It's early Saturday morning. I'm sitting on my back patio in the cold, damp air, drinking gnarly coffee. I make it strong, anyway, but there was just a little bit extra in the bottom of the bag, so I dumped it in. . .maybe a bit too much, even for me. But at least I'm awake. The kids are inside, playing monkeys and monsters. I'm not quite sure what the rules are, but they're giggling wildly, so it must be fun--either that, or the game is just a cover for kitty corralling. Anyway, they're so high energy it makes me tired; fueled by youth and a breakfast of three kinds of cereal, dumped together in the same bowl, that, when mixed with milk, looks a lot like cat vomit. But they seem to find it delicious.
I don't usually have both of them on Saturday, but MixMan's daddy went out last night to celebrate his birthday, and Miss Diva's daddy had a Salsa dancing lesson last night. So yesterday we played hard, ran through the sprinkler, built, painted, and planted a window box, and stayed up late watching Toonsylvania. I checked this morning to see if the snails had eaten any of the new plants. Only two casualties, but this is becoming a serious problem. I don't like killing anything, and apparently news has spread in the neighborhood that my yard is a snail sanctuary, with tasty plants to boot.
This is war. Time for the heavy artillery. Beer. In shallow dishes. Snails love it, or so I hear. And yeah, they die, but at least they die drunk and happy. But I'm not behind this idea one hundred percent; I mean, it seems like a lot of work. I'll have to check itty bitty snail IDs, limit entry to snails at least 21 days old. Still, it's probably easier than my nightly snail chucking, when I toss snails into the grass and hope that at least some of them make their way to the neighbors' yards instead of back into mine. I dunno. I'll keep you posted.
Yesterday, MixMan's school had a first grade performance of music from around the world. I loved watching him sign the words, singing quietly with his sweet voice. Afterwards, one of the parents said to her kid, "Let's get a picture of you with the little deaf boy!"
WTF?!! I am so glad that MixMan didn't hear that. There are benefits, I suppose, to being deaf. On the way home, to channel my anger into something constructive, I turned up the stereo in the car, bass thumping so MixMan could feel it. We sang along to one of my favorite songs, the Black Eyed Peas' "My Style." It starts out with an a capella round "Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy," except I swear they're singing, "Lord have MRSA, Lord have MRSA." And why not? Everybody else does.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Friday, May 11, 2007
drama system entries
The poem in the previous posting seems particularly applicable this past week. Two kids, 10 and 16, were shot through their sliding glass door in the next cul-de-sac over from mine last week. This makes me feel angry, and helpless. And it doesn't matter, really, that it was the result of some ongoing family feud that most likely involved drugs. All that matters is that the work I've done on my garden, my home, my sanctuary pales in comparison with the need for safety for my children. I decided, of course, that I needed to move immediately, but then realized that anyplace I could afford would have the same problems, but at least here, I know my neighbors, and we take care of each other. So I dig in the dirt, plant flowers and seeds with a little prayer for peace.
I've had this feeling, lately, that I should be doing something productive for posterity. I mean, I've got the school and career thing under my belt, I think I've got a handle on parenting (although just when I'm congratulating myself on being a fabulous mom, Miss Diva shatters the illusion with a zinger like this: "Mommy, remember when you said I'd have to live outside until I was 8?" but before you get all up in arms and call DHS, I should mention that I would have provided her with food and water and blankets. Really.) Anyway, maybe I should buy a house (yeah, right, that's gonna happen anytime soon) or work on my paintings or publish a book. So I sit down to write the great american novel and what comes out is. . .nothing.
Well, not really nothing. I mean, I type, and words come out on the screen, but what it really is is moose puke. Or yak butter. Yum. So maybe the great american novel isn't my style, and I should stick with poetry that will never, ever see the light of day.
Anyway.
I just finished up the TNCC (Trauma Nursing Core Course) that I'm required to take for my ER job. It was great to be in class again, but I didn't even open the book, because the lecture and the subject material seemed mostly like the second term of paramedic school. I breezed through the practicals (airway, spinal immobilization, trauma patient assessment) and watched with some amusement as the ICU nurses struggled with some of the biggies: Cushings, Becks, IOs, the rehydration formula for burns. I have the greatest respect for ICU nurses- the amount of information they retain is enormous- but it was interesting to see the tables turned, however briefly.
