All good things.

Must come to an end. As was painfully made clear to me on the last note I wrote on the last day of my first rotation as a resident. This note just so happened to be the longest note I had EVER written. On the most complicated patient I had EVER seen. And was the only thing between me and getting home for the night.

You see. When I began residency, everyone told me how I would grow to hate Cerner. They told me that the computer would ruin my day, experience and education at times. I had gone 6 weeks without an event that convinced me what they were saying was actually true. You see, I am a skeptic (what!!??? no way...as is my oldest son - story to come). So, people can tell me things like this all day, they can tell me how awful something or someone is, or how wonderful something or someone is, and I just don't believe it. I often feel, it is user related. The computer sucks, because you are an idiot. Sorry, it's just how I think. And for 6 weeks, this was true. I began to believe that I truly must be in a residency full of idiots (I am exaggerating for effect, and if I have to explain that, then you're an idiot too.)

So, I sat down, typed my note. Went through one more time. Found a spot I needed to correct, and began typing away to complete it. As I am typing, I reposition myself, and apparently, accidentally clicked the mouse with my right elbow, and BAM. My nearly 1 hour of work gone. Vanished. No trace. The heat instantly rushed up to my face, and quite frankly, I would be surprised if there wasn't some steam blowing from my ears. I was irrate. Many people said they would have cried, but anger is my general emotion of choice for these kind of situations. Before I touched anything else, I called IT to see if there was anyway to recover it. There wasn't. The whole thing was a complete fluke. A "flaw in the system" they call it.

I quickly retyped the note, in half the time it took me originally. I signed it, without hesitation, and left. On the drive home, I realized I had forgotten an entire portion of the note. Whoops. Guess that gives me something to do in the morning. And I have now, officially, joined the ranks of the idiots. Damn, Cerner.

A Balloon

I smiled, off and on, all day. All because Brock woke me up at 4am this morning.
I was awoken from my very bizarre dream by the sound of my bedroom door, slowly creaking open. My eyes took a while to adjust and I could not find the little body that had opened that door, but I knew he was creeping somewhere. What I do see is a slight glint of light on a big, round, floating object. Attached to that object is a small boy now standing by my bed. I inform him of the hour, and instruct him to return to his own bed. He responds, "But the balloon noises scare me".

We leave the balloon in the hallway, and Matt takes him back to bed. And I smile at the cute, hilarity of the whole situation. Even my entirely too tough and proud 2.75 year old has his moments of weakness....someone else seems to get more enjoyment from this balloon. But what doesn't make this kid happy?

OPINIONS

Opinions really bother me. It's true.

How can "opinions" be a pet peeve? Shouldn't it just be certain opinions? Not ALL opinions? And how can I say this, being as I am one of the more opinionated people you know? These may be just a couple of the questions running through your mind after reading the opening sentence. Allow me to clarify.

Mostly, I cannot stand unsolicited opinions. No matter the topic. If I did not ask for your thoughts, I don't want to hear them. Let me share a few "for instances" that are completely made up; if they bear any resemblance to real conversations or situations we have had, it is purely coincidence. For instance, let's say we are at the dinner table, and someone mentions that they love honey mustard. This statement is completely acceptable, as it is a fact when put in that form. That person, does, in fact, love honey mustard.

Now, had they said, "honey mustard is the best condiment" we have a problem. They have changed their comment into an opinion. It is absolutely debatable whether honey mustard is the best condiment. This situation can take many turns, some for the worse, some for the better. My hope is that, (A) I will either avoid the discussion by simply giving no response. Or, (B) I will take the bait, reply with my rebuttal, we will go on to have an intellectual conversation on the pluses and minuses of the many different uses of honey mustard, and settle on the fact that the original conversator prefers honey mustard to most condiments and that I just like salt. Agree to disagree.

