Pimento is teething. And there might be some gassiness in play, as well. She's wakeful, napping not more than thirty minutes at a stretch during daylight, and outright fighting sleep at bedtime, finally drifting off in our arms, but twisting and flailing when horizontal. We've dispensed the go-to remedies to combat the teething, wakefulness, and gas. She's finally sleeping now, snuggled up with big sis in the biggest bed.
And I still can't sleep.
I have a raging toothache that spans the left half of my jaw, and no amount of home remedies or pain meds can dull it long enough for me to relax. It could be some sort of teething sympathy pains, though the more likely cause is a remaining wisdom tooth shoving its way into a full mouth and leaving the well-established inhabitants little option but to jostle and bump each other out of the way, in slow-motion. Which frigging hurts like a mother. It makes me want to curse and kick and grab some pliers for a little G D relief!
It started throbbing earlier this week, so I called and made an appointment with my dentist. Can I wait 'til next Thursday? Sure! It wasn't unbearable at that point. Now Thursday looks like a distant mirage, my vision blurred by the pain.
When I was struggling to settle Pimento for the night, experimenting with putting her to sleep in a crib (which I was able to do once earlier, and lasted half as long as it took me to accomplish), Daddy had the clear-headed genius to bring me the radio, tuned to some mellow World Music.
As I rocked and soothed, the tunes went from flutes and guitars to blues and finally, my go-to good mood music, Bossa Nova. A familiar melody. All the tension of a restless baby, combined with a wrenched shoulder (oh, didn't I mention that?) and the throb of toothache, lifted away by chill Brazilian syncopations.
Now, with an anesthetic-soaked cotton ball stuffed in my cheek, I try to focus on that feeling, those oceanic rhythms and mellowness lifting me out of my aching body and onto a higher plane, where I can see the big picture.
Where baby teeth arrive and naps can resume.
Where bedtime doesn't take three hours of constant soothing. (Yes, I'll still miss it when she's all grown up.)
Where Thursday really isn't that far off.
(But it still can't come soon enough.)
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The Car Accident
The girls and I were in a wreck today.
No one was injured.
But our '97 Subaru wagon won't be joining us on any more adventures. Poor girl was hauled off on a flatbed truck to the junkyard. Her sacrifice will not be forgotten.
Two other vehicles were involved, and both drove away from the scene while I stood in the midday sun, sweating along with my babes, waiting for and then watching Zack the tow truck operator load up our mangled chariot.
My first call was to 911. Both girls were crying and Peach was complaining that her chest hurt. During the course of the call, the crying and complaints subsided, but I wasn't confident in my judgement. Send an ambulance, just in case.
My second call was to my husband. We're all okay, the car looks bad, we'll figure something out. I think I repeated the word "okay" in several contexts, probably trying to convince myself more than anyone that it could have been worse. Apparently, my default operating system in a crisis is forced calm and optimism. He called and sent messages every few minutes to check on us and offer guidance. I'd never been in a car-totaling accident before, and he knew I was shell-shocked.
I've been repeating the split-second scenario of the moments before and during impact, trying to decipher exactly what happened and how, but I'm still completely baffled. It simply should not have happened.
I had just retrieved Peach from preschool, and was planning to take both girls to visit Daddy at a nearby hospital where he was being treated for his chronic condition. Peach was having a fit about wanting to choose the order of the afternoon's planned activities, and was emphatically arguing that the library should be the first stop.
We were moving, and then we weren't. I noticed the brake lights in front of me, and reacted accordingly. There's no way I didn't hit my brakes in time to avoid a collision. We weren't even going fast enough for the airbags to deploy. It's as if the brakes just didn't engage, despite full pressure from my panicked right foot. And yet, the front end of our workhorse vehicle was fully smooshed, hood folded and lights crushed, fluids leaking and engine exposed. Thank you, Japanese engineering, for making a smooshable car that keeps the passengers fully intact.
I want answers. I want CSI-style skid-mark analysis. I want to inspect the black box aboard my craft.
Instead, I get to enjoy my citation for "failure to yield" or some such legalese term for "dummy rear-ended a stopped car", as well as a four-year-old daughter who will never let me forget how much she "doesn't want to hit any cars this time" during subsequent travels. She really wanted to ride in the ambulance that was sent. I'm thankful that wasn't necessary.
Once the wreck was cleared away, the attending officer, Amy, kindly chauffeured us to the aforementioned hospital, where Daddy's station vehicle was available to receive both kiddos' car seats. On the way to there, I learned that the blast-force A/C in a fully-equipped police cruiser does not adequately cool the back seat, as it is fully obstructed by a bullet-proof pane. So, while thrilling for Peach, the ride in a police car was torture for hot little Pimento and is overall not an experience I'll choose to repeat.
