Life

DIY IVs and Dreadlocks

Glucose (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Flower Child has been sick for four days now, koalaed to me since Sunday morning. Life with a medical needs kiddo is…interesting. It’s never just a sniffle. Forget about secondary sinus infections, we see things like seizures. And pleurisy–which is extra special, because she doesn’t cough, so that type of diagnosis is always a sucker punch delivered in a crowded ER at 2AM. So, I’ve been working on trying to keep her hydrated and home. She dehydrates quickly, hence my not so funny when you live it DIY IV joke. Pedialyte and lollypops. Same as a glucose drip, no? I’m hopeful at the moment, today has been better than the last few days, fever sticking to low grade so far, and she ate a little bit. Just heard from the nurse at the pediatrician’s office, results from the flu swab are back, and it isn’t the flu.

Are you kidding me? This isn’t even the flu? Just one of several viruses making the rounds right now. For my Flower Child, a virus that would make another child sick for a few days leaves her scary laid out for much longer. It isn’t like I actually need to sleep or anything. Really, an hour or two is more than enough. What’s that? You want to know why I go through 5 espressos and 12 cups of tea each day?

Since today has been better, and I know not to make any assumptions for tomorrow, I figured it was an opportunity to ~~hack through~~ wash her hair.

Dreadlocks machen. Mit Hilfe eines Hundehaarkamms (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Rapunzel long hair and extended periods of time in bed adds up to dreadlocks, forget Goldilocks. I just spent over an hour detangling her hair. >>that photo is not Flower Child, just illustrating her hair.

Who wants to guess how much writing I’ve gotten done? *insert cynical laugh here* There went my 1000 words a day streak. Though I have kept going, with a much lower word count. I wake up every morning convinced I should be able to be more productive. I go to bed each night chastising myself for a paltry word count. I’m not losing two hours a day doing drop off and pick up, she’s certainly not chatting or wanting anything other than to be next to me, but this hyper-vigilant watching and listening is exhausting. Very hard to immerse yourself in fantasy land when you’ve got a little person burning, shaking, and whimpering next to you. So I’m on a break from the romance, working on a new short. Progress is slow, and it’s an angry piece (shocked?) but I like how it’s taking shape.

I could write for 30 minutes or so now until I go dog walk, but I think I’m going to escape to my happy place instead. It’s almost beach season, isn’t it?

Bora Bora (Photo credit: Benoit Mahe)

I Double Dare You

Cliff jumping in Cyprus (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Feeling introspective. Probably not a good idea, but it’s where I am tonight.

I am not brave. I’ve chosen the path of least resistance more frequently than the road less traveled. I like people who are brave. I like to hear about their lives, see the photos, read the stories.

My stomach hurts just thinking about it. Risk taking is just not my thing. I have never gone cliff diving, and never will. I’ve never gone to live in another country, I don’t see that happening either. Some people live big lives, I’m not one of them. It’s true that some of those with big lives were raised in a certain way, maybe they had financial backing, or those around them assumed they would live those big lives. But not everyone. Some have an inner something that prompts them to take a leap with open eyes, even as their hearts are pounding.

I think those patterns have to be set when you’re young, and responsibilities are only to yourself. Yes, yes, we always have a responsibility to others in our lives, our community, our society. But responsibilities at 25 are different than 35, 45, or 55.

Venn Diagram for T (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Not in a woe is me, life is over with middle age kind of way. There is a point where bravery and selfishness overlap. They have to. No one would ever take a chance if they were focused solely on how the chance might harm others.

Do I live through my characters? Absolutely. When I think about it, though, my characters aren’t about big lives either. No espionage, serial killers, or royalty. I love the everyman. I love exploring what goes into the choices we make in the everyday; our relationships, and the subsequent, long range repercussions. I like to follow the path of each character, trying to establish what the question really is, forget about the answers.

So if our lives are one long game of truth or dare, I choose truth. Through a substantial veil of fiction. To make it more interesting, or more palatable? Maybe the choice isn’t truth at all, but fear.

If life had been different, and we weren’t strangling on a budget that makes the basics of getting through each day a freakin minefield, I like to think I’d be more brave. Then again, if I’d taken more risks, the road less traveled when I was younger, maybe this wouldn’t be our every day.

What about you, truth or dare?

(For Child Welfare Exhibit 1912-13.) Shooting craps, Providence, R.I. Location: Providence, Rhode Island. (LOC) (Photo credit: The Library of Congress)

Off With Her Head!

Queen of Hearts (Photo credit: Ana Kelston)

Please and thank you. If you aren’t in the US, or in the northeast of it, we’re gearing up for a blizzard. As of this moment, it’s a snow/sleet/rain mix here in the city, the blizzard conditions will start later this evening. Gross, but the bonus is that the jackhammers are quiet for today.

I had a meeting at Flower Child’s school this morning. It went very well, assistive technology has come through, thanks to her fabulous team this year. We needed this to go well on several levels, it’s been a rough week for her; her good streak ended. Good news though, right? I come home and think I still have plenty of time to write before it’s pickup time. In peace and quiet. Ahhh. For about a minute.

