Our Neighborhood Urgent Care Specializes in Childhood Woo-Woo Problems.

And so, after we'd played happily all night at the park adjacent to the baseball diamond where Henry was having T-ball practice, we got home and out of nowhere, Anna started screaming about her lady bits. 'MY VULVA HURTS. IT BUUUUUURNS.'  My kids know proper terminology because I just can't with the "front bottom" or whatever people tell their kids to call their parts.

I did a cursory evaluation and saw no visible problems, and so plunked her in the bathtub, because that's the cure to everything, but it just made it worse. I then applied topical anti fungal cream (diaper rash stuff), because that's the cure to everything else, but that didn't help, either. I bribed her with a snack and gave her some Tylenol and assumed all would be fine, but it wasn't.

She couldn't sit for the pain. She couldn't walk for the pain. She wasn't being dramatic and irate about it, as she is with most things that bother her, she was being pitiful about it. That worried me.

I racked my brain for what might be happening. I asked her multiple times, in multiple ways, if she had put something in her vagina (and if she had been hurt or touched, etc- thank God, no). I didn't love the idea of introducing her to the fact that she has a tiny pocket inside her in which she might put things she doesn't want us to find, but her confusion that there was "an inside" seemed authentic. I counted Barbie shoes anyway. We weren't missing any. Henry, helpfully, suggested it might be a wood chip from the playground, or a pineapple. I think he meant pinecone. We'll never know.

I wondered if she'd been exposed to something like poison ivy when I helped her squat in the bushes to pee outside the park (BECAUSE THERE ARE NO PUBLIC TOILETS AT T-BALL FOR 5 YEAR-OLDS) and if I had just caused my baby girl child's nethers to light on fire from a poisonous plant because I was too dumb to pay attention at the wilderness lecture at camp.

I waffled. I looked again, with a flashlight. I asked her to jump up and down to see if anything fell out. I'm a medical professional, after all.

She became more upset, and more specific that the pain was higher up, like bladder region. Her exam didn't act like appendicitis, but I thought maybe it was a urinary tract infection. It seemed like a really severe, sudden onset, with no preceding symptoms, but I don't do pediatrics. I imagine that tiny girl children's bodies work a little bit differently than adult women's bodies.

So, I took her to the urgent care. When we got there, there were, maybe half a dozen other people in the waiting room...so there was a decent crowd to hear Henry proudly announce to the receptionist, MY SISTER'S VAGINA HURTS HER BAD. A few minutes later, Anna was curled up in my lap, picking her nose, as one does in one's mother's arms, and I asked her about her bogie (Harry Potter talk for 'booger') hunting and Henry was mortified that I used that word out loud. If he only knew how people freak the fuck out over the world 'vagina.' I guess he'll learn. But, really, would it have been any less awkward if he had marched up to the desk shouting that his sister's "meow meow" or "tootsie" was hurting her? I think not.

Testing isn't complete, but it's looking like a UTI, and we'll hit it with some antibiotics. Hopefully she reacts quickly and feels 1,000x better tomorrow, because it was pretty miserable. This is the first of its kind, and I'm again feeling blessed for how healthy the kids are, and have been. Henry reminded me, in a loud whisper, so the nice PA could definitely, totally, not hear him, because geez, how embarrassing, that the last time we were there it was because he had what we thought might be a spider bite on his scrotum.

There, now this blog post contains embarrassing details about both my children's underwear areas, so they can both equally resent me.

I Don't Want to Be Your Mom, Dude/Good, I Don't Want You to Be My Mom,But You Could Be My Mamacita/ Too Soon.

The other day I was being a fancy lady and getting my nails done before vacation. The manicurist was several flavors of bonkers, which I usually love in a person, but she kind of lost me during a really long, drawn out story about her dog's false pregnancy. Anyway. Robb came to pick up a kid from me and the manicurist said something about what an involved dad he is and how I'm so lucky he helps.

It took 3 days and all the acetone she had to get the gel nail polish off my forehead when my head hit her nail table over and over and over.

Stop telling me I should be falling all over myself for a husband who does half the work. That's how it is supposed to fucking work. You have no idea how many people (mostly older women) have told me he's a miracle for doing laundry, cooking, managing the kids.

Screw them all. He's a good person, spouse and parent. I am fortunate to have him, but because he's him, not because he does the work that needs to be done. And instead of doing this life with his family, he's expected to be doing...what? Drinking with buddies, playing video games, sport balling, hunting, other recreational non-essential life things?

If me, the woman, the mom, didn't automagically do housework and childcare work and management of our social calendar and budget and all the other things, I'd be seen as inadequate, and depending how uninvolved I was in it, possibly negligent or even mentally unbalanced.

It makes me rage-y.

So, we're over a year into Robb starting his small business and working part time. I'm still working full-time in my same job. The kids go to school/daycare full-time. One of the countless painful things we've had to dissect our way through this year is how we distribute home/child/budget responsibilities. What are each of our priorities and when is it reasonable to expect tasks to be completed? What are our ingrained expectations of which partner does what and why are we living by them?

Ugh. Horrible. It's so boring and unromantic, fighting about the dumb toilet. I mean, the toilet isn't especially dumb, it's a normal, mid-range model, I think. It does its duty well. (Duty). But the topic is a dumb one for a fight. I want to talk about juicy, big, interesting things with this person whose brain I chose above all the other brains, but here we are fighting about toilets and kitchen sponges.

I also don't want to be the one to always clean the toilet, so we have to fight it out. Really, though, if a sitcom wanted to ever portray a real couple fighting about the real things couples fight about, it would be the dumb toilet and the dumb dishes in the dumb sink.

There's been some looped 'stop bossing me around/stop making me boss you around' stuff, but it's getting better. We divvy up responsibilities way more equitably than we ever did, and it feels less to both of us like I'm delegating to him and more like we both get it and are sharing the burdens, and are on the same side.

I like it. I had no idea how much I hated doing all the things that fell on my list until I stopped having to do them and had a partner I could trust to do them for us. Having a little extra time in one of our schedules has been beautiful, even though it means a lotta less money. And this transition have forced some much needed reflections and conversation.

So, when the crazy nail lady or the other old ladies I know crow about how helpful my husband is when he takes care of his own damn kids, like he's a dog who learned a trick, I'm going to tell them, Don Draper is dead, sorry to be the one to tell you. (If you miss Jon Hamm, just watch "30 Rock" on repeat, like I do at all times).

Real Life Events of Toddlers as Portrayed by Their Parents, Not to Scale: The Nap Time

We adults were hiding in our bedroom and bitching about the antics of the 3 year-old person,  planning our next phase of battle, when Robb started demonstrating what it's like putting her down for a nap.

This giant bearded man flopping around made me laugh so hard, I had to hide the bedside lube and film him to share it with all of you.

Please to enjoy. 

Happy Isn't It. Find a Different Goal.

I have this theory that happiness is a very bad goal for us.

Maybe we're here on the planet for however many decades we make it, to learn something and to survive it, but not to necessarily be happy. And, actually, that we've decided that happiness is the proof that we're properly personing, might be the cruelest obstacle we face.

It's really hard to live, no matter who you are, or how you live. Even if you have all the trappings of happiness- all the resources, success, and love in the world, it doesn't necessarily mean you'll be happy as often as you think you should be. And just because you don't have those things, it doesn't necessarily mean you won't be.

Look at the glimpse into wealthy celebrity lives that we get through entertainment news and their own personal social media accounts; there's a lot of unhappy. They're beautiful and wealthy and popular...and discontented. They don't feel not alone, just because they have all the shiny things of life. They're escaping into the things we all do- substances and shopping and self-obsession and relationships, etc.

Then there are those people who seem to lack all those things, even their very health, and seem, at least from the outside, very happy. I'm thinking of the cheerful person with the chemo baldness or the marathon runner with one leg, helping another runner cross the finish line.

I mean...WHAT? Have they unlocked a secret code? Is it struggle, sacrifice, living simply that buys happiness, if money and California sun can't do it?

Or is happiness elusive and fleeting and not a guarantee for anyone?

I'm thinking we drop the goal of happiness and seek other goals like personal growth, truth, and kindness. Maybe finding and maintaining perspective or working our way through our loneliness, and assisting others through theirs, is what we should aim for. Perhaps seeking more moments of human connection, finding safety and security in our own heads, living honestly and boldly, are more realistic and honorable goals than 'happiness.'

Also, it's very uncomfortable to be fighting with 9/10 of my emotions all the time. I'd estimate that "happy" is about one tenth of the feelings I have on a given day. I don't want to reject all the other emotions. It feels wrong, and it doesn't work. I want to better understand them, to express them, to evaluate and paint with them. They're all me, and they're all OK.

It may seem like a funny time for me to decry happiness since we just got back from Disney World, the Happiest Place on Earth.

Incidentally, I was very happy while I was there, but only because I was peaceful. From the last time I went, 2 years ago (#spoiled) to this time, I have found a more calm, safe place in myself, and this trip was infinitely more pleasurable as a result. Where last time, I had much anxiety over managing the kids and the grown-ups and making sure everyone was HAPPY the whole time, this time I just took care of my own little corner of it and let people have their own time. We went slower and if any of us, kids or adults, needed a moment to have a feeling that wasn't HAPPY, we let them have it. It was grand.

Consequently, in this peace, and not on a mad dash for happiness, I had better, more intimate conversations with my family members, and genuinely stress-free (maybe not that. Maybe stress-less) time with my kids.

It was magical.

So, I hope you have a...day and that life brings you all the...stuff.

;)

Why Would I kidnap THIS kid?! I Already Have One of Those.

when the orange county sheriff's officer asked me, "how's it going, sir?" i wasn't the least bit surprised. 

i had just dragged my shrieking daughter across all of EPCOT, while she begged for her mother. 

the shrieking began some ten minutes earlier when she realized that the trip back to the hotel did not include mommy. it started as crying and devolved into screaming, hitting, scratching, and flailing.

i wasn't stunned by the officer's arrival. in fact, i had been rehearsing in my head what the conversation might go like, and mercifully it didn't go as badly as i feared. (me: jail, anna: child protective services. IN FLORIDA.). 

i exhaled, with some frustration, and calmly explained that 'we' were way past 'our' 3 year-old limits and headed back to the hotel to get some sleep.

this all happened on the monorail platform, where moments before, i had walked up the ramp carrying this shrieking mini person. at the top of the ramp, when i went left to wait for the train, every single other living human being that wasn't being paid to be there went to the right. 

afterward, i stood on the monorail platform reflecting on my encounter with the orange county sheriff's officer. i was a little relieved that, while no one confronted me directly about what must have looked, at least a little bit, like an abduction attempt, someone definitely reported us to the authorities. strangers looking out for kids is good, right? 

but then we boarded the train, and as she calmed down i started contemplating the implications. what does it say about men and fathers that a man with a child and no woman in sight is obviously someone to report, or at least to suspect? 

if sarah were enduring our delightful girl shit monster shit monstering all over her, would anyone have thought anything else than, "that poor woman!"? and what does the data say? (hint: no one has ever been abducted from a disney park.)

and then she fell asleep, and i reveled in the bliss of a sleeping three year old, breathing steady and slow on my chest as we cruised through the sky together, alone. and all was forgiven. 

eventually she woke up — refreshed — and we played and had fun as if nothing else was possible.

we've had a magical trip, with just a little bit of magical shit monstering and just a little bit of magical police interrogation.