Archive for June, 2009

What's Up Doc? Not my kids. Really...

I will not let my son into the yard.

I won’t let him kick a soccer ball, ride a bike or run around.

On this beautiful summer day, I want him inside, on the couch, watching Bugs Bunny cartoons.

And it’s driving us both crazy.

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On this Sunday, a day of rest, I would like to thank the Lord for the Looney Tunes – Golden Collection, 411 minutes of classic Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Elmer Fudd and more. Because around here, Sunday isn’t the only day of rest.

Since my little soccer player suffered an eye injury during his game two weeks ago, he has missed seven days of school, including the last two days of the school year this week. He suffered from a hyphema, when blood pools in the front of the eye — and mom races him to the ER.

When he announced shortly after the game in which an opponent had kicked a ball directly into my son’s face that things were “getting blurry,” I held up my hand and asked him, “How many fingers?”

“Uh, two?” he asked like he was guessing an answer on Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader?

“Get in the car,” I ordered after a quick Google search, which confirmed what I had suspected: Time was of the essence.

Since then, he has had numerous drops and numerous visits to the pediatric ophthalmologist’s office, where, it seems, they own two movies: Madagascar  and Madagascar 2. (As a result, we no longer like to “move it, move it.”)

This week, when the pressure in his eye was still dangerously high, he got an ultimatum from the doctor: Stay home and do nothing but watch TV or end up having surgery.

As a result, we have watched about 40 of the 56 episodes of Looney Tunes and all four discs of classic Jetsons, twice.

We have also played umpteen games of his version of Pokemon, figuring it requires very little reading and almost no moving, except for the Rocks, Paper, Scissors part. As a result, I am beginning to understand Pokemon. I also understand that the game is rigged so I can’t win.

But at least I have Bugs Bunny.

On Friday, my son’s eye pressure was back to normal. He wouldn’t need surgery after all. Phew!

Still, his doctor said he would have to spend two more days doing nothing. Naturally, that’s when the sun, which hasn’t shone in about five weeks, came out. But we don’t care. We have Bugs and Pokemon and the whole summer ahead of us. Thank God.

For 20 minutes yesterday morning, I had a brain tumor.

It started when my right eye began getting blurry. I thought there was something wrong with my contact lens, so I switched to my glasses.

Still blurry.

So I decided to take a look at my eye in the mirror. That’s when I discovered that my right pupil was freakishly large. It was so dilated, in fact, it had all but crowded out the blue that surrounded it.

So I did what I’ll bet every other cancer survivor has done at one  point or another – I assumed the worst.

I quickly dialed my eye doctor, and explained the situation to the receptionist. She told me that I could come in at 12:30 when the doctor was expected to arrive. Then she asked me a very important question — a question I’d forgotten to ask myself:

“Are you using any drops?” she asked.

“No, but my son is….”

And then it hit me.

I’d somehow gotten some of the umpteen eye drops I’d been administering to my son, who’d been hit in the eye by a soccer ball 10 days earlier, into my eye. As a result, my right eye, like his left eye, was dilated.

I didn’t have a brain tumor. I’d simply forgotten to wash my hands after wiping eye drops off my son’s face.

I hung up the phone and flushed out my eye, which is all better today. And then I calmed down, quoting Arnold Schwarzenegger, Austrian accent and all, from Kindergarten Cop: “It’s not a tumor.”

Well, not anymore.

A fellow cancer survivor recently admitted that he suffers from the very same affliction that had caused me to panic yesterday morning. Through his scratchy voice, he said, “Oh, I get cancer twice a year or so now. Today, I have throat cancer.”

Actually, it was just a cold, and definitely “not a tumor.”

Fill it up and Oh! And gimme a Betty Boop doll.

What does it say about America that we sell SpongeBob pillows and Betty Boop dolls at our gas stations? Who pulls into the station, thinking I’m low on gas. And hey! I need a Dora the Explorer pillow! How convenient!

Somehow this must play into our current financial crisis. Sub-prime loans, derivatives and Hello Kitty dolls next to the Supreme Unleaded tank.

Here are 5 Summer Break Rules, according to Mom:

1. Do not treat the garage floor like a Sports Authority store during a 70% off sale.
2. Open your bedroom shades. This is not the Bat Cave or Lyndsay Lohan’s hotel room after a bender.
3. Regular showers are required — and, no, your five-yard Super Soaker fight doesn’t count.
4. Wet swimsuits do not go into the hamper. Or the carpet. Or the wood floor. Or the garage floor with the Super Soakers, three hockey sticks, a baseball helmet and Mom’s brand new tennis balls, which are likely covered in wet mulch.
5. All of your exposed skin requires sunscreen, not just your nose and your knees and whatever else you can reach quickly while running out the door.

The moms over at the Today Show asked: “What puts a smile on your face when celebrating your child’s end of year activities?” So, I answered them. http://allday.msnbc.msn.com/archive/2009/06/11/1962600.aspx

What puts a smile on my face at the end of the school year?

1. I can go back to washing darks and lights, instead of darks, lights and Oh-my-God-you-have-a-game-today!
2. I no longer have to recall 4th grade math.
3. I won’t be the 5th grade’s Forgotten Homework Faxing Service throughout the summer.
4. Knowing I won’t have to go on a treasure hunt for teacher’s requests for toilet paper rolls/empty shoeboxes/string/photos of my family that are more recent than Christmas 2004 for another 10 weeks.
5. I won’t trip over backpacks again until September. (Sandals, water guns and wet swimsuits, yes, but that’s okay for now.)

Big Haul

We spotted this toy dump truck strapped to a flat bed 18-wheeler. Somebody’s getting a treat from Daddy.

She was waxing poetic about Bionicles or something like it. I couldn’t see the title of the book she was reading (again) to her three-year-old in the pediatric ophthalmologist’s office yesterday morning, but I know it had “super strong creatures” and “lots of good guys” in it. Also, some sort of “transformer vehicle.”

She was my hero.

Nobody wanted to be in that waiting room. It was crowded and loud, filled with little kids playing with various toys, bigger kids trying to disappear into the chairs and grown-ups pretending not to watch Madagascar on the TV. (We couldn’t help but chuckle at “All hail the New York Giants,” betraying our feigned disinterest)

There were too many patients for just one doctor, and not enough distractions for the three-year-old with the Bionicle book. But his mom kept on trying.

“How about this book?” she offered cheerily. Her son nodded, and she began to read a book with no plot, just lists of fire engine equipment.

“Fire hose. Hatchet. Look at the fire chief’s car!” she delivered like a QVC saleswoman. Her son cooed. My 10-year-old kept on watching the movie, while I checked my e-mail.

“Don’t you want to read the book?” she asked as her three-year-old patient’s patience began to wear thin. He scooted off her lap and revved up a whine. She didn’t even flinch.

“I know…” she said. “Ten little monkeys jumping on a bed. One jumped up and bumped his head. Momma called the doctor and the doctor said…”

“No more monkeys jumping on the bed!” her son finished, his whine morphing into a smile.

“Nine little monkeys jumping on a bed,” she continued. And continued. And continued until there were no more monkeys jumping on the bed, and I started wondering where the nurses kept the pain relievers.

My son sighed and asked when his appointment would start. Just then, a nurse called his name. As we got up from our seats and left the waiting area, I heard:

“Ten little monkeys jumping on a bed…” as though it was the very first time she’d said it.

My hero.