. We’re going to be fine.

Doooood lost another tooth on the weekend. Wah. My baby doth grow up too much. Oh, he protests quite a bit too (much).

I’ve missed you, my loverlings. Truly. I’ll try to drop by and visit this week. Pinky swear (with my toes crossed behind my back). (Quite the visual, non?)

Out!

Kia