Those Aren't Pillows!

Every couple of months it seems like I'm buying new pillows. I'm a side-sleeper, so I need firm, fluffy pillows to support my huge, virtual planetoid head, complete with its own weather system. Actually, my head's not all that large, but it must be fairly dense (you know, with all those brains packed in there) because it flattens out those firm, fluffy pillows in a matter of weeks. Granted, I don't spend a lot of money on my pillows, usually opting for Target's $9.99 Extra Firms, so I guess I can't really expect that much out of them. I have forked out as much as $20 at Kohl's with the hope that their slightly more expensive pillows would last longer, but, sadly, they don't. I keep telling myself to bite the bullet and drop a healthy sum of cash on some more expensive, quality pillows, but I just can't. I can't shake the sneaking suspicion that spending $100 on pillows will yield the same results.

My body tells me when it's time to retire the old pillows, like I can't tell by looking at their flat, lumpy mass that they are mere shells of their former selves. Pillow wanna-be's. Maybe I'm not that smart after all. Just cheap. The first hint usually comes from my lower back, but this week it was my neck. I first noticed the pain on Monday while installing the garage door opener. Naturally, I ignored the warning signs and popped ibuprofen religiously until Wednesday night, when every movement nearly sent me through the roof and I didn't sleep a wink. On Thursday morning I made a Target run.

I've heard insanity defined as "doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results". Well I'm not insane. I don't expect my Target pillows to be a long-term solution to my neck and back problems. I just want immediate short-term relief. I made a beeline to the pillow isle where I quickly located their Extra Firm pillows. I decided to browse a little to see if their inventory had changed since I last picked up pillows. I was surprised to find something like a Super-Ultimate-Premium-Non-Allergenic-Extra-Firm pillow for $14.99. Sold. I grabbed two and headed up to the checkout isle.

In order for the body pain modification system to work, I need two pillows (man, it sucks getting old). One, as I mentioned earlier, is for head and neck support, the other is for body support. I have to "hug" pillow #2 like Radar O'Reilly's teddy bear in order to keep my body fully on its side, not allowing me to slump over toward my stomach. If I do, I'm in for a bad day.

Well, my temporary fix worked. I've experienced two nights of peaceful slumber since Thursday night and my neck pain is subsiding. For now. Now I need to get my butt in gear and do some research on some quality pillows so I can avoid this fiasco in the future. Any suggestions?

Another Fleet-ing Moment?

Hopefully...and hopefully not.

Kyra has been complaining of stomach pains the past couple of weeks. Combine that with the acid reflux that she regularly experiences and refers to as "heart pain", and it hasn't been a very fun time. We took her into the doctor Wednesday morning where we were informed that she could feel another "blockage" in Kyra's tummy. Yes, I said another. Not good news. Diane then took Kyra to get an X-ray of her stomach to see the extent of the back-up.

The first blockage happened a couple of years ago, and it was bad. So bad that Kyra was throwing up, getting dehydrated and not pooping at all. After several calls to the pediatrician, one of her nurses finally called us back with instructions. Diane was at work and I was the poor sap to receive her sadistic marching orders. "Yes, we're going to have you go ahead and give her a Fleet Home Enema and we'll see if that clears her out." Her delivery was monotone and matter of fact, as though she were telling me to do something as simple as showering, shaving, or clipping my toenails. I didn't even know what a Fleet Home Enema was.

"...a wha...what was that again?" I stammered.

"A Fleet. Home. Enema."

That's what I thought she said. "And can I get this at Walgreen's?"

"Yes."

And do you do house calls?

There are some things that you should never, ever have to do to your child. The Fleet Home Enema is one of those things. There are also life situations that reveal a depth of love that you never thought you could experience, a depth of love that empowers you to do things you never thought you could do, things like changing disgusting diapers, rinsing out puke-filled sheets, and giving Fleet Home Enemas. I took my bowel-bound 4 year-old to Walgreen's and picked up the treatment in the seemingly harmless green box. We returned home where I read the instructions, one thousand times.

When I felt sufficiently informed (notice I didn't say "comfortable"), I gathered Krya into the bathroom and gave her the lowdown. "OK Sweetie, this is going to help you go potty." I walked her through the procedure and told her that she was going to feel a lot of pressure and that she was going to want to poop. Really bad. "We're going to wait one minute before pooping," I said. "The longer it stays in, the more effective it will be and the more the poop will come out." Or so I thought.