We spent a few languorous hours with Daddy in his hospital room, soaking in his sanity and sating our nerves with Spongebob and single-serving snacks. Peach didn't want to leave, but Pimento was struggling to cope with her combo teething/vaccination pain (Oh yes! Did I mention little P had her 6-month checkup and shots this morning, too? It's truly been a joyous day.) and I needed to get in gear for the evening's impending bedtime routine.
Peach was apparently still expecting a stop at the library. Sweet naivete.
It was a poorly-timed departure. We pulled out of the hospital parking garage and into rush-hour traffic, compounded by construction and extra drivers, diverted to our route by a grass fire. It took us the better part of an hour to make it home, which was less than five miles away. Add an insect-induced anxiety attack from Peach and factor in non-functional A/C, and you'll understand why I was at the brink of tears for twenty minutes once we were home. (I called hubs, and he talked me down, like I knew he would. Thank Jeebus for that man.)
And now, a prayer.
Dear Universe,
Thank you for keeping my family from harm today. I solemnly swear that I've learned whatever lesson you were trying to teach me. Please let tomorrow be better.
Amen.
No one was injured.
But our '97 Subaru wagon won't be joining us on any more adventures. Poor girl was hauled off on a flatbed truck to the junkyard. Her sacrifice will not be forgotten.
Two other vehicles were involved, and both drove away from the scene while I stood in the midday sun, sweating along with my babes, waiting for and then watching Zack the tow truck operator load up our mangled chariot.
My first call was to 911. Both girls were crying and Peach was complaining that her chest hurt. During the course of the call, the crying and complaints subsided, but I wasn't confident in my judgement. Send an ambulance, just in case.
My second call was to my husband. We're all okay, the car looks bad, we'll figure something out. I think I repeated the word "okay" in several contexts, probably trying to convince myself more than anyone that it could have been worse. Apparently, my default operating system in a crisis is forced calm and optimism. He called and sent messages every few minutes to check on us and offer guidance. I'd never been in a car-totaling accident before, and he knew I was shell-shocked.
I've been repeating the split-second scenario of the moments before and during impact, trying to decipher exactly what happened and how, but I'm still completely baffled. It simply should not have happened.
I had just retrieved Peach from preschool, and was planning to take both girls to visit Daddy at a nearby hospital where he was being treated for his chronic condition. Peach was having a fit about wanting to choose the order of the afternoon's planned activities, and was emphatically arguing that the library should be the first stop.
We were moving, and then we weren't. I noticed the brake lights in front of me, and reacted accordingly. There's no way I didn't hit my brakes in time to avoid a collision. We weren't even going fast enough for the airbags to deploy. It's as if the brakes just didn't engage, despite full pressure from my panicked right foot. And yet, the front end of our workhorse vehicle was fully smooshed, hood folded and lights crushed, fluids leaking and engine exposed. Thank you, Japanese engineering, for making a smooshable car that keeps the passengers fully intact.
I want answers. I want CSI-style skid-mark analysis. I want to inspect the black box aboard my craft.
Instead, I get to enjoy my citation for "failure to yield" or some such legalese term for "dummy rear-ended a stopped car", as well as a four-year-old daughter who will never let me forget how much she "doesn't want to hit any cars this time" during subsequent travels. She really wanted to ride in the ambulance that was sent. I'm thankful that wasn't necessary.
Once the wreck was cleared away, the attending officer, Amy, kindly chauffeured us to the aforementioned hospital, where Daddy's station vehicle was available to receive both kiddos' car seats. On the way to there, I learned that the blast-force A/C in a fully-equipped police cruiser does not adequately cool the back seat, as it is fully obstructed by a bullet-proof pane. So, while thrilling for Peach, the ride in a police car was torture for hot little Pimento and is overall not an experience I'll choose to repeat.
We spent a few languorous hours with Daddy in his hospital room, soaking in his sanity and sating our nerves with Spongebob and single-serving snacks. Peach didn't want to leave, but Pimento was struggling to cope with her combo teething/vaccination pain (Oh yes! Did I mention little P had her 6-month checkup and shots this morning, too? It's truly been a joyous day.) and I needed to get in gear for the evening's impending bedtime routine.
Peach was apparently still expecting a stop at the library. Sweet naivete.
