Yep! We're done!

Ok, so if there were even the slightest molecule of doubt still lingering (like the smell of fish in the garbage can two days after you've consumed it for dinner) concerning my child-bearing possibilities, this morning certainly quenched it for me.

You see, I have this theory that the number of children I've given birth to unequivocally corresponds to the number of brain cells I have left. This whole "after-birth" thing is just code for brain matter. No one told me that I'd get exponentially 'stupider' after each kid. I'm not sure it would have changed my choices, but come on people! A little warning would not have hurt. Perhaps I could have braced myself.

I woke everyone this morning at 7:00. To fully grasp the painfulness of this feat, please remember that we are also on break from school. Anyway, I fed and changed the baby, (who comfortably remained in his cute little jammies), dressed the toddler, dragged the big kids out of bed saying, "Let's go, let's go, let's go! Get dressed, brush your hair, grab some breakfast, leaving at 7:30!" I threw on clothes and tried to recycle yesterday's hair because I didn't even have time to shower yet. Make-up, shmake-up. I've never been more thankful for relatively good skin. Grab some gloss and let's go. Everyone is dragged to the van, kicking and screaming (actually just the big kids who wished they were still sleeping), buckled in and away we went.

"Where are we going?" you ask. Well, we're off to the lab for a TB test. Don't worry; everyone's fine. It's just protocol before beginning a new med for my RA. So we go be-bopping (more like careening) into the parking lot and parked right in front of the door. I jump out, leaving everyone buckled in to go see how long it will be. There is no need to drag four sleepy kids (actually just two are sleepy) into a medical office if it is only going to take ten minutes. I know what you are thinking. Please don't go there. I would never, ever, leave the little ones alone in the van. "Rufus" who is now 12 is perfectly capable to take the helm for a few minutes every now and then. He was in charge of helping the toddler with his breakfast (dry cereal thrown into a snack bag and a sippy-cup of juice) and "Princess" kept an eye on the already fed baby just to keep him happy.

I had been told if I arrived at 8:00 when they opened, I would most likely be seen right away and that it would not take very long. So I enter the office, brandishing my order for the test and my insurance card in front of me like a maniac so they'll know that I, more than the other goons in the chairs, am in a hurry. Sign in, sit down, watch my van out the window, tap foot, try not to appear perturbed or insane. When my name is called, I quickly walk to the window and chatter,

"Good morning. Yesterday, the nice lady in the third window (whose chair is currently empty) scheduled my appointment for 9:30, but told me if I arrived first thing that I could be seen."

"Um, just a minute..." and then she taps furiously on her little keyboard, "Yes, I see. That is for Wednesday...tomorrow."

"Whuh?"

"If you want to come in early tomorrow, we'll be glad to do your test. (Apparently sensing my confusion, she points to the paper that the nice lady in the third window had given me yesterday that I never even looked at because all I heard was come in early, blah blah blah, which clearly says Wednesday!) Now, which doctor placed this order?"

"Oh, um, Dr, Quinet. Yeah, I'm sorry. I thought she said today. I can, um, maybe come back in the morning. Yeah, ok, have a good day."

I turn around to leave and can almost feel the drool hanging from my lip, and I try not to drag my leg behind me as I exit the building, and I am hoping I can find my van (which remember is practically on the sidewalk) and am suddenly concernced about remembering the way home. Yep, that's how stupid I felt.

As I climbed back in the van, approximately six minutes later, "Rufus" said, "That didn't take long." Trying not to give myself away, I said, "Yeah, well, they want to do it tomorrow because the results have to be read in 48 hours, and what's 48 hours from now? --trying to sound excited-- "Oh, yeah, Thanksgiving," he replied and went back to reading his book after a long stare. I smile nervously. I think he's on to me.

So we head home. I didn't talk much, maybe because I was concentrating on remembering the way. Nah, I think I was rehashing the morning and how utterly ridiculous it all has been. The kids were all quiet, in their sleepy little stupors, when all of the sudden, I take a turn too close and whack my tire against the curb. Well, that woke 'em all up! "Rufus", in the passenger seat next to me, looks up slowly from his book with "that look" on his face as if to say, "Dang! Just let me drive, would you?" And the rest of them can't help chiming in. All I'm thinking, barely three minutes from home is, "Good Lord in Heaven, please just get us home, and I promise not to leave the house again...well, except for haircuts at 12:30, but other than that, I promise, and please, oh, please, don't let me have burst a tire."

Well, obviously, we made it home because I'm sharing my stupid story with you. And so far, so good on the tire situation. Self-reflection can be a real kill-joy, but in the midst of it all, and through tears from laughter, I think this morning can actually be a learning experience.

Oh, who am I kidding? What I learned today is that yep, we're done. I cannot spare anymore brain cells. And, please don't get me wrong. I am by no means saying that parents of large families are somehow deficient in the mental arena. I know plenty of them who are quite functional and bright. I am saying, that in my case, my theory is proving more and more true and on a daily basis, and that I am becoming what my son calls a motard. That's ok. I am just glad we figured out the correlation before it was entirely too late, and that I have not yet been reduced to periods of drooling and/or the "sit and stare." I can, however, sometimes be found rocking...sometimes in the chair, and sometimes with the baby...and sometimes all by myself. That's ok, right?

