While I'm here, can you up my meds?

So, I go to the doctor pretty frequently of late. Once every couple of weeks, I pop by to let the good doc measure my growing belly and weigh me. My most recent appointment was yesterday afternoon. The day after Christmas. Everyone I knew was working, and Dillon's daycare is closed until after the first of the year, so I didn't have much choice but to take him.

No biggie. Clothes on, nothing takes more than 10, 15 minutes tops.

We arrived at the doctor, checked in, and I pushed through the door to go down the hall. The first thing they want during any o.b. visit is your pee. Dillon came with me.

I have a routine for this hated sampling. I get my cup, write my name on it, do my business as quickly as possible, balance the cup on the sink ledge while I re-dress, put the cup in the slammy door, flush, then wash and dry my hands. I am pretty proficient at this.

Throw a two-year-old in the mix, and I become a bumbling idiot.

"Dillon! Sit right here! No, HERE. That is mommy's cup. No, you can't have one. No! Sit down. Wait just a minute, k? Let mommy go potty. Yeah, I have to go potty. Like a big girl. Do you potty like a big boy?"

Every opportunity is used to reference The Big Boy Potty so he will warm up to it a bit. It didn't happen. As soon as I mentioned that, he was up and out the door before I could halt the stream. Dang those lever door handles!!!

I don't know how I did this - it must have involved some joint dislocation - but I stretched my arm out like Gumby and drug him back in the bathroom by his tee-shirt collar. Nice.

I slammed and relocked the door, placed him firmly on the floor, and waddled back to the toilet, pants around my knees to finish my business. Quickly.

We finished up there, and were led directly into a room by the nurse, who must have read the panic on my face. Or else she saw me half-naked before she was supposed to, and it scared her.

I plopped up on the table, and we listened to the heartbeat. "Good and strong. 153," she said, handing me a giant pink napkin dress.

"What is this for?" I said. "We aren't having THAT kind of visit!" as if I make the schedule.

"Um, yeah ya are. If it weren't a c-section we could put it off a week, but we have to make sure you aren't dilated. Have you had any pressure? Contractions?"

Well, except for the couple of times she tried to claw her way out of my womb...

"Yeah, I have."

"Okay!" she said brightly. "Just the bottoms then. We will be quick, and Dillon won't see a thing."

Not worried about that. Dillon used to live there, so I am not too shy about that, but what do I do with him while I am laying helpless and half-naked on the table? He is pretty well-behaved, but I like to at least have the option of intervening!

Dillon happily rolled his "zoozoo twain" along the striped wallpaper in the corner. I stripped real quick-like and hopped back up on the table with my napkin.

"Hahaha! Mama hiney!"

"Sit down and play with your train, okay?"

"Okay."

Thankfully, doc was quick to come in and get down to business. I lay there and watched Dillon out of the corner of my eye. And I saw my pink panties. CRAP! Dillon, reading my mind, saw them too, and headed for the bench where my clothes were piled haphazardly.

I blurted, "Um, I am terrified that my son is going to put my panties on his head, so will you please throw my jacket over whatever is pink in that corner!" Doc stepped over to do as I bid, when I said, "NOT YOU! The nurse. I don't want YOU to see my panties!!!"

Let's not talk about how this is a moot point.

Dillon had perked up at the commotion and redirected to the side of the exam table. He noticed that I was laying down. "Mama go ni-ni?"

"Yeah, I am just going to rest here for a minute. Where is your train?"

"Wite heah!" he paused, considering his toy, then remembered what was happening. "Mama no go ni-ni! WAKE UP! Mama! WAKE UP!!!" at the top of his little lungs. He patted/slapped me with his little hands, panicking. "Mama no go ni-ni! WAKE UP! WAKE UP!!!"

Thankfully, doc was done. He tried chatting for a minute, till I shot him daggers and indicated that I was still half-naked and that Dillon was now dismantling his cabinetry. He slipped out, and I rounded the corner to get dressed.

Forgetting the lever handle on the exam room door.

"Mama! I weddy to GO!" Dillon trumpeted back at me as he galloped down the hall.

Sheesh. Me too.

Let's not forget

Cuz my sister has all day to find cool things on the internet

Merry Christmas!

He DOES listen!

This morning, I was trying to motivate my family to get dressed for church. I went back into Dillon's room and got his clothes ready. I called him:

"Dillon! Come here and get dressed for church so you can have a vitamin!" (Not bribery, positive reinforcement! If you don't agree with that method, please feel free to email me at idontcare@yahoo.com.)

"He I come!" he said, running down the hallway.

He ran past me (I think he knows how immobile my belly makes me) and climbed up on his bed.

"Dillon James. Get off that bed and come down here now. It is time to get dressed."

He peeked at me between the slats of his bunk bed. I could see the question in his eyes: How serious is she?

I paused a second, then said, "Dillon. I am going to count and you are going to be down here with me or you will get a spanking!" (If you are uncomfortable with the fact that I spank my son, then substitute the words "time out" and please refrain from commenting about my chosen method of discipline. I have no energy to host a debate.)

Still peeking.

"Five. Four. Three..."

"Mama!" he shouted, wide eyes looking at me from the bottom bunk. "I get my hiney down der WITE NOW!"

Huh. Okay, then.

If you are what you eat, he's in trouble

Disclaimer: Don't read this if you haven't yet eaten dinner. Or maybe not even if you have. Okay, maybe don't read it at all.

My throat hurts. It is raw. Lemmetellyouwhy.

Dillon hasn't eaten much in the past couple of days. He has an ear infection, which makes him cough and makes his throat hurt. Today, I got some yogurt and half of a banana down him. I guess it surprised his digestive system and kicked it into gear, cause almost immediately, he said, "Mama! I poo-poo!!!"

It was almost bathtime so I stripped him, cleaned him up and started running his bath water. He was playing (nekkid) on the bathroom floor when I noticed "The Look" come over his little face.

(FYI: "The Look" is one of intense concentration and oxygen deprivation that comes with attempting to move the bowels.)

Needless to say, he stood up, pleased as punch, and pointed to a freshly laid deposit on my bathroom floor. "Mama! I poo-poo 'gin!"

GREAT.

The next part happened in slow motion. I turned to grab some toilet paper and Clorox wipes from the cabinet. In that two seconds, in sauntered Tux. Nosy about the ruckus, I suppose.

What did he find, but a tasty morsel on the floor, just for him.

(This is where the sore throat part comes in.)

My reaction was primal. I opened my mouth and a deranged scream scraped out, louder and scarier than any other scream I have ever made:

"Get-out-of-here-and-if-you-eat-that-poop-then-so-help-me-I-will-KILL-YOU!!!"

Undeterred, Tux scooped up his treat and headed for safety as I ran screeching through the house:

"Get-outside-and-don't-you-for-one-minute-think-you-are-ever-coming-back-inside-EVER-AGAIN!!!"

I slammed the door behind him and pulled the blinds. I closed the curtains on the big window so he couldn't see inside. As for me, the gross-out shivers started in waves.

When I got back to the bathroom to clean up the floor and check on Dillon, he was standing naked by the tub, eyes wide and mumbling in a traumatized voice, "I poo-poo, Mama. I poo-poo."

I bet he won't do that again for another week. And by then, maybe I'll have let Tux back in.

It's better to give

I love Secret Santa!

The way ours works at school is that we draw a name and then for the entire month of December (till we get out for break) we all give and receive small gifts every other day or so. Small things. Like a candy cane. Or a package of hot cocoa. Then, on the last day, we give a "big" gift that costs at least $10. That way no one feels gypped. (I never actually knew how to spell that, but that is the only spelling that didn't underline, so I hope it is right!)

So, we started last Monday. I checked my box about six times that day to see what I had gotten. Hmmm... they were playing hard to get. Nothing on Monday. My hopes were high on Tuesday as well. Repeat performance by my Secret Santa.

Actually, that continued throughout the whole week. Friday, I found the coordinator to see if someone had actually drawn my name. She assured me that someone had, and that they were working on a gift for me and had told her that it was going to be this week before I got it.

So, I coasted through the weekend. Other people were wearing their new jingle bell socks and rubbing sparkly hand sanitizer on their hands, but I was just trying to be patient.

This morning, I was sure I would get something. Anything. A post-it note? A chewed piece of gum? At this point, I didn't care. I just wanted something from my Secret Santa.

Well, again, it didn't happen. I finished my day empty-handed, and more than a little annoyed.

But then, guess what??? It got worse.

This guy named Lazy (okay, not his real name) stopped me on my way to my car.

L: "I am so glad I saw you. I gotta tell you something: I'm your Secret Santa, and I am no good at this gift thing!"

(Now, there's a headline for ya.)

L: "I don't know what to get you, so I am just going to give you one gift certificate to Chili's. Okay?"

Me: "Um, sure."

L: "Oh good, cause I have been worried. I just can't do all this small gift stuff. Also, I am just a sub, so I probably won't be here for the final gift exchange."

Wow. Now, HE is a catch. I got the best Secret Santa EVER! Not only is he uncomfortable participating in the first place, but he can't finish the gift exchange out at all! Meanwhile, he has got some kindhearted Secret Santa of his own who has steadily passed him Kit-Kats and sodas while he "worked" on my gift card.

So, BAH. Bah on Secret Santa, who is no longer a Secret and is hardly a Santa. Santa doesn't decide it is all too much of a hassle, and just throw money at the problem. He shops. (Yep. That is right. He is a man, and he shops.)

Tonight, I am going to wrap up the cute little ornament I got for my own recipient. I bet she will love it! And then, for good measure, I will also wrap up a huge Symphony bar and a coke to put in my own box.

Cause I love Secret Santa, remember? Even if I have to be my own.