At this point, if I were Kyra I'd be running for the hills. I thought that she would start to throw a tantrum, but she had no idea what I was saying to her, no frame of reference to let her know that the poop chute was a one-way exit only. She trusted me and simply replied with an "OK Daddy", and I felt terrible about the rude awakening she was about to experience.

I applied the enema and she freaked. It was the worst I have ever felt as a father because I was causing my child this discomfort. She screamed the whole time, but allowed me to empty the bottle and then sat on the toilet for that whole minute before letting loose. She was a complete trooper (a pooper-trooper, if you will) and though I felt horrible about inflicting this torture on my child, I felt equally proud of her.

The enema, however, didn't even scratch the surface of the behemoth that dwelt inside of her intestines. We had to do another enema, and when that didn't work, we had to delve into the realm of prescription stool softeners before Kyra was finally able to pass the obstruction. "Get the poop out" became our daily mantra where we encouraged Kyra to sit on the potty longer than her normal ten seconds. "Otherwise we'll have to go to the store to get another home en-e-ma." Talk about motivation to take a crap. Kyra would do well to take a page out her old man's manual of bowel movement etiquette: grab your book or the sports page and have a seat for some quality throne-time.

We have yet to hear back from the pediatrician on the results of the X-ray. She ran through possible treatment options where the #1 priority was getting Kyra cleaned out. She only mentioned using Merilax, an over-the-counter laxative, in that process, but in the back of my mind I have this strange feeling that we'll be getting a call from the nurse suggesting a parallel home-treatment.

I originally thought that the makers of the Fleet Home Enema merely had a good sense of humor branding their product "Fleet" which means "swift", or "to pass quickly" if you use the term "fleeting", because, really, that's what you need to do, pass quickly. But I did a little research and found out that C. B. Fleet was a man who built a bowel-cleansing empire! Talk about destiny. At any rate, all of us want this situation to pass quickly, with or without the home enema.

Priorities

Well it looks like we've got ourselves a good, ol' fashioned dilemma brewing. Since missing a day of school on Monday due to a fever/cold combo, Kyra has developed a dry, course, nasty cough. She sounds like a hoarse dog. We should probably keep her home another day, which brings us to dilemma #2: my mother-in-law spent mucho dinero on four tickets to see Hannah Montana in concert in Phoenix. Tonight. She also signed the girls up for the Hannah Montana fan club, which entitles them to attend a pre-concert party on Hannah Montana's party bus. If we keep her home from the concert, Kyra will never, ever, ever, ever, ever forgive us. And she would remind us hourly of that transgression for the rest of our lives. What to do, what to do?

Well, we did what any responsible parent would do: we kept Kyra home from school so that she could rest up and enjoy the concert! What?! Oh, don't give me that crap! Like you wouldn't do the same thing! Did I mention the fact that these are HANNAH MONTANA tickets? They're more precious than gold, people! Kids can make up their school work. There's no "making up" Hannah Montana!

And still my guilt consumes me. Don't think for a moment that I didn't lobby like hell to try to sell those babies. People are paying a bazillion dollars for them after all. I tried to reason with them...we could buy a Ferrari, a vacation home in the Hamptons, a small tropical island! I even tried the humanitarian route by offering to use the proceeds to feed a small African nation...for a year! But they were steadfast in their decision. It was Hannah Montana or bust.

By now, Grammy, Diane, Kailey and hoarse-dog coughing Kyra have packed into the van and on their way to Phoenix for a girls night out with Hannah Montana. I hope they bring me back a T-shirt.

Duped

As I write this, Kyra, my "sick" 6 year-old, is in the next room singing at the top of her lungs and perfectly executing the choreography to High School Musical:

We're all in this together
Once we know that we are
We're all stars and we see that
We're all in this together...

Let's just say that once you hear something 100 million times, it tends to stick.

Kyra battled a mysterious fever all weekend long, and as recently as last night posted one of 100.5. This morning she woke up fever-free, but complained of a sore throat and sounded like snot clogged every orifice of her head. Oh, and she was playing this one up, too. "Daddy," she whispered as if on the very verge of death itself, "I'm too sick to go to school today." I knew she was hamming it up for all it was worth (where does she get THAT from), but since her school health policy states that they'd prefer a child to be free of a fever for 24 hours before returning to school, we decided to keep her home.

