Friday, June 29, 2012

The Appointment

With Greg home for the summer, he has turned into Mr. Mom.  I work 7-hour days, which for summer school is stinking long, plus I've been doing extra hours to prepare for the next school year, so make that 10-hour days...
Kindsay has been attending summer school, but hers goes for four hours a day...ONLY.  Not enough, that girl should be out and busy all day because the minute she gets home it's "STriP" and computer harassing till bed.  Except for yesterday, when she had an appointment.
I'm leaving at 7 and getting home at 6 at night, so you can imagine by the time I'm home my eyes are on fire.  Yesterday Kindsay had her "period pill" appt., which is birth control to all of us folks, and we have to annually see her NP to keep those rolling in...and in previous posts you've seen what damage can be done by NOT having those pills.  I had to leave work early since her appt was at 4:40, so I left in time to get home, scoop her up, and get her to that appt stat!  I walked in the door, weary and Greg walks up to help unload my arms and get Kindsay out the door.  I told him I would get on dinner the moment I got back and the nice guy, father of the child mind you, offered to take her to the appt.  I jumped on that like it was chocolate ice cream (it's hot)...I threw the insurance cards at him, gave him instructions on what he needed to say to the NP, and tossed Kindsay the car keys to get her to leave and shut the door behind them. 
Poor Greg.  He's just not fully prepared for some of this stuff like I am.  I do all the appts, I know all the numbers, info, stats, history, you name it.  Greg is calling me for this and that and what not...the appt was down the street so thankfully he found it alright.  The biggest problem?  Kindsay hadn't taken her pills that day.  We've been very diligent about those with her being in school, but she missed them that day and the evidence was ubiquitous.  Here's Greg's account of what went on at the big OB/GYN appt of the year:
First of all, I'm the only guy in the entire building.  It's closing time and it's all women exept me and I'm with my daughter of all people.  We go in the room and Kindsay, being unmedicated, cannot sit still.  Touching this, that, here, there...sit down Kindsay, don't touch that, put that down--that's not having a 2-yr-old in an antique store.  I'm a nervous wreck with a room full of med supplies that she would love to experiment with on the dog.  She goes to the hand sanitizer and loads up...pump after pump...Kindsay--that's enough--stop!  Finally she pumped so much she was spreading it up her arms.  The stuff was a sticky, definitely gooey, and not absorbing into her skin. It's that time that we here the tapping alert on the door that the NP was ready to see us.  Kindsay leapt to attention and sat on the bench with her hands rigidly behind her back, clearly aware of potential trouble and misbehaving she's done.  The NP came in and greeted Kindsay, extending her hand to shake it...I tried to stop her--no..I wouldn't if I were...too late.  The sticky gooeyness was all over the NP before I could stop it.  She tried to remain pleasant with the santizer working it's magic clear through next week.  Kindsay just fidgeted..giggling on occasion out of madness that was consuming her that late in the day without meds.  Moving on..."So, have you had any periods?"  she asks Kindsay.  I wish we could just pull the woman aside and fill her in--please address us because you aren't going to get straight answers from her--instead of this proper dr/patient relationship that isn't really appropriate for Kindsay's understanding.  She addresses everything to Kindsay.  Kindsay says, "Sunday, I had one Sunday."  The NP looks over at me as if to confirm..."Any symptoms you've noticed?"  I have no idea what symptoms she's even asking about...I could just shake my head and couple it with a look of complete ignorance on the whole matter.  "Sunday?" the NP repeats..."as in last Sunday?"  No, Kindsay says, A long time ago...a long time ago on Sunday, not last Sunday.  Ahh, okay, so the pills are doing the job as we'd hoped.  "Any boyfriends?"  For some reason, I can't get this NP to understand that Kindsay is NOT on the pills to protect her with all her sexual activity because there is NO sexual activity, and yet she asks such a question which of course Kindsay responds with enthusiastic affirmation.  "Is this something we need to worry about?" the NP addresses me now after she asks the bombing question.  I recall how just that day Kindsay had an imaginative conversation with her imaginary boyfriend, Bryan, who she wants to name the backyard rat after (another story for another time), and I shake my head, trying to keep from destroying Kindsay's dream of this boyfriend of hers while conveying that indeed there is no need to worry.  Just give me the pills, Lady, and we can be done with this nightmare of awkward discussion of sex, boyfriends, periods, pills, and all to do with my daughter who is always on "spring break at Daytona Beach" because we have to see in her underwear all the time because heaven forbid she wear clothing around her family.
All was said and done and Kindsay got her pills.  Greg came home with her, probably some respect for what I have to do every time I take her to any appt., and yet that night when I lie in bed exhausted and needing to sleep he reminded me how he helped by taking her to the appt.  "You helped by taking YOUR daughter to an appt that you've never had to do before?" Okay, I admit, a father attending that kind of appt is unusual and he gets kudos for offering.  Maybe next time he'll offer instead to make dinner while I go to the appt...I'd actually prefer that.  I think microwave hotdogs are okay on occasion.  I have a whole year to look forward to that.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Another Text-a-Thon