English: Hammer drill (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What’s this, you ask? Well, it’s the hammer drill being used right above my freakin head in the apartment above mine. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear my sobs providing the rhythm for the bass of the drill. The walls in my building are concrete. No, I’m not confused, I am referring to interior walls, so any holes need to be made with a serious, loud, powerful tool.

This week has been, well, life, I guess. My father in law passed away, which was expected, and I’m glad his pain is over, but still very sad. He was an absolutely lovely man who was well known and liked in the community and loved by his family. For the past few days I’ve been hearing his distinctive whistle in my head. When Nerd Child was a little guy, and my f-i-l was passing our building, he would stop and whistle up, “Coquito!” Nerd Child would stop whatever he was doing and run to the window, throwing whatever he had been holding down to the street. Those child safety bars only prevent an actual child from passing through them, not the paraphernalia that accompanies children. Good thing the man always wore a hat, or his head would surely have been dented by a lego more than once. He had a distinctive smile, the kind that let you know where the phrase “ear to ear grin” comes from. It’s a warm fuzzy to say Flower Child inherited his smile.

I did write this week, though nowhere near the word count I intended. It is what it is, maybe the coming week will be a bit more steady.

How was your week?

Plucked, Tucked, and Fucked

¿Rolling Stones? No, gracias (Photo credit: alvarezperea)

As a no longer young woman who doesn’t travel with the movers and shakers of society, it sometimes takes me a while to hear about trends and movements. Last night, I saw an article on Facebook that horrified me. So much so, I suspected it was a hoax, and googled. Labiaplasty. Not a hoax. A (sur)real cosmetic plastic surgery, available at a doctor’s office near you. Heh.

Just in case you’re as behind the times as I am, labiaplasty is a surgery to trim, or completely remove, a woman’s inner labia. Ready for the kicker? This is a purely optional procedure.

So I ranted with my feminist FB buddies for a bit, and then kept googling. I did find instances of women who said they chose to have the procedure done for more than aesthetic reasons, citing discomfort when running or biking. I read about one woman who said she was tired of her lips falling out of her underwear. Now those are lips. Except when I continued reading, it turns out she was referring to thong underwear. What’s that, dear? Your dental floss isn’t as comfortable as you’d like it to be? Get off my lawn!

old lady feeding pigeons (Photo credit: mvhargan)

Adult women look different from young girls, the body changes in many ways. This surgery seems to be an effort to replicate the appearance of prepubescent girls. As a woman, as a mother, as a sorta kinda feminist, I am appalled. Exactly how does this fit into “first do no harm?” Those labia aren’t like your appendix, serving no function. They are part of your body’s natural defenses, protecting the vagina and urethra, have glands that produce secretions that kill bacteria, and I’m no gynecologist, but I’m pretty sure they help keep your urine from spraying out between the bowl and the seat. As someone who is a designated toilet scrubber, I approve of this function.

I am naturally slim, always was. Somehow, it’s more socially acceptable to admit to surgical body sculpting and radical diets than to say this. We, as women, are supposed to spend our entire lives hating our images, taking ever more extreme measures to look like a continually changing physical ideal. Men seem to be jumping on this bandwagon for themselves, can be found waiting to have their eyebrows threaded, pedicures done, chests waxed, and of course, cosmetic surgeries.

How much more can we hate ourselves? We starve, we shave, pour hot wax and rip it off, send electric shocks through our pores, apply acid to remove layers of skin, vacuum fat, lift, tuck, stick bits of plastic on our eyeballs, we paint, we polish, tattoo, pierce, inject water, silicone, and botulism.

But after I logged off, and kept thinking, that pesky little voice in my head kept whispering. You know the voice, the one that calls you out on your own bullshit and contradictions. Is this really so different than any other plastic surgery done for purely cosmetic reasons? I’ve never had any plastic surgery done, and I’m not likely to, but I can’t say I wouldn’t if an opportunity presented itself. The younger, more militant me hates this.

I have what I like to think of as probiscis magnificus. Yanno, a nose that qualifies as a shnoz. When I was younger, the opportunity for a nose job presented itself. Did I already hate my nose, wish it didn’t look like a mountain climbing challenge? Yes I did. But I declined the offer, because it was so against my political views, my belief that each of us needs to embrace who we are, including our physical characteristics. In other words, my shnoz is and always was a part of me, and our physical self contributes to who we become, our self image in every way. I’d also had my nose broken twice. It hurts like hell, and I wasn’t in a phase of life where I wanted to volunteer for pain.

At this stage in my life, though, I’m not so young, perky, or firm. I’m in reasonably good shape, but my skin isn’t so tight. I’ve nursed three children. I know who I am, and understand physical changes won’t change the woman I’ve become. So I’ve thought about it, and if I won the lottery, I might have a rhinoplasty done, and a boob lift to get the girls back to the zip code they used to reside in. Is there a difference between these procedures and labiaplasty? I could justify a nose job for medical reasons, the two breaks left me with scar tissue that make my nasal passages permanently stuffy and a snore that rivals an old coal train. No justification other than vanity for a breast lift. I think this means I don’t have the right to judge anyone else’s elective procedures. What’s the line?