As Diane rushed to get ready for work and I rushed to get Kailey ready for school, Kyra laid in our bed moaning, fake-coughing, and complaining of her sore throat. Up to that point I didn't dispute her claims of the sore throat. But now that I've witnessed the family room review of High School Musical, I'm not so sure. Diane told her that if she stayed home she needed to rest. Today is a rest day, not a play day, a mantra that I recited at least a hundred times this morning. For as soon as Diane and Kailey shot out the door, Kyra perked up, turned to me and asked, "Daddy, will you play with me?" I repeatedly threatened to get her dressed and take her to school, but she called my bluff. She knew I had nothing.

When she walked into the den wearing her Hannah Montana Halloween costume and grabbed my mic and mic stand, I knew we were in trouble. I was putting on the finishing touches on a paper for my class, and I promised her that when I was done we would engage in some low-key activities. Four hundred hands of Go Fish and Uno later, it was time to pick up Kailey from school. Tomorrow, come hell or high water, Kyra will return to school, health policy be damned.


And On A Side Note...

This month I'm participating in a masochistic blogging exercise known as NaBloPoMo, or National Blog Posting Month. The goal of this exercise is to post daily during the month of November. I was hesitant to sign up, but I'm happy to say that it's going well so far. My mind has yet to blank out on material, which is good since it's only Day 5. We'll see how good I feel on Day 25.

She's Got My Back

One thing I love about being a dad is those moments when one of my girls does something that catches me totally off guard, leaving me speechless and breathing deeply for fear that I might lose it right in front of them.

At the beginning of the school year I established a morning routine where, after either gently or rudely awakening the girls from their peaceful slumbers, I would give them piggy back rides to the family room while they picked the crusties out of the corners of their eyes. I have spoiled the girls with piggy back rides and the girls have come to expect them. Imagine their disappointment when, a couple of weeks ago, I woke up and could hardly get out of bed due to pain in my lower back. I am no stranger to lower back pain. It comes and goes in phases, and I can usually work my way out of it over the course of the day. But for the past two weeks, it's been too much to work through first thing in the morning. So not only do the girls literally receive a rude awakening, they then have to stumble to the family room on tired little feet.

The girls have also become accustomed to my back pain. They know better than to ambush me from behind as they have seen me crumple to the floor, crippled with pain, on more than one occasion. They've seen me struggle to get up from the couch like an 80 year-old man, and they have also "adopted" lower back pain to get out of doing things they don't want to do.

Earlier this week, I was surprised to find Kailey sitting up in bed when I walked in to wake her up for school. Trying to wake Kailey up is like trying to wake the dead. She's the one I most often have to resort to the "rude awakening" to get out of bed. I shuffled into her room clutching my back and trying to work out the kinks. Her eyes lit up when I entered the room, and as I sat down beside her, I noticed she had her allowance money spread out across her bed. "Hey, Sweetie. Whatcha doing?"

"Dad. I saw this commercial yesterday for this bed. It's called a Tempur-Pedic. They put a glass of wine, like this red wine, on one side, and they jumped on the other side, and guess what? It didn't even fall down! But on the other bed, they jumped on it, and it spilled all over the bed!"

"I'll bet that made quite a mess," I laughed, knowing exactly what commercial she was talking about.

"Yeah, it did! When I saw that commercial, I thought I could buy you a Tempur-Pedic bed for your back!"

I sat there staring at my daughter, dumbfounded as I realized what was going on. Kailey woke up that morning and pulled out her allowance money to count it and see if she had enough to buy her old man a bed that would ease the pain of his aching back. Kailey has saved quite a bit of money for an eight year-old, but nowhere near enough for a Tempur-Pedic. Believe me. I've checked. But the fact that she was willing to spend her savings on me blew me away. I tried to say something, but the words clotted in my throat. So I reached out and gave her a big hug while I composed myself.

"Thank you, Sweetie. That's very kind of you," I finally managed. I wanted to give her a piggy back ride right then and there; hell, I wanted to buy her a pony, anything to show her how much I appreciated her gesture of kindness, but knew that somehow it would all fall short. So I did the thing that she needs most from me: be a dad. Love her. Protect her. Care for her. Provide for her. I helped her put her money away and we walked hand in hand to the family room where I resumed my morning ritual duties. Only on this particular morning, I did it with a little more spring in my step...bad back and all.

