Let me just go on record by saying I hate doing catch-up posts, and this will be the second in less than a month. What I need to do is spend five (okay, twenty) minutes blogging each day, rather than waiting for the “perfect” time to do it, because let’s face it: there is never a “perfect” time, and even if there is, I’d rather spend it napping.
Oh, and blogging for even 20 minutes each day? Yeah, make it an hour… I’m hard-wired to edit, edit, EDIT.
So, moving on…
Friday was crazy. My day started at 5:30 AM when my sister dropped Abbie off, and it just picked up speed. Two kids had school, Kendra brought a friend home with her, then she had Achievement Days, we ate dinner, went to Alex’s pack meeting, and then the high school football game between Jordan and Hillcrest. (Thank you, Dad, for letting us all in for free.)
(Before I move on, I just want to say that Jordan STOMPED Hillcrest. I can say that here. If I said it on Facebook, I’d be defriended in a heartbeat by a whole slew of friends.) See, I graduated from Jordan– the REAL Jordan, not the movie theater– and now we live in the Hillcrest boundaries. My dad taught at Hillcrest for 25 years before he retired, so there has always been a good-natured teasing in our family about where loyalties fall. I will go on record by saying that I will always cheer for Hillcrest, except when they play Jordan. I always have.
Try explaining that to a 7-foot-tall Husky mascot who, while on his way to the top of the bleachers, learned of my opposing loyalties only because my husband waved his hands frantically over my head and shouted, “She’s cheering for Jordan! She’s cheering for Jordan!”
Thank you, Kenny, and thank you to Harvey the Husky, who pretended to pee on my leg, but then spent at least five minutes hugging my kids and giving them high-fives. (As we left the game, we walked past him again and Anthony said, “Bye, Puppy! I love you!” It was adorable.) (Digger Dan the Beetdigger isn’t nearly as endearing. He scared my kids, and to be honest, I can see why. A mascot that looks like a bobble-head farmer and carries two long beet knives is more Nightmare on State Street than a warm, fuzzy– albeit smelly- canine.)
Sunday was the kids’ Primary Program, which was adorable. They sang beautifully and did a really great job with their speaking parts. Hannah had a hard time saying “Family Home Evening“, and had the congregation in stitches when she smacked her head in frustration. It’s always something with that one. Last year she started kissing another little boy (they were both Sunbeams), although the pulpit blocked my view of that happy little make-out session. I heard about it, though, from a good share of ward members. Apparently the no-dating-before-16 rule doesn’t apply to 3-year-olds. Named Hannah. Who love and want to marry poor, unsuspecting little Aidan.
I’m going to have my hands full with her; that’s all I’m saying. It’s a good thing she’s so cute! (Or maybe that’s her problem.)
After the program, we hosted dinner at our house, and it was delicious. I could have eaten a few more pieces of the Chocolate-Orange cake, but it was devoured too quickly. Probably for the best, anyway. Luckily, it’s a really easy recipe. I see cake in my future.
Yesterday (Monday) I watched Abbie, did some laundry, ran the dishwasher, and ended up with Anthony in the KidsCare clinic for a good share of the night. Saturday night while I was bathing him, he pointed to some bumps on his ankle and said his foot had “polka-dots”. There were three tiny blisters which I assumed came from his shoe. Sunday afternoon, they had spread to the front of his leg, and when my mom changed his diaper that night, they were on his bottom. I gave him some Benadryl, thinking they were just hives, and when he woke up yesterday, his leg was covered with them. COVERED. Only on the one leg. I gave him more Benadryl and did a google search for “hives”, because these were not flat and welt-y; rather, they were blistered and scaly. Nasty, to be simple and straightforward. Nasty, and he said they hurt to touch them.
We got to the clinic and Anthony was in heaven because there was a fire truck AND an ambulance in the parking lot. My heart sank, because I knew it was a trauma (and really, people, who takes a trauma to a pediatrician’s office when it is ATTACHED to a hospital?) and we would be waiting a while to be seen. They put us in a room right away, so we didn’t spread his rash to any other patients, and we sat there for over an hour. We read stories, sang songs, played I-Spy, sang more songs, counted, reviewed sign language and drove the giant dump truck around the chair legs. He was so patient! Right at the end he started to get tired and cranky, but by that point the doctor was ready to see us.
Oh, and bear with me while I complain about something else– the poor trauma kid screamed the entire time he (she?) was there. Now, the screaming was annoying, and it really freaked Anthony out, but I get it. You’re scared, it hurts, they’re stitching, they’re bandaging, they’re casting. (Seriously, WHY the KidsCare? Why not the ER?) But could they not have anesthetized? A little Tylenol? Something to make the kid more comfortable? It seemed inhumane.
Anyway, the doctor came in, looked at Anthony’s leg, washed her hands, rubbed his bumps (which made him cry), washed her hands and sanitized them, looked at them again, poked them, pushed them, washed her hands, and told me my baby has… are you ready for this?
Shingles? Are you kidding me? Shingles is an OLD PEOPLE disease. My grandma had it. My mom said she had it when she was in her early-twenties, and it was unheard of back then for someone so young to have it. Anthony is two. TWO.
Apparently there is something in the Chicken Pox vaccine that makes kids more susceptible to the Shingles virus, because (and this is where I’m a little fuzzy because I was tired and my ears were ringing from the poor trauma patient’s screams) either the vaccine masks the Chicken Pox virus but not Shingles, or because they sort of get Chicken Pox with the vaccine, but not really, the virus is confused and manifests itself as Shingles (yeah, I get the confused thing), or secret option number three: the rash has some characteristics of Shingles but not all, and instead of making a referral or looking it up to be sure, the harried doctor makes her best guess and throws a prescription for steriod cream at you, saying “Try it on a small patch for two days. If it gets better, put it everywhere else. If it doesn’t, let it clear up on its own. If the cream makes it worse, bring him in during regular hours.” (You can add the “…when I’m not working…” to the end of that. I did, in my head.)
Really, it’s not her fault. His leg looks disgusting. Thank goodness none of the blisters are oozing or popping. Or crusting. Or scaling. It’s more of a slow deflation that turns them into hard little bumps of skin, not unlike a cheese grater. No wonder she washed her hands eight times during our visit.
Then, this morning I went with a family member while she had a medical procedure done on an unnamed thing in an unmentionable part of her body, and if the pain and cramping aren’t punishment enough, she has to wait for an entire week for the results.
Maybe it’s SHINGLES. (I couldn’t resist.)
Oh, and because I love you and don’t want to completely gross you out, I want you to know that I have pictures of Anthony’s bumps– CLOSE UPS– but I refrained from posting them.