Description unavailable (Photo credit: *Bitch Cakes*)

I Hate You! But I Need You.

Sun en face (Photo credit: Forsetius)

Early morning. I have a complicated relationship with my alarm clock–not so affectionately known as the egg–and sunrise. I am not an early riser by nature, but I’ve learned to be. Much as I love my bed, I am not and never was someone who could jump out of it and be out the door in twenty minutes. I need my coffee, I need to sit in peace before I start the day. And then I need more coffee.

This trait is one of very few things about my life and myself that hasn’t changed with time and circumstance.

When I was younger and lived by myself, I was one of those people who needed two alarm clocks; one by the bed, and one across the room that would ring after I had hit the snooze on the one by the bed three or four times. Between years long issues with insomnia and a work schedule that was very inconsistent, I needed both of them. Let me just say, the ability to sleep through multiple alarms combined with being neurotically prompt can make for some very unpleasant mornings.

During the week, I get up between 5 and 5:30AM. Weekends, it depends how stressful the week has been. The more stress, the more I stick to the weekday schedule, even if the laptop tells me it’s Sunday.

old alarm clock (Photo credit: K. Yasuhara)

Husband thinks I’m crazy, because technically, I could get another hour to an hour and a half of sleep each day. (To be fair, there are many reasons Husband thinks I’m nuts, but I’m comfortable writing about this one). I need time to myself, by myself. Does this make me a selfish person? Maybe it does, but I still need it. Am I bleary eyed and exhausted long before I can go to bed each night? Yup, but I’d rather have the time alone than the extra sleep. Trust me, I’d be a whole lot crazier without this time.

Added bonus, the jackhammers haven’t started that early in the day. You know, the background music of the city that never ever ends.

You would think that by this point I’m a morning person, but I’m not. I do like sitting on the balcony and watching the sky get pink as the sun rises.

Are you a morning person? Night person? My favorite shift to work was a swing shift, either 4-midnight five days a week or noon-10 four days a week. What about yourself hasn’t changed, through marital status, careers, parental status, etc?

I’d like to tell you I use this time to pray or meditate or contemplate the meaning of life, or even bond with the dogs, but I don’t. I use it to just sit quietly, make and drink my coffee, zone out, and enjoy the peace. I stare into the tank and watch for the pink streaked wrasse to wake up–he starts cruising, hunting for pods between the corals as soon as the sky lightens. Sometimes I surf Facebook, but I don’t post at that hour. I used to use that time to write, but it’s never successful as a long term writing plan, because then I’m missing that me time. It is the only time of day when I can, somewhat consistently, get the living room to myself. Five people on different schedules and a small space, you have to be creative.

And willing to sacrifice sleep.

Live on coffee and flowers (Photo credit: thomasheylen)

Disconnected

Telephone operators, 1952 (Photo credit: Seattle Municipal Archives)

Time heals all wounds, time is money, time is the longest distance between two places, time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils. Huh. Google quotes about time, and the pages go on and on. Everyone has something to say about time. Don’t waste it! Use it wisely! It’s relative! It’s a nebulous concept, distorting our already biased perceptions.

I’ve been poking around the writers’ forum. The other day, I tripped over my old username, which I hadn’t been able to remember when I rejoined, so I had created a new one. In keeping with the interests of procrastination, once I found it I ran a search for posts by the old name. The internetz, no such thing as gone for good.

Found a thread discussing looking for an agent, I had posted about receiving a request for a “full” based on a partial manuscript sent, the following day I posted about having received a request for a partial based on pages sent with a query. If you’re reading and you aren’t a writer of fiction, let me tell you, that’s a wild with joy and nerves skip around the apartment until you notice the kids are in a frightened huddle in the corner worthy couple of days. Another member posted on the thread saying I was someone to watch. Quite a compliment. The funny part? Not only don’t I remember posting any of that, I don’t remember the compliment, or the happy dance I’m sure I stomped out for at least a week.

If I had come across the post in some other way without noticing the username, I would have stopped and studied the signature, following any links to see if this person was now published, with a novel(s) available on the market. Talk about a disconnect.

I don’t wish I could go back to that time period, there were many other crappy things happening in my life that I don’t care to relive. Hey, you don’t achieve this trajectory of downward mobility if you’re skipping through the daisies each day. But I do wish I could sift the sands of that time period, find the grains that represent the writing me, and just put those grains in my pockets, so when I’m frustrated I could touch them, roll them between my fingers and against my cheek, to remind myself of the possibilities.

Lakota storyteller: painting. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Elegance

Elegance coral 2 (Photo credit: afagen)

No, this isn’t the type of elegance I’m talking about today, but this is one hot coral. I haven’t been having much success with LPS coral in my little tank, so I won’t add it to my wish list just yet. Yeah, I’m pretty weird, thinking about elegance this was what popped to the forefront of my mind. But I chose this particular photo because it has that little asterina star on the glass. Those things seem so cute. But the truth is if