General Foo

I've experienced a lull of "blogging inspiration" this week. Sometimes you just need to take a bit of a breather. And sometimes life is just plain boring. I think this week was a mixture of the two. In an attempt to write myself out of this funk, some random snippets:


C'MON CUBBIES!!

OK. I admit it. My last public rant against my beloved Cubs two-and-a-half months ago was a little premature. They are the hottest team in baseball over the past month and are now only 2 1/2 games behind the Brewers in the NL Central. They've lost two straight though, and while I know it's not time to panic, I'd much prefer them not to do that anymore. They just need to keep winning series to keep pressure on the young Brewers. Hopefully, we'll get a shot at the post-season.

I hope I didn't jinx them with this post.

GO CUBS!


Rub-A-Dub-Dub

The monsoon unleashed its full fury on Tucson today. Of course it waited until I was on my way into work, where I discovered that if it rains hard enough, the roof of my convertible leaks! Right into the driver's seat! My ass was soaked before I even got to work! Monsoon storms are usually 10-15 minute downpours that clear up shortly thereafter. It's been raining for 3 hours straight with no relief in sight. Tucson is going to get washed off the map.

I arrived at work in about the fifteenth minute of the storm. A couple more minutes and this'll be over, I thought. After sitting in my wet seat for another five minutes, I came to the realization that it wasn't going to let up anytime soon. So I made a break for it. It wouldn't have been so bad had there not been a raging river running through the middle of the parking lot. And it was too wide to jump. So I stood there in the pouring rain measuring where the best place to jump might be. There was none. My best hope was to plant one foot in the middle of the river and clear the rest. Better to enter into work with one soaker than two (that's what I always say), so that's what I did.

When I finally got through the door, I looked like I had run through a waterfall: a waterfall that concentrated all of its natural force on my ass and right foot. And now I get to sit in a control room where the climate is a carefully-monitored and balmy 68 degrees. I should be experiencing full-blown pneumonia by the 5:00 newscast.

I hope you're having a good Saturday.

The Doctor is "In"

I'm not sure how this responsibility fell into my lap, but I'm rapidly becoming my work's resident counselor for relationship trouble. Guys seem to be coming out of the woodwork to pour their guts out about their women problems. I'm definitely not an expert in the field and I'm just as perplexed by the female psyche as the next guy, and I've told them as much. I guess I'm just willing to lend a listening ear, which is apparently what they need. I've been told more than once that they weren't necessarily looking for answers, just for someone to talk to. That works out well for me since I certainly DON'T have any answers to their problems, and though I have my opinions, I try keep them to myself. I don't want to mess things up any more than they already are. I can just see the aftermath of my advice: "Dude, thanks a lot. My marriage is OVER. You NEVER tell a woman what's REALLY on your mind. What were you THINKING? Why did I ever listen to YOU?" I can then see myself getting slapped with a lawsuit for practicing psychology without a licence. Perhaps I should steer clear of my new found calling as a counselor. Sorry boys, from now on the doctor is "Out". Unless, of course, you're willing to sign a waiver.

The Joys of Dog-Sitting

I was rudely awakened by a pointy-elbowed jab to the ribs at about 4:30 yesterday morning. "Honey? Honey!"

Don't you "Honey" me...I was in the middle of a deep satisfying sleep, and I'm pretty sure I was having a good dream to boot. Was I snoring too loud? Humping her leg in my sleep? Humping HER in my sleep? "What?" I growled.

"Would you go tell Rex to be quiet? He's been barking and crying for the past hour."

I love being a sound sleeper, and, no, it isn't just an act to avoid middle-of-the-night parental duties. I've blissfully slept through dozens of nightmares and peed and barfed beds, although I was usually awakened for peed/barf bed duty. I'll get up in the morning with absolutely no idea that Diane spent the night in one of the girls room because they were freaked out. Oops...hee, hee, hee. I hadn't heard Rex at all that morning. "Why can't YOU go tell him to be quiet?" I groused.

"Because he doesn't listen to me."

I know this defense well. It's the same reason I refuse to learn how to braid the girls' hair: if I learn how to do it, then I'll have to do it EVERY DAY. And I simply don't have that kind of time. This way, whenever the girls ask me to braid their hair like Mommy does, I reply as sweetly as possible, "I'm sorry, Sweetie, I'm just not as good at braiding as Mommy is." I guess what goes around comes around.

