Mishamo in the Hospital

Hi all - just wanted to give everyone a heads up that our poor little Mishamo was admitted to the hospital today. After many hours of projectile vomiting and a high fever, we took him to the ER. He's okay now but has a complicated kidney infection related to something in his anatomy. For awhile they thought it might be bacterial meningitis - which is a whole load of hell that we didn't even want to think about and almost threw me over the edge. He's still miserable, still throwing up, but it is a diagnosis that is treatable over the next year. He already has the latent TB treatment so this is another load of goodness to throw on top of that. It was horrible today. He had a spinal tap, a tube stuck down his throat into his intestines, an ultrasound, five or six chest and abdomen xrays, and a catheter.
With this much poking, prodding, and probing, we might as well have gotten his nipples pierced and a picture of the Ethiopian flag tattooed on his ass. It was horrific.

I wasn't sure who to kill first. What would Claire Huxtable do? Exactly what I did I am confident to say; assert my self loudly yet diplomatically (with a dash of "I'm actually truly crazy" thrown in) when my child is almost in convulsions and no one seems to sense the urgency. It was a nightmare.

It's 1:30am, and I'm home dealing with the dogs for a few hours - David's at the hospital and I'll be back there in a couple of hours or so. Please keep us in your thoughts. It looks like we're out of the woods but will probably be in the hospital for a couple of days.

The house is really quiet and sad without Little M. The dogs can feel it.

S & D

The F-Bomb

It is very possible, very predictable that our son's first word may very well be the F-word. We aren't crude people necessarily, but we do use profanity when and if it is absolutely necessary; which equates to, in this raw city of Chicago, about a dozen times a day. Its a hard world that calls for a hard response.

At times.

So, the trick here is to teach our little guy to use profanity as it was meant to be used; wisely, poetically, and only at the right time.

For example, if you are on the playground and some clod womps you on the head to get to your legos, you don't pull out the f-bomb right away. You wait. Quietly. And if he or she does it twice, internal mental negotiations take place. And you may have to pull out the big guns.

Now, I can feel the hard, judgemental gaze of Claire H. over there on the sidebar: "any child of mine that used the f-bomb would find some sort of mom bomb coming right at them." (that is a direct quote from the Cosby show). Obviously, my profanity strategies would not bode well in the Huxtable household, and I'm fearing my muse is quickly turning into my Superego. I can feel her; assessing me from her law degree-ed, I-can-easily-handle-more-than-one-infant, tightly belted high horse.

She's judging me people. I can feel it. What do I do? Ignore it, or continue to have conversations with the Great Claire H in my head until a resolution is reached.

As you can tell by the direction of this entry, I'm sleep deprived. And by the way, Claire Huxtable was from the 80s, so I did break some rules to get her nominated. Bitch.

Shelby

P.S. - I'm assuming I will receive some hate mail for calling Claire Huxtable the B-word. But, I'm in a mood, and she has been given me some high and mighty looks lately, and it's pissing me off.

F-word.

Gratuitous Misho shot:

The Men of the House

Here they are in all their penile glory. Daisy and I are now outnumbered. All three leave the toilet seat up, use aggressive forms of communication, eat meat raw and off the bone, and are emotionally challenged. Don't feel sorry for us; Daisy and I still have our feminine wiles - plus our cycles are in sync so we attack in perfect precision. Here is an example of such an attack:



Miraculously, my son is allowing me to work on the computer (like I actually have a wrench and am working on the motherboard) and update the blog. Soon I will be starting a weekly segment called: WWCHD - What Would Claire Huxtable Do?

I have many scenarios that need reckoning from my new motherly muse. If only I can live up to the task.

Shelby

Origin of Love

With all this Prop 8 bigotrycrapsuckitstuff - time to bring out a song that captures depth, love, and heart. Trying not to get blindly angry, but I'm ready to get all Norma Ray on someone. In the meantime, listen to Hedwig.

Big-Ass Shoes

Holy god. Claire Huxtable? Seriously people? I'm a maternal embryo here and the majority have chosen the mother of all mothers as my inspiration? Did any of you know that she was actually chosen as the mother of all time by the kings of the universe? http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/4892882/ Not that I'm questioning the poll, but it's clear that most participants don't really know me. I'm lucky to keep a plant moist and motivated.

Dear social worker monitoring the contents of my blog, I make this statement purely in jest - there are many organic and living materials alive in my home, including our beautiful new son. Our plants and dogs will vouch for us.

I'm grateful to the two who went with Lillian Munster (thanks Ariel!!!)since on my most mornings, one could mistake me and my house for the housekeeping strategies and tactics of the Munster family.

Anyway, the poll is open for another 50 minutes. Interesting that no one went for Carol Brady or Edith Bunker. Says alot about the state of the nation(whatever that means). New Misho footage on its way this weekend, but here's a new photo in the meantime:

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Mom Icon Survey to the Right...

Alright. Here are the suggestions from you all on a possible maternal deity (from the 70s mind you) for personal worship. Let me know what you think. Feel free to explain your answers in the comments section. And in the meantime, here's a photo of me at my maternal best and Misho appearing rather freaked out by it. As you can see, I need a protege.

The Night That Made Misho Smile...

Ever seen a look of satisfaction quite like that before? Thank you Obama for helping us catch the elusive Big Foot!

I'm so happy I could squeal. And have been for the last 24 hours. It's starting to hurt.

Despite the look of happiness and balance above, little guy is still on a rather rigorous sleep strike. I have easily aged 5 years since this weekend. It appears that Mr. M does not like it when I tend to my own affairs such as peeing, tooth brushing, showering, sleeping, breathing, or eating the occasional piece of stale bread. I feel like a hostage with Stockholm syndrome. I've chosen to fall in love with my captor to avoid the deep rooted madness that is hovering around my head like a horse fly. Seriously, I never thought I could be brought to the brink of crazy quite like this. I've brought in reinforcements; Nonnie is here and loaded Mr. M up in the carriage and they're off to Guam or somewhere near there. In the meantime, I'm slipping in a quick blog entry, and checking in on poor Ellen Degeneres who must be so friggin pissed that California has proven itself so backward and bigoted. I mean the other half of California that I never met when growing up there. Cruel and unnecessary.

In the meantime, cheers to my sweet sweet crush Obama and a year where I don't feel the urge to say I'm Canadian to seatmates on international flights.

Shelby