Gross-out Warning: This post--just the synopsis of my last few days--covers most bodily fluids and entails one seriously messed up toddler. Those weak of stomach kindly quit reading now.
I was bitching to my sister on the phone extolling the ridiculousness that is my life over the last few days and she responded by saying, "Just write about it, already!" Nothing like the familiar ring of familial guilt to get me to post again. So if the following makes you want to gag, thank my sister.
Where to begin? How about Sunday night where the in-laws invited us to a favorite local pizza joint along with The Banker's brother, his wife, and their two kids. It was the end of a long weekend for us, as we'd driven down to Retirement Village with my parents to visit my grandparents. They'd been hankering to see Becca, and it'd been far too long. So two looong car rides (in my new car! a hybrid! that's used! and I already magnificently scratched it!) and an overnight stay in a hotel had Becca pretty much spent. But then again, so was I, and I didn't want to cook. So we dragged our cranky pants to dinner. And Becca was a pill, as she was pretty much entitled to be. The Banker and I kept exchanging glances that said, "This is the last time we'll be asked out for dinner," when our nephew leaned over his mom...and projectile vomited everywhere. The little bugger was sitting next to me. All I could do was rub his back as his mom attempted to catch the torrents in her hands, empty them under the table, and repeat. Several times. I ignored the splatter I felt on my feet. On the drive home, The Banker turned to me and said, "Well, Becca came out of that looking pretty good after all." Indeed.
Monday I picked up Boo a bit early from Mother's Day Out. I was in the neighborhood and sometimes I like to sneak in and play with the wee ones. This time, Becca was still fast asleep on her cot, obviously still exhausted from our long weekend. But a few of the boys took to hollering and promptly woke her up. I was greeted by a brilliant smile, warm hug, and a gentle patting of my hair. "We have to run some errands, Boo, before we go home, so let me change your diaper here," I told her. She climbed the adorable wee steps to the changing table, and as I'm finishing up, I feel this peculiar grasping on my ass. I turn around to see Logan, his face entirely too close to my bottom region. "Logan, did you just bite me on my bottom?" I asked in total shock. Logan was promptly scolded by the teacher for, well, biting my bum. A 2-year-old I barely know decided to take a hunk out of my hiney with his teeth. Just awesome.
I thought that today probably couldn't top the bizarreness of my last few days. THINK AGAIN. This afternoon my mom called and asked to be taken to the emergency room, as she'd fallen and severely bruised her hand and wrist. The swelling, discoloration, and pain made her fear a break, so Becca and I took mom into the ER, which was oddly empty. For the moment. As my mom is filling out paperwork and seeing the initial nurse for check-in, and as I'm trying to entertain Becca, a hefty man limps through the sliding doors, his hands busy keeping the 30-galloon clear trash bag encircling his right foot up around his waist. To keep the volumes of blood from leaking all over the floor. I swivel the library book Becca and I've been reading into her line of sight, attempting to keep this visage from scalding her memory. But of course, she's all over the fuss that is now centered around this man, who in a stroke of genius kicked his lawn mower. Obviously while the blade was still rotating. Thankfully a wheelchair arrives and The Lawnmower Man is taken into the bowels of the hospital, though not before leaving a trail of blood behind him.
Shortly thereafter we continue back to my mom's assigned room where a variety of nurses come and go. At each entrance, Becca announces, "BaBa boo-boo--not Becca!" Clearly, she wants them nowhere near her. But about this time, Becca starts to work on something. First the smell hits me, then I see the large swell in the back of her diaper. She'd been a bit constipated as of late, and I'd just used the last diaper in the bag while we were at the library. Mom's call had been unexpected, and I was clearly unprepared. But now, err, the blockage was cleared.
The only choice I had was to try to salvage this diaper. So I took Becca to the (nasty) hall bathroom and removed the plum-sized blockage and turned to throw it in the toilet only to discover the bowl was crowded with wrappers and mounds of toilet paper. If I were to add Becca's contribution and flush, water would shortly be in the hallway. So I did what I had to do: I balled it up with ample paper towels and dumped it in the trash. As we exited, a nurse was leading a gown-clad woman right into our very bathroom. "Umm," I apologized, "there seems to be a blockage in the toilet, we didn't even attempt to use it." The nurse bravely entered and I could hear her trying to flush. I almost said, "Please excuse the giant smelly dump in the trash as well. Sorry." Instead, we hightailed it back to my mom's room. Where, thankfully, all was fine. No break, just bruising.
I'm hoping the rest of the week entails fewer bodily emissions and butt-obsessed 2-year-olds. Because I could use some normalcy, oddly enough.