I pulled myself out of bed and stumbled to the laundry room where we had Rex penned. We've been dog-sitting for my in-laws the past few days, so far without incident. But this barking-in-the-middle-of-the-night nonsense needed to stop, and I was ready to play the role of alpha male to put the kibosh on it. I rounded the corner where I met Rex's sad, defeated eyes waiting for me at the gate, and discovered what was agitating him: three large piles of puke. Fan-TAS-tic! Being the amazing husband I am, I did not rouse Diane for barf duty, and began the cleanup process. Being the more amazing wife that she is, Diane got up anyway and offered moral support. She doesn't handle barf duty too well. I don't either for that matter, but sometimes you just do whatcha gotta do. I took Rex outside, cleaned up the mess, returned him to his room, and went back to bed.

I woke up again at 6:30 to get Kailey ready for school and found a couple of bile-puddles on the floor in Rex's room. Houston, we have a problem. All morning long, Rex just lazed around, completely lethargic and not at all interested in food, water or play. And when I let him outside to do his business, he'd pick a spot in the yard and strike a pose where his body became tense and rigid, convulsing to produce a half-dollar sized puddle of sludge. As I watched him struggle through his bowel movements, I thought, been there, done that. Buddy, I can FEEL your pain.

I called my in-laws to inform them of the situation as well as to get the number of their vet. Golden Retriever pups are notorious for eating crap they shouldn't, then having near death experiences. And Rex has already gone through this process once. I called the vet and they told me to bring him in, along with a "fresh stool sample". Come again? "A fresh stool sample; the fresher, the better." And how do you suggest...oh, never mind.

So thirty minutes before our appointment, armed with a gallon-sized ziplock freezer bag, I followed Rex into the backyard and waited for him to go through his spastic fece-squeeze routine. I started out with a sandwich baggie, which would easily have handled the volume of Rex's BM. But then I had second thoughts. What if I misjudged the trajectory of the discharge? I envisioned the neighbors calling 911 as they watched me run screaming across my backyard, wildly flailing at my hands while being chased by an 80 pound dog. Gallon-sized...that's the way to go. Rex sniffed around the lawn for a minute, found an acceptable spot, circled and assumed the position. I snuck up behind him and, gulp, slid the bag underneath him. I must have been too aggressive though, and he felt the bag. He twirled around with a "What-the-Hell-are-YOU-doing?" expression on his face. Seriously. "Sorry buddy," was all I could muster.

Rex, looking completely annoyed, moved over to the rocks and, again, squatted. I followed, this time being careful NOT to brush his ass with my oversized bag. That sounded really bad and should probably be rephrased. Anyway, he let loose and I collected every last disgusting, gloopy drop. Then I sealed the bag and ran inside to freak out the girls.

We arrived at the animal clinic where I handed the receptionist what I determined to be the most disgusting fecal sample ever collected. She grabbed the bag without comment or hesitation, albeit by the side rather than the top. She apparently had seen worse. The vet ran a bunch of tests, all of which were negative, and poked and prodded poor Rex. He could find no obstruction in his bowels, but couldn't rule out a bowel obstruction with any certainty without x-rays. He suggested two possible courses of action: an aggressive one which included the x-rays and intravenous fluids, or a conservative approach which included some medication, fluids and a mild diet. Ummm...conservative please. If we need to, we'll cross the aggressive bridge when we get to it.

I'm happy to report that the conservative approach seemed to work. This morning Rex was back to his nosey, playful self. And I'm even happier that he didn't die on my watch. In five days, I'll be even happier still, when Rex goes home. Grammy & Papa, I'm thankful that you let us stay in your home for two weeks while our water situation was being worked out, but now we are even!

On second thought, you never had to chase any of us around with a baggie, waiting for us to take a dump, so I think we may be due some weekend childcare.

My Growing Addiction

I came to a rude awakening after posting my last blog entry yesterday morning, and this is my confession: I am a Site Meter junkie. Not a blogging junkie. A Site Meter junkie. I used to blog for the love of blogging. Now I blog to support my Site Meter habit. I post a blog entry then quickly check my Site Meter page to see how many tens of people visit my site. It's pretty pathetic, a desperate plea for attention and validation: Please read my vapid, unoriginal blathering. Please stroke my bruised ego. And if you'd like, you can even leave a comment! Oooo! Oooo! A visitor from New Delhi! Where the hell is New Delhi? It's in India, you idiot. I knew I should have paid attention in geography class. Maybe that Blogger Buzz article on blogging in Hindi isn't such a stupid idea after all?