It was a poorly-timed departure. We pulled out of the hospital parking garage and into rush-hour traffic, compounded by construction and extra drivers, diverted to our route by a grass fire. It took us the better part of an hour to make it home, which was less than five miles away. Add an insect-induced anxiety attack from Peach and factor in non-functional A/C, and you'll understand why I was at the brink of tears for twenty minutes once we were home. (I called hubs, and he talked me down, like I knew he would. Thank Jeebus for that man.)
And now, a prayer.
Dear Universe,
Thank you for keeping my family from harm today. I solemnly swear that I've learned whatever lesson you were trying to teach me. Please let tomorrow be better.
Amen.
Monday, May 9, 2011
How do I know she's growing up?
Peach is four now.
Having had a recent birthday, there are nevertheless very few stark benchmarks that come with her new age. As expected, most of her development has been gradual and therefore difficult to pinpoint. Which is why I'm amazed to notice these pinpointable changes.
She rides a bike.
That is, she rode a brand new, lovingly team-Stein-assembled Disney Princess birthday bike (with training wheels! and a seat for a doll/stuffed animal! and a handlebar pouch for snacks!) several times on successive days, until she almost fell off one too many times while navigating the uneven turn from our driveway onto the front walk. Now she wants to ride her tricycle again. We might try again tomorrow, fully strapped with the knee and elbow pads that came with her 3rd birthday Disney Princess rollerskates. That first day, when she jumped right on and took to it like a fish to water, Daddy and I co-marveled at how tiny she looked perched atop her shiny new ride. A one-block trek was punctuated with multiple stops for snacks (from the princess pouch, of course), inspecting ants, and picking dandelions.
Her ponies are no longer just the factory-labeled characters.
They are free to be Mommy or Daddy, requesting help from the other to "get the water out of the trunk" [of the car], much like the real-life counterparts. A "little sister" character is now common in her cast, too, usually being denied the use of a tiara or other personal item belonging to either Mommy or the big sister.
What really knocked me out, though, is the skill she flaunted today.
She can craft familiar animals from playdough. She's been squeezing and rolling it proficiently for over a year, including some exploration with various plastic apparatuses and molds to make abstract and food-like shapes, but the independent combination of basic shapes to form animals (and even a fairly recognizable pink/purple Tinker Bell) blows me away. True, she's basing her creations on the included illustrated instructions (from a Crayola Model Magic Pop-a-Dot kit with kangaroo/platypus options), but her ability to translate those flat images into a three-dimensional creation seems like a disproportionately advanced skill. Maybe it's just Mommy pride.
Like the pride I feel every time she requests and eats a green salad.
I still haven't completely mastered that skill.
Having had a recent birthday, there are nevertheless very few stark benchmarks that come with her new age. As expected, most of her development has been gradual and therefore difficult to pinpoint. Which is why I'm amazed to notice these pinpointable changes.
She rides a bike.
That is, she rode a brand new, lovingly team-Stein-assembled Disney Princess birthday bike (with training wheels! and a seat for a doll/stuffed animal! and a handlebar pouch for snacks!) several times on successive days, until she almost fell off one too many times while navigating the uneven turn from our driveway onto the front walk. Now she wants to ride her tricycle again. We might try again tomorrow, fully strapped with the knee and elbow pads that came with her 3rd birthday Disney Princess rollerskates. That first day, when she jumped right on and took to it like a fish to water, Daddy and I co-marveled at how tiny she looked perched atop her shiny new ride. A one-block trek was punctuated with multiple stops for snacks (from the princess pouch, of course), inspecting ants, and picking dandelions.
Her ponies are no longer just the factory-labeled characters.
They are free to be Mommy or Daddy, requesting help from the other to "get the water out of the trunk" [of the car], much like the real-life counterparts. A "little sister" character is now common in her cast, too, usually being denied the use of a tiara or other personal item belonging to either Mommy or the big sister.
What really knocked me out, though, is the skill she flaunted today.
She can craft familiar animals from playdough. She's been squeezing and rolling it proficiently for over a year, including some exploration with various plastic apparatuses and molds to make abstract and food-like shapes, but the independent combination of basic shapes to form animals (and even a fairly recognizable pink/purple Tinker Bell) blows me away. True, she's basing her creations on the included illustrated instructions (from a Crayola Model Magic Pop-a-Dot kit with kangaroo/platypus options), but her ability to translate those flat images into a three-dimensional creation seems like a disproportionately advanced skill. Maybe it's just Mommy pride.
Like the pride I feel every time she requests and eats a green salad.
I still haven't completely mastered that skill.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)