I've been working mostly night shifts, lately- 1545-0415- which makes day care much cheaper and is easier for the dads' work schedule. Plus, some very interesting patients come in at o'dark hundred. The ones who come in retching and wailing with pain, the cries a doppler effect as they're led past the nurses' station, then abruptly stop on entrance to the room, but the loud retching mysteriously starts up again when the patient hears footsteps outside the doorway, kinda like Pavlov's dog salivating to the dinging of the bell. After initial treatment of IV, meds, and a warm blanket, the nurse and I sit and engage in some mild black humor. "aaaaaeeeeeeerrrrrrkkkk," I gag quietly, mimicking our loud and proud un-puker, and the nurse laughs. "Drama alert!! Drama alert!!" she whispers. Doc D glances at us. "Heartless, absolutely heartless! Where is your compassion, people?" But before you take him too seriously, remember the time one of the other doctors saw a carpenter ant and raaaaaaan down the hall in the other direction, and Doc D jumped up on one of the rolling stools, waved his arms, and squealed, "a bug! a bug!" before sedately resuming his dictation. Compassion, my tuckus. Fun as night shift is, I'm discovering that my preference lies with the day shift nurses and doctors. Just the other day, we were so busy, and I was running back and forth starting IVs and cleaning wounds (it was a good day for heart attacks and table saws, apparently) when a guy came in with a bloody towel wrapped around his thumb. This is rarely a good thing. He didn't speak much English, which made things even more difficult. How do you say "bone rongers" in Spanish? Because that's what the doctor called for when he saw the guy's thumb. Or what was left of it. And rongers look like they're for exactly what they're for. Bone crunching.
Watching is bad enough. The sound is worse. Snip, snip, snip. Clank when the bone hits the stainless steel bowl. Blech. The patient pales, but remains stoic. I clean him up after the stitching, gently wash his little thumb nub, then apply a liberal coating of bacitracin, adaptic, and enough tube gauze to give him a Looney Tunes mega-thumb.
After I'm finished, he sits and ponders everything but the thumb. The nurse is trying to arrange for a ride home for the guy, and when she finally gets ahold of the taxi company, she calls for the interpreter, who is nowhere to be found. So she gets the guy's attention, and gives him a big smile and a jaunty thumbs up.
Whoopsie.
I've had this feeling, lately, that I should be doing something productive for posterity. I mean, I've got the school and career thing under my belt, I think I've got a handle on parenting (although just when I'm congratulating myself on being a fabulous mom, Miss Diva shatters the illusion with a zinger like this: "Mommy, remember when you said I'd have to live outside until I was 8?" but before you get all up in arms and call DHS, I should mention that I would have provided her with food and water and blankets. Really.) Anyway, maybe I should buy a house (yeah, right, that's gonna happen anytime soon) or work on my paintings or publish a book. So I sit down to write the great american novel and what comes out is. . .nothing.
Well, not really nothing. I mean, I type, and words come out on the screen, but what it really is is moose puke. Or yak butter. Yum. So maybe the great american novel isn't my style, and I should stick with poetry that will never, ever see the light of day.
Anyway.
I just finished up the TNCC (Trauma Nursing Core Course) that I'm required to take for my ER job. It was great to be in class again, but I didn't even open the book, because the lecture and the subject material seemed mostly like the second term of paramedic school. I breezed through the practicals (airway, spinal immobilization, trauma patient assessment) and watched with some amusement as the ICU nurses struggled with some of the biggies: Cushings, Becks, IOs, the rehydration formula for burns. I have the greatest respect for ICU nurses- the amount of information they retain is enormous- but it was interesting to see the tables turned, however briefly.
I've been working mostly night shifts, lately- 1545-0415- which makes day care much cheaper and is easier for the dads' work schedule. Plus, some very interesting patients come in at o'dark hundred. The ones who come in retching and wailing with pain, the cries a doppler effect as they're led past the nurses' station, then abruptly stop on entrance to the room, but the loud retching mysteriously starts up again when the patient hears footsteps outside the doorway, kinda like Pavlov's dog salivating to the dinging of the bell. After initial treatment of IV, meds, and a warm blanket, the nurse and I sit and engage in some mild black humor. "aaaaaeeeeeeerrrrrrkkkk," I gag quietly, mimicking our loud and proud un-puker, and the nurse laughs. "Drama alert!! Drama alert!!" she whispers. Doc D glances at us. "Heartless, absolutely heartless! Where is your compassion, people?" But before you take him too seriously, remember the time one of the other doctors saw a carpenter ant and raaaaaaan down the hall in the other direction, and Doc D jumped up on one of the rolling stools, waved his arms, and squealed, "a bug! a bug!" before sedately resuming his dictation. Compassion, my tuckus. Fun as night shift is, I'm discovering that my preference lies with the day shift nurses and doctors. Just the other day, we were so busy, and I was running back and forth starting IVs and cleaning wounds (it was a good day for heart attacks and table saws, apparently) when a guy came in with a bloody towel wrapped around his thumb. This is rarely a good thing. He didn't speak much English, which made things even more difficult. How do you say "bone rongers" in Spanish? Because that's what the doctor called for when he saw the guy's thumb. Or what was left of it. And rongers look like they're for exactly what they're for. Bone crunching.
Watching is bad enough. The sound is worse. Snip, snip, snip. Clank when the bone hits the stainless steel bowl. Blech. The patient pales, but remains stoic. I clean him up after the stitching, gently wash his little thumb nub, then apply a liberal coating of bacitracin, adaptic, and enough tube gauze to give him a Looney Tunes mega-thumb.
After I'm finished, he sits and ponders everything but the thumb. The nurse is trying to arrange for a ride home for the guy, and when she finally gets ahold of the taxi company, she calls for the interpreter, who is nowhere to be found. So she gets the guy's attention, and gives him a big smile and a jaunty thumbs up.
Whoopsie.
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