I'll then spend the rest of the day checking my Site Meter page, at five minute intervals. Please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please...A VISITOR...from...Ynysddu? Don't any freakin' english-speakers visit my blog? Wait, Ynysddu is in the UK. Even geography class wouldn't have helped me on that one.

It's getting pretty bad. On any given day, if it looks like I'm not going to meet the average number of visits, I break out into a cold sweat. I think, maybe I can boost the numbers. So I'll go back to my latest post and publish it a hundred more times, the equivalent of pushing the elevator button repeatedly in an effort to get it to arrive faster. Does it work? Probably not, but at least I'm trying to do something about it! Pretty soon I'll be tiptoeing to my computer in the middle of the night, not to sneak in some porn like other demented dads, but to see if I've had any visitors from the other side of the planet doing a google search on "fathers tormenting children". I think I need help. Anywho, gotta get this thing posted. I think you know why.

A Parent's Nightmare

Diane and I took Kyra to a pediatric cardiologist this morning because she's been complaining on and off for the past few months of how her "heart hurts". We've come to understand this as anything from her heart racing and pounding in her chest to physical pain. At first, the "heart burn" was random and sporadic. Kyra, being the sensitive soul that she is, would experience it at school when one of her classmates got in trouble or if she got scared. But recently it's become much more common. She would complain that her "heart hurt" before going to bed or during/after physical activity. Diane finally took her to see her pediatrician hoping to get some answers to what we also hoped was nothing. She instead referred us to the cardiologist.

Last Friday, while Kyra and I were playing a rousing game of Roll Ball (because throwing a ball is not allowed in the house), she announced that her heart was burning. I crawled up to her from my Roll Ball position at the end of the hall and placed my ear to her chest. I could feel her heart pounding against the side of my head. I called a Roll Ball timeout, got up, and picked up the phone where I made an appointment with the cardiologist. The earliest they could see her was this morning.

I hate situations like this because at this point, everything's an unknown. And the mind doesn't like the unknown. The mind hates the unknown and can't leave it alone. Like a kid with a crusty scab, the mind picks, and picks, and picks at the unknown, filling in the gaps, usually with the worst scenario possible. In his book, Cell, which I recently finished (HA!), Steven King calls it a "panic rat". The panic rat likes to escape its cage and run rampant, knawing on the nerves of the unknown. The trick is to keep the panic rat caged, which I had been doing a pretty good job of. I kept telling myself not to worry until there was something definite to worry about, until this morning, that is, because last night, I had a dream.

I rarely remember my dreams anymore, so I consider it significant if I'm able to recall a dream when I'm awake. In my dream I was at a performance, a musical or a concert, and Kyra was playing a significant role. The performance wasn't taking place in a theater or a music hall, though. It was being held in what looked like a wide hotel hallway. The carpeting had a rose-colored floral design and I could see several doorways on the opposite side of the hall. I was aware of only one other person in the "audience" besides myself, and that person remained faceless to my left. On "stage" were two people I didn't recognize, a man and a woman, and Kyra. Another person, I can't remember if they were male or female, was just off stage in the shadows.

The man and woman were singing a song downstage (which was actually in the middle of the hallway) while Kyra stood upstage next to the wall. At regular intervals during the song, Kyra would walk downstage and sing a couple of lines to the song, then return to her position next to the wall. It was obvious, to me at least, that it became increasingly difficult for her to keep doing this, that something was bothering her, making it too emotional for her to go on. After about the third time she contributed to the song, she returned to her upstage position where the person in the shadows, whom I decided was the director, emerged to talk to her. The director whispered into Kyra's ear while rubbing her back or giving her a small hug. Kyra would then continue to walk downstage to sing her part, then return to the director. I don't remember what music she was singing, but it clearly was affecting her. Huge wet tears began rolling down her face as she sang, and I soon realized that I was crying too because I didn't know what was wrong with her and I couldn't go to her to comfort her in the same way as the director.

That's all I remember of my dream. What's weird is that I didn't remember it immediately upon waking. I was getting ready for the appointment, shaving actually, when the memory of my dream hit me like a ton of bricks. That's when the panic rat escaped for a little while and I struggled to maintain my composure. I just kept telling myself that we didn't know anything and that it was useless to worry and panic. Thank goodness it was only an hour before the appointment.