But things rarely, I mean RARELY, happen like that. On most days, despite common beliefs about my personality, I generally hope for situation (A). Especially if I have an extremely differing opinion, and know discussion will be futile. (The ONLY reason I EVER purposefully engage in a pointless argument, is for my own educational purposes, if I feel my competitor might be well versed on the topic. Ok, as I re-read that, I realized, that isn't the only reason I might do that...after all, I am antagonistic by nature. Sometimes, if the person's beliefs, thoughts, opinions are extremely ridiculous or radical, I do it for my own entertainment.) So, I ignore the comment. But more often than not, I don't get my desired result of concluding the conversation. Instead, the person did not get the affirmation they had hoped for, so they go on and add, "Don't you agree?" Can I just say "no"? I mean, I can, and I do, but then I get, "Oh, really, then what condiment do you like better?" "Why?" And there it is. I am forced into a discussion. It's a downhill spiral.

I will never get out of the conversation now. I am trapped. I honestly begin to panic. Because this is another huge misconception about opinions...people feel, if they ASK you your opinion, and you politely share it, then that ok's them to give you theirs. NO. YOU asked my THOUGHTS, I did NOT ask you yours.

Which leads me into another situation, "fishing questions". Do you ever have those moments, when someone comes up to you and straight up asks your opinion about something, but you know it's because their true motive is to share theirs? For example, when I was obviously pregnant, so many woman approached me and asked some question or another about my pregnancy. Instead of speaking my initial thought, which is, "I don't really feel like talking about this right now", I would politely answer. This apparently means I have given the go ahead for the woman to tell me all about her pregnancies, deliveries, children, etc. You try to do the right thing, and it just blows up in your face.

Then there are the time when I take option (B). Usually, you can predict when option (B) is a bad choice, simply by the person's tone, demeanor or personality. But sometimes, you misjudge, and you find out that this person has an EXTREME opinion. Fact: ALL extreme opinions bother me. By extreme, I mean, the person absolutely, 100% believes this to be true and that there is NO way anyone's differing opinion could be right, ok, or possible. By the very nature of "opinions" this cannot happen. An opinion, is never a fact. You can use facts to support your opinion, but it will never make it absolutely the right answer. And I do not mind discussions with open-minded well informed people, but these kinds of people just don't form extreme opinions, and rarely feel the need to force their thoughts upon others. If you approach me with an extreme opinion, whether I agree with your stance or not, I will very nearly always play devil's advocate.

So, yes. I pretty much have an opinion on everything...even opinions! And I will share my opinions, if asked. And I will ask for opinions when curious. And that should be that.

When given the choice...

...Brock will ALWAYS choose a Polo over a t-shirt. And often, when I am dressing him in just a t-shirt, he will ask if it has a pocket. And whenever the answer is "no", he seems slightly disappointed about wearing a plain ol' tee. For this reason, and others, I fear that Brock is, in fact, going to live up to his preppy name and become a "d-bag". Or, I mean, a brother in a frat. At least he will most likely be the president of the fraternity. The best of the worst is better than the worst of the worst, right?

We can't really blame him, as I frequently dress him in Sperry's and Puma's that I will not allow him to get dirty. I just hit an all time low yesterday and bought him a pair of white RL Polo shorts for next Summer. White. The only thing to make that more yuppy, is to get a pink shirt to go with it. Not going to happen (for Brock anyway, just too pretty for pink. Meanwhile, I have already imagined Curtis sporting some pink this coming Easter.)

And he walks around Starbucks like he owns the place. He just has the right look and demeanor to make a great d-bag. I might as well embrace it now.

In other news. I recently lunched with the boys and my mother at one of my favorite "hole in the wall" Mexican restaurants. And, as most "hole in the wall's" are, this one is located in a not so classy neighborhood. We finished lunch and started to load up into the car, my mother helping Brock into his seat. We were parked on the street, near a stoplight which just so happened to be red at the moment, therefore causing all the vehicles to stop. Including this white, pimped out Tahoe. Brock became quite frantic and began shouting, "The wheels still going! The wheels are going. Look! Look!" So my mother turns and just kind of laughs and explains to Brock, "Yes, it's the rims, they're still spinning" I mean, let's just say I was absolutely amused by this situation. My 2 year old is thoroughly confused about spinnin' rims, and my mother is explaining it to him by essentially quoting lyrics from a rap song by Chingy...