Migraine Mama and the Monday Meltdown

I love my kids. And I would die for them. And it's a good darn thing because they are killing me. Slowly. Yesterday, parenting felt like being pecked to death by a horde of broke-beak chickens. (Sorry. I'm practicing for when we move to Possum Hollow Lane.) It was like being stabbed to death with a butter knife. Yes, that's how it felt yesterday.

I woke up not feeling so great. It happens. But since moms can't call in sick, usually you just try to do what you can to make yourself feel better and then get on with your day. Or on the rare occasion when your husband is home, you milk it for all it's worth by telling him it's something mysterious and "female" (which guarantees you'll be left alone for fear you'll explain in great detail what is ailing you). Or you tell him that you feel all "woozy" and that if you have to stand up, you are certain that you'll experience an episode of vertigo or syncope that will cause you to fall and hit your head and then he'll have to watch the kids for 3 days instead of just today. If he buys it, you've done your job. If he is still skeptical, perhaps it will at least buy you some time on the couch where you can parent from the supervisory position, instead of the usual hands-on one. Anyway, I knew it was going to be a tough day, and no, Jay was not at home.

I just didn't feel right. We tried to go ahead with our usual "stuff," but as the day progressed, I regressed. Then I realized why. I was getting a migraine. And it just happened to be on a day when no one could seem to get along, that breathing the same air caused weeping and wailing, and the mere suggestion of doing chores and picking up toys caused unbelievable hissy fits and rivers of tears. (I hate it when the kids boss me around.)

I used to hear people complain about having a headache, and I'd think to myself, take a Tylenol and be quiet already. Then sometime in my early twenties, I experienced my first migraine. Clearly neither Merriam nor Webster who defined migraine as an intense, periodic headache, usually limited to one side of the head, have ever actually had one themselves. They didn't even mention the nausea, blurred vision, sensitivity to light, absolute desperation to find quiet, and the propensity to think and/or say irrational things. Nope, I don't think they've ever had one. You factor in four kids, and things can get interesting.

You see, ideally, when one of these headaches from Hades hits, you pop whatever medication you normally take, lie down in a dark, quiet room and just sleep that baby off. And while mixing a cocktail of Benadryl and Nyquil certainly crossed my mind yesterday...on more than one occasion, so did hitting myself in the head with a hammer and lying down with my head underneath the garage door while the kids took turns opening and closing it, that way maybe they could just knock me out and be entertained at the same time. As tempting as these options were at times, I declined. Thankfully, two of the four kids are self-sufficient and also very helpful with the younger ones.

By the time dinner rolled around, I was seriously doubting my capabilities, and it occurred to me that perhaps I should have kept those squishy little orange ear plugs from my MRI. Not just for the noise reduction of the jackhammer in my head or to silence my offspring, but because I became convinced that this searing pain in my cranium must surely be melting my brain and that those plugs could quite possibly hold my now liquefied brains in place until I reach medical help...they'll know what to do; I also was careful not to blow my nose for fear of losing gray matter. I am so thankful I taught Ryan to cook grilled cheese sandwiches, which he does quite capably. It came in handy. About the time the kids sat down to eat their dinner, I told Ryan and Emily, "If I pass out, check for breathing and a pulse. If you find that I am breathing and my heart is beating, just put a pillow under my head, cover me up and call Daddy at his meeting. Everything will be fine." Then I felt the need to reiterate, put the pillow UNDER my head, because unfortunately my eldest son has inherited my husband's sense of humor. I did not want to be inadvertantly smothered just because I suffered from a terrible headache.

Well, somehow we made it through our day. No one got hurt, everyone got fed, some were even bathed, baby napped, toddler played, big kids schooled, and Mama 'hanged on' like a possum in a tree...for dear life and seemingly upside down for most of the day. I finally made it to that dark room sans the Benadryl or Nyquil and just slept. And just as I thought, today was a brand-new day, a chance to begin again. God is good like that. "Morning by morning new mercies I see..."

While cleaning up the breakfast dishes, I noticed the hammer on the kitchen counter. Maybe I was more irrational than I realized...

Redneck MRI

Ok. So I go today for an MRI. I have submitted my insurance card for copying and completed my paperwork in a timely manner like the prepared, efficient patient and am waiting patiently in the waiting room for my name to be called. Then I hear it, "Bonnie?" Ugh! Oh well, I'm used to that. I don't make a fuss; I just get up and follow the nice young lady across the waiting room. Hey, wait, isn't the door that way? I continue to follow her...outside. Huh? Maybe it's in the building next door. I continue to follow her down the sidewalk, all the while thinking...this must be what little kids feel like. You're just told to follow along, not knowing exactly where you are going. But she didn't even hold my hand. We continue down the sidewalk, passing many available doors to the inside. We're running out of sidewalk. I obediently continue to follow this woman whom I am beginning to think might be lost. Then we finally reach the end of the sidewalk, and there it is. A trailer! No, I'm not kidding. It was a building on wheels. A mobile medical something or other. Was I surprised? Yeah, a little.