We arrived at the doctor's office and filled out the eight million forms and questionaires. Kyra was scared, because to her, doctor's office = SHOT. Diane held her and assured her that there would be no shots; that the doctor would just listen to her heart. At one point during the visit, Kyra, being a very sharp six year-old, asked Diane a question. "Mommy?" she asked. "Did you ever have heart problems when you were a kid?"

"No, Sweetie. I didn't."

"Then how do you know I won't get a shot?"

Diane shot me a look, and I shot her a grin that said, "You're screwed! Have fun answering that one!"

The nurse came in and took Kyra's blood pressure at both her arm and leg, and also conducted an EKG. Kyra was incredibly brave during the EKG, and actually enjoyed having the stickers deposited all over her chest and stomach. "This is just like Grammy," she told the nurse, who completed her duties and then exited the exam room. The cardiologist arrived about twenty minutes later (why do they always take so frickin' long?) and began his examination.

The good news is that the EKG was normal and that Kyra's heart sounds great. The bad news, if it can be classified as such, is that he's not sure of what's causing her heart pain. His gut feeling is that it's acid reflux; that her "heart burn" is heartburn. And he suggested that some kids are just a little more nervous than others, which would explain the racing heart. Still, he suggested that we keep a log of Kyra's "heart burn" that includes time of day, what she was doing, and whether pain preceded or followed the racing heart. If it gets worse, we head back to see him with log in hand.

So on the one hand we're relieved: initial tests proved to be normal. But there's still the question of what's happening inside her little heart. There are still not enough definitives and too many unknowns. I hope that it's just heartburn, that she's just a nervous kid (which raises other issues), but we don't know for sure. There's still the possibility that there's something else going on in there, and the panic rat is always poised and ready to run amuck in the back of my mind.

It's Not My Fault...I'm Global!

A few months ago while attending my Grandpa's visitation, I was talking to my Mom and some other family members in the foyer of the church. I was telling them about how crazy it was for me to get ready for the trip: I'd start one task, then remember something else I needed to do, so I'd drop the first task and move on to the second, and so on, and so on, and so on. I eventually completed everything, but was exhausted by all the extra running around.

"You're global," my Mom declared.

I paused and looked at her. "Excuse me?"

"You're global. You get it from me."

I still wasn't quite tracking. I mean, I try to keep up on world events as best as I can, but I had absolutely no idea of how this had anything to do with running around like a chump chasing a greased pig in order to get ready for a trip.

"It's your personality type," she explained after reading my confused expression. "I was at a workshop a while back where I learned about personality types. You're either global or sequential. Sequential people see a list of tasks and complete one at a time. Global people see a list of tasks and complete them all at the same time. I'm global. You get it from me."

"So it's your fault!!" I cried. All these years I thought something was wrong with me, and I was right...I'm global. Can't be helped. It's in my jeans, er, genes.

This morning was a good example of my globalositiness. My Mom, appropriately enough, is visiting this weekend to look at houses for a possible move to Tucson. I just returned from taking Kailey to school, and everyone was in the family room watching the Today Show. I asked if they were ready for coffee, and began getting it ready. As I washed the coffee pot I noticed a light out in the family room ceiling fan. My Mom was reviewing housing information that we picked up from our house hunting yesterday, and she was sitting in a dark spot. I need to change that light bulb!

I abandoned the washed coffee pot, put on my flip-flops, and headed into the garage to fetch the ladder. My brain immediately began screaming at me: What are you doing! Finish the task! Finish the task! I snapped out of my global induced trance and finished making the coffee. THEN I fetched the ladder. I set it up, climbed up and unscrewed the globe from the ceiling fan, and took down the whole assembly. Then I went to the laundry room to retrieve a light bulb.

The light bulbs are at the back of a shelf where we keep detergent and cleaning supplies. Only I couldn't get to them because there were 30 boxes of Swiffer dusters blocking them, several of which were open and half used. What the heck? So I took them all down and began consolidating the boxes of dusters. Why did I come in here again? Light bulbs...yeah, right! I filtered through the boxes of light bulbs and decided on a 75 watt bulb, then returned to the ladder.

I climbed back up the ladder with the 75 watt bulb and noticed the other bulb was 100 watts. Plus, man was it dusty up there! So I climbed down, went back to the laundry room, grabbed the Swiffer duster and another 75 watt bulb, ran back to the family room, and climbed the ladder where I proceded to dust off the blades. When I was satisfied with the results, I replaced both light bulbs along with the globe assembly. I put the ladder away, then returned yet again to the laundry room to clean up my mess.

All in all, a job well done if I must say so myself. I took a few tangents along the way, and it took me a half-hour to get a five-minute job done, but I did it. Actually, I did a three-in-one job. So don't hassel me...I'm global!

One of Those Days

I'm tired. Today has been one of those days that I can't wait to get behind me. It all started at around 5:00 am this morning when we were awakened by the sound of Kyra crying and coughing up a lung. Kailey has been sick since last Friday and has missed three days of school, and yesterday afternoon Kyra started coming down with whatever has been ailing Kailey. Diane got up (God bless 'er), tended to Kyra and discovered she had a temperature of 103. Great. Thankfully and unfortunately, Diane had already scheduled a doctor's appointment for this morning: thankful because we'd at least get to the bottom of what's been sidelining the girls for the better part of a week; unfortunate because Kyra knew she was going to see the doctor and she was scared. She proceeded to whine and cry for the next two hours until I got up at 7:00.

I dragged my carcass out of bed and proceeded to get the girls ready for their doctor's appointment while Diane showered and got herself ready. Kyra, being the drama-mama that she is, continued to carry on about her doctor visit. I offered to pick out an "extra special secret video" for her to watch to keep her mind off the doctor. I told her to close her eyes while I dug through the video cabinet. Basically the girls only watch the DVD's that are on top or close to the front, so I thought if I dug one out from the back, one that they hadn't watched in eons, it would be like she was watching a new video. It worked. I popped "Ice Age" into the DVD player...end of crying. I'm a frickin' genious.

The girls left for the doctor's appointment, but I had marching orders of my own: bills to pay and a house to clean. My mom is flying down from Las Vegas for the weekend and the house is a disaster zone. I had it pretty well picked up a couple days ago, but anyone with young children knows that it only takes a couple of minutes for them to completely destroy what it took you hours to clean. Do over. Start again.

I made a pot of coffee, jumped on the computer, checked my e-mail, and went to pay the rest of our bills for the month. This usually takes me about five minutes, but today it took close to an hour. The site that I use to pay bills kept logging me off and then I had to track down two bills because for some reason they didn't post to the site. Turns out they weren't due until the end of the month and I could have waited another couple of days to pay them, but I didn't know that at the time. It's going to be one of those days.

The rest of the morning was spent folding laundry; piles and piles of laundry. I didn't know we owned that many clothes and I certainly don't remember washing all of it. In the meantime, the girls came home. The prognosis: a viral infection. Kyra won't be able to go back to school until Monday, and, barring any setbacks, Kailey can return tomorrow. She should have gone back today because she was bored and bouncing off the walls. She wanted attention, but we had a house to clean. Sorry kiddo. Pick up a mop and earn your keep.

I finished folding the mountain of laundry just in time to get ready for work. Diane decided to make a quick trip to the store while I was still home. So she left and I took a very quick shower so that Kailey couldn't torment Kyra for that long. I didn't hear any screams of bloody murder, so I guess things went OK. I went through my grooming routine, and Diane returned as I was getting dressed. She walked into the bedroom and paused for a moment to behold my glorious physique before announcing, "The back tire on the van is really low." Fantastic.

I offered Diane a deal, "If you'll pack my lunch, I'll fill the tire before I leave." Done. I went into the garage and grabbed the air compressor, set it for 32 lbs, attached it to the tire, and cut her loose. The tire slowly began to fill and after several minutes the compressor reached its target and shut down. But I still heard noise coming from the tire: PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF! Crap! I sauntered back into the house. "Umm, you don't have to go anywhere this afternoon, do you, Hon?"

"No. Why?"

I opened the garage door so she could hear the rapid deflation of the tire. "Holy crap!" My sentiments exactly. I didn't have time to change the tire before work, so guess what I'll be doing bright and early tomorrow morning? Yippee.

I arrived at work where everyone was all atwitter because a new seafood restaurant was providing free lunch as a promotion. I love seafood, but this stuff did me wrong...REALLY wrong. I'll spare the gory details, but suffice it to say that intestinal distress at work is never good. I think the Bluetooth guy even walked in during one of my "episodes" and made a hasty retreat. Add to that the stress of dealing with a of testy, overbearing client and I was ready for the day to end.

And to think I get to start off tomorrow by changing a tire. I just hope it doesn't mean tomorrow's going to be one of those days too.