So...I didn't have a photo right on hand of Brock in a Polo, but he does make an appearance in this clip!

The Niner.

As it turns out, a nine week old puppy and a nine month old baby have extremely similar interests. Curtie and Fannie are generally all over one another and vying for the same toy at all times (when they are not napping, eating or pooping, of course.) Often times, Fannie will walk up and just sit on Curtis. He has already learned to shove her invasive schnoz out of his face. And she has already learned that his toes are not a chew toy.

More and more, I find Curtis up a few steps, getting into kitchen cabinets, following his brother, and he is nearly always standing with the support of some piece of furniture. He has begun cruising and has taken a few steps with the block wagon walker toy thing. He has even on occasion, accidentally stood without support for a few seconds, which is hilarious. It takes him a moment to realize that he is no longer being supported, but when he does notice, the look of panic is priceless. He is still inches away from the couch or chair, he need only reach his little chubby hand out to restabilize, but instead he freaks out and sits on his butt. Needless to say, he is not our adventurous one, and walking might take some guts he has not acquired as of yet. He no longer does his bizarre one arm, one legged slightly cock-eyed army crawl and is up on all fours touring the place. He appropriately uses the word "mama" (when he is distressed). And questionably uses "dada".

Curtis weighs 21 lbs 7ozs which lands him in the 75%ile. And is nearly 29.5 inches which puts him in the 80's. So our little giant has slowly become a bit closer to average, still outweighing Brock by a good 2 pounds at this point. He never stops eating, but he also never stops moving. He has taken a sharp turn to Brockdom in that sense. He thinks he is pretty hot stuff now that his mobility is near limitless.

And the more he becomes like another little human, the more Brock treats him as such. Brock is always concerned about za Cucky's whereabouts. When playing together, he alway makes sure to give Curtis a toy (though, I am pretty sure the motivation behind this action is to avert the baby from his toys). He even talks to him now as if he completely understands. Though, I believe Curtis has realized that Brock is typically held responsible for nearly every incident and has learned to use this to his advantage. What I mean, is that Brock will hardly touch him, and Curtis folds over, crying, as if Brock has just performed the meanest act ever. Looks like we have got to keep an eye on sweet little Cucky. He might be just as manipulative as that toddler.The progress a little person can make in just 9 months is astounding. Amazing. From conception to birth, nine months. So from none existent to functioning in the world. Then from just eating, sleeping and pooping, to talking, crawling, playing in nine months. And the puppy? Well, in nine months, she will have gained at least 70 pounds. 70 pounds!! I think I can literally see her growing if I watch for 5 minutes. Obviously, I love it all. I am crazy about babies, and development, and life, and helping to form it. I hope I am doing a decent job of it...there are days when Brock (or should I just call him Dexter) makes me wonder.

One of THOSE days.

I arrived home in a great mood. Work was the perfect amount of busy. I got off an hour and a half early. When I stepped outside it wasn't into a brick wall of damp, hot, grossness that has been KC weather for the last 3 weeks. On my road rage-less drive home, I had time to contemplate what I might do with my extra few hours at home. I decided on two things. One, I was going to make popcorn as soon as I got home. And two, I was going to take a nice long stroll with my boys. Just the two little boys, as Matt headed to happy hour after work. And I had every intention of allowing Matt to remain at Hooper's all night if he so desired. The universe (or my ridiculously chaotic household) had a completely different set of plans in mind...