Kindsay uses my phone to call her friend, Haylee, and text some of her old friends.  Fine...I've gone over with her how to text (text once and if they do not respond, no more), how to call people (only call once and leave a message, do not call repeatedly if there's no answer), and how to answer calls while on the phone (which she neglected to do the other day and caused serious headaches for us.)  Every once in a while I have to take the phone away to punish her for abusing the privilege or for racking up costs because she dialed *411 over and over and over (grrrrr...$2 per call!)...but she's gotten real sneaky.  She figured out that to avoid getting busted for abusing the texting, she deletes her texts, then the only way I know about anything is if there is a return text.  As soon as she texts...delete.  How did I find this out?  The charming text  received the other morning which had to do with
"Really??  170 texts in 5 minutes?"  Something about me oughta bein' ashamed of myself for such behavior...I need my mouth washed out with soap for using such language...does my mother know I talk like that?  Her 8-yr-old has better manners and common sense...and THIS is why kids shouldn't have cell phones.  Also, since there is record of the literal 170 texts in 5 minutes, the police could very well be involved if there is another contact.
Oh crap.
And of course, her texts are erased from my phone, but someone out there thinks I, Yvette, am out of my mind.  So I text the person back apologizing for my daughter's behavior...and by the way, what kind of language are we talking about? 
I get a text back soon after...someone from Oklahoma thanking me for apologizing.  The language? was all erased, but it was pretty bad.  And wouldn't you know the woman's child was in the ER all night so she couldn't turn off her phone...she was forced to endure Kindsay's wrath.  Over what?  Now the puzzle pieces are fitting into place and creating the picture I am reluctant to look at. 
"I make and sell dolls and your daughter was mad that I wouldn't give her one for free." 
OK--How many times have I gone over this with her...a million---and one. 
"I pay $100 for the material and sell them for $200."
a two hundred dollar doll....?????
OK...again, sorry about that. Won't happen again--and "whew" that Kindsay didn't swipe my credit card and doesn't know my Paypal account info...I'd probably own this stinking doll.
I get another text..."If you'd like I can give you a discount and sell you one for $150...I wish I could just give her one but I can't."
At that point I imagined the all the dolls that now line up in a row on Kindsay's floor, each birthday and Christmas when she gets a new one, how it goes through the same process of Kindsay love--stripped, Vasolined up the rear, diapered, and fed when it doesn't have a hole for food.  They get strapped into car seats, strollers, into the back seat of my many times have I jumped after glancing in my rear view and seeing Chucky eyes staring at me?  They sit on her floor, loved but unloved, staring into space wondering "how" "why"....they look like something out of Sid's bedroom in Toy I going to pay $150 for something to go through that?
No thanks, I text her, she treats them like real babies so she isn't interested in a doll on a shelf. 
Will she ever want a doll that sits on the shelf, having never been hazed like her Walmart collection of cheapies?  At this point, it doesn't matter...the moment I approached Kindsay about her behavior she dropped her head in shame, knowing that she crossed the line.  What on earth kind of words were you using?  What did you say to this lady?  "I called her a fat pig."  OK...there had to be other choice words, but I didn't want to hear them...fat pig was rude enough.  I would've washed her mouth out, but seeing as how she can probably throw me down, I left her with a severe scolding. She might've spent an evening offending a complete stranger across the country, but all the dolls across the world are in unison sighing relief that one was spared...this time.