Put on a happy face.

Relax. Deep breath in through the nose….hold….and exhale slowly through your mouth.

I told myself I would not make this an angry blog, all grimacing, tight-lipped, and drawn pointy eyebrows. I normally write in the morning with Gab entertaining herself while leprechauns swing from rainbows in the backyard. However, today you get dee/OTC after a bad hit from the crackpipe. When do children start clarifying matters themselves with their teachers? Will there ever come a day when I no longer have to drag my butt up to Gav’s school and/or send a maniacal Mommy email to a teacher?

“Hi Ms. Teacher-Teacher,
I have no idea what I’m talking about because my son has no idea what he’s talking
about. But, I believe something is awry in the State of Middle School. Help us please
with whatever needs helping. Thanks.
Regards,
Mother of Gav
P.S. I’m not crazy. Thanks.”

[Seriously, when I write to his teachers I always feel the need to insert the "Please don't think I'm crazy" bit. I think that in itself makes me crazy.]

Also, if you’ve been at the doctor’s office for three hours having blood periodically drawn from your tired, queasy body, what do you think one of the first things out of your mate’s mouth should be when you phone that person? If you guessed anything related to the doctor’s visit, you’ve just been GONGED off the stage, my friend. That realization didn’t dawn on said mate until late in the afternoon. “Oh, yeh, how did your doctor’s visit go?” Too late, mister. He’s been GONGED off the stage, also. Enjoy yourselves back in the green room.

Here I am with punctured fingers aplenty. I had my 3 hour long gestational diabetes test today. Why, thank you for thinking of me and inquiring as to my delicate state. You are too sweet, you.

I am much relieved to say I do not have gestational diabetes. Although, E. will be somewhat disappointed. (Huh? You ask.) You see, he is mad jealous of my superior immune system. He would often joke, when we first started dating, that I was a mutant. So, I took the mutant bit and ran with it. As the years have rolled on, when he’s coughing up the entire Gulf of Mexico and I spend a day or two with a slightly runny nose, he’ll enviously pry, “Why are you not sick like I am?” “Well, I’m a mutant, remember?” He hates hearing this and now accuses me of being a megalomaniac. (umm, the mutant bit was yours, buddy, which I stole from you…see, still reeling…breath deeply and exhale slowly)

Don’t get me wrong. I do catch viruses which land me face down on the bathroom floor
hoping/begging for a brief reprieve from either or both ends. I, also, fall victim to the many cold bugs Gav drags in from school. I am not, in fact, a mutant (although the phlebotomist at my doctor’s office may beg to differ after unsuccessfully being able to find veins in my arms…they’re so small and deep, they’re virtually nonexistent…I’m a robot programmed for destruction).

I spent the better part of my youth always sick. I carried the hacking cough, rattling chest, off and on fever entire school years at times. Maybe we didn’t have health insurance, I don’t know, but I very rarely went to the doctor. My mom (being from the hills of North Carolina) had her own backwoods concoctions for treating me (have you ever had boiling sweet oil poured into your ear? if you have, then HOOOOWDEEEEE, HOW YOU BEEN DONE DOIN’ THAR? YOU DONE GROWED UP. I’M ALL-CAPS CUZ I CAN’T HEAR A DARN THANG FOR ALL THIS BOILING SWEET OIL DONE UP AND SHUT OFF MY HEARIN’.) Anyway, I think those joyful youthful years built up a power house immune system for me. Thank you, Mom, and yum, I loved drinking that warm milk mixed with grass and weeds. I feel much better now.

E., on the other hand, has some mega doctor and pharmaceutical lovin’ parents. They throw a party at the chance for a colonoscopy. They’re bathroom counter IS a pharmacy. Whatever ails you, I bet they have something for it. E. grew up having antibiotics shoved down his throat, up his butt, or injected in his butt cheek if he had the slightest runny nose or even cocked his head at an odd angle. His mom still injects him with who knows what. I’ve told him time and time again, “Dude, just let your body get a chance to meet and appreciate itself. Drink some water and relax.” (I’m fortunate, for the time being, to have health insurance, but I still bypass the doctor and tell myself or Gav, “Just go drink some water and rest. You’ll feel better.”)

I caught him rubbing his tender buttock recently after a visit from his mom. “You didn’t let her inject you with something again, did you?” “Oh, it was just a bolus of B vitamins or something she brought back from Honduras.” Oh, okay. I won’t even get into the lack of logical reasoning with that. You’re smart.

Needless to say (but I’ll say it), he gets sick quite often. And, I attribute it to the antibiotic abuse.

Now, what the heck was my point with this post? Oh yeh, I don’t have gestational diabetes. Whew.

And, how was your day, dear?