...it all started after Curtis woke up from his nap. I walked into the nursery and got hit with an unmistakable fragrance. Poop. So I changed his diaper. We played on the floor for a bit. Brock came in to join us. And what scent wafted in along with him? Poop. I didn't change him, I sent him outside to finish his business, so as not to stink up the entire house. The dogs went out with him. Curtis and I continued to play. He took nearly a dozen steps using a walker toy. I then went to check on Brock's progress.

It took some coaxing to get Brock into the house, but we did it. He came in, the puppy followed. I chased the puppy back out, because I was not convinced she had done her business. I watched her pee, she came back into the house. I wrangled Brock into the nursery to get changed on the floor. I pulled down his pants. What did I see? Poop. All around the outside of his diaper, not a lot, but it was there. I then noticed that there were 2 little spots of poop on the carpet next to me. Then I noticed there were a dozen spots on the carpet surrounding both of us. I became slightly hysterical and announced, "There is poop everywhere! How did you do this? Were you just wiping your butt all around on the floor while I was outside? What is going on?" Well, apparently, Brock was just as shocked as I was. He lifted his hand to see that he had poop on his fingers and began to dry heave and gag. He began to panic. I just carried him to the tub in absolute bewilderment. I left him to rinse off and went back into the nursery to assess the situation.

Then, I spotted it. Poop. Somehow, in the 30 seconds that the puppy got inside, she had pooped. Now, how it got spread around is beyond me. I can only guess that Brock, while running around the house, unattended, like a wild man, managed to drag some poop along with him. So, I called Matt to tell him to stop and rent a carpet cleaner on his way home. And to perhaps cut his visit short.

At this point, I have cleaned everyone up. I have spot cleaned the carpet. And I have carried the blanket the poop was on, as well as all of our clothes down to the washer and put them in to be cleaned. I started a movie for Brock. I fed Curtis. I walk back down to the basement to check on Brock. As I take the last stair step, my foot lands in a puddle. I curse to myself. "Are you f*%$ing kidding me!? She peed too!?" But as I am thinking this, I look down to see that it is not a puddle. It is a flood. Something has disconnected from the washer. There is 4 inches of water on the floor surrounding the washer and dryer. Wonderful. Seriously, wonderful. I was actually laughing as I called Matt, yet a second time, to inform him of this one. I mean, if we don't laugh we cry, right?

Matt gets home. We eat. He carpet cleans. I put the kids to bed. I write a blog post. Yup, just one of those days. They seem to be increasing in frequency as of late. Good think I enjoy chaos.

Oh, and don't worry, I did make the popcorn.

Fannie May Gertrude Puddles

When we first mentioned the idea of, yet another, little addition to our family, the over-riding response was, "you're crazy". And, though I couldn't really argue, I could show a picture of our little Fannie May, and you might no longer blame us for the moment of insanity.
Ever since the loss of Tali, there has been a 75 pound void in our home. Things were quieter, there was one less mouth to feed, Tater slept alone. We probably should have welcomed the prospect of less chaos. But it just wasn't right. Life felt out of balance. Crumbs were piling up too quickly. So when this litter of Great Dane/Coonhound mix puppies surfaced, I could not resist. They fit every bit of criteria I had made up in my head. Short hair. Big. Laid back. Puppy. Rescue. Trainable. We visited the litter, and Fannie (then "Allegience") immediately went up to Curtis and began licking his face. Licking, being the operative word, not biting. She then went on to play with Matt, Brock and I as well, ignoring her puppy siblings. The other little girls seemed completely uninterested. We took her home that night, without question, she was our girl.
After one night of looking and behaving lost, Fannie May quickly adjusted to our home. The potty training is progressing incredibly. And after a week of contemplation and observation, she finally has a name. I think. Brock still randomly calls her Puddles, which was a name that came up due to a misunderstanding over the phone. She loves to play with the boys, and Tater is slowly becoming accustomed to her presence. Only time will tell how big she will truly get, but with a 90lb (severely underweight mom) and an 85lb dad I think it is safe to assume she won't be little. I just hope her cuddly, sweet disposition stays. Because I have really fallen in love.