Anyway, I enter the trailer and look around to familiarize myself with this medical mystery...on wheels. Did I mention that? Anyway, there are a couple of cabinets, a desktop with two computer screens, two desk chairs, and to the left a rather large, thick door behind which resides "the tunnel." "Please remove all metal," spoken by the technician, snaps me back into the moment. "You can put your things in the cabinet behind the curtain," she said rather flatly. Ok, I think to myself. I can do that. Off come the wedding rings, out come the keys, stripped are the unmentionables with the underwire. Hmmm, I think that should do it. Then, I peek out from behind the curtain to politely inquire about my denim shorts with the metal button. "Oh. There's a gown in the cabinet; you should probably put that on," was the technician's reply. YA THINK?! What if she had let me enter the tunnel of doom with a metal button? Sheesh. I don't want to think about it. But I digress. As I am removing the last piece of "shrapnel" from my person, I am suddenly profoundly thankful that I only pierced my ears during what we'll call my "Stupid Years." And that I have yet to require a metal plate in my head. Anyway, once all "gowned up" and somewhat apprehensive about what is coming up next, I peel the curtain back and re-enter the "office portion" of the treatment trailer. (Only one step away, mind you. I think it's a single wide.) The nice lady dressed in the scrubs escorts me into the "tunnel" room. There it is...big and round and white and a little ominous looking. I guess I brought a little apprehension to keep me company, as a friend of mine who has also had an MRI lately was given Valium. We won't get into how that is SO not fair.

I am then told to lie down on what looks like a narrow table, and apparently it is somewhat similar to the belt at the grocery store counter...they are in control of the movement. You, like the loaf of bread and sack of potatoes, are simply along for the ride. So I lie down. "Scoot up, please," she requested, "A little more...good." She hands me two orange ear plugs, and says, "Here, you may want these." Then she proceeds to hand me this squishy thing-a-ma-jig that resembles the squeeze end of a blood pressure cuff. She informs me that during the procedure, I can squeeze it if I need her. Why would I need her? I wonder to myself. Then she shines a laser to "line me up" and sends me head-first into the "tunnel." I begin with my eyes closed so that I cannot immediately see how closed in I am, but it's kinda like Christmas...you can't help but peek. But with just one eye. Ok, there's a little head room. And a nice little breeze in the "tunnel." This is not so bad. Then I hear a voice, that with the ear plugs inserted, sounds tiny and far, far away, "Ok, Mrs. Victory, here we go. Be very still, please." Be still. Who's she kidding? There's not a lot of wiggle room. I begin to wonder, what happens if your nose itches or you get a cramp or you have to sneeze? Will it shoot you out of the "tunnel"? Ok, concentrate; be still.

Then it begins...the most obnoxious decibel-shattering, ear-splitting, migraine-inducing sort of noise you can imagine. I don't think I put the ear plugs in deep enough. I have little ears, which proportionately has nothing to do with my actual hearing. I have good hearing. Or I used to. Apparently I just didn't squish the plugs small enough to fit properly. Oh my gosh. Just when you think your last nerve has been jiggled loose by the crescendo of the jack-hammering, bad techno pop, and the off-the-hook phone, the noise stops. Momentarily. The most annoying sound is the "ANH ANH ANH" that sounds like you left your phone off the hook, and it is SO LOUD that someone three towns away steps out onto the porch and bellows, "Hey Motard!!! Hang up your phone!!!" I quickly consider my options: I can scoot out of here like a little inchworm and then I am seriously considering squeezing the squishy thingy in my hand, but I don't. I am somewhat curious as to what would happen. Will it set off some alarm that will signal her that I've had enough? Will she roll me out on the conveyor belt and give me a hug? Or will she, in that tiny, far away voice tell me, "Please suck it up, Mrs. Victory; we're almost finished." None of my options seem appealing. So I say it to myself, "Suck it up, Bronie; it'll be over soon and you can go home to your family. You will never be able to hear what they are saying again, but perhaps we can all learn sign language. And Jay will have to get up with the baby and answer the phone because you won't be able to hear them, and the doorbell..."

Sigh. I made it. I got to experience the head-first version, and then the feet-first scenario. Who knows? Maybe I won't have to do this again. But I can add it to my list of things I've experienced and be able to intelligently discuss it with someone who might be facing a "tunnel" of their own.

As I exited the mobile medical something or other, I thanked the nice lady. Her lips moved, but I couldn't hear her. I came home to my family, and wouldn't you know it, my hearing returned almost immediately. "Mom, can you get me a drink?" "Honey, is there any sweet tea?" "WAAAHHH! I don't neena nap!" "Why can't I have more computer time?" "Coo, pbbbssstttthhhh, ackh!"

Yep, I can hear, and sometimes it's noisy like a jack-hammer, a little annoying like the "anh anh anh" of the phone, but mostly it's beautiful and precious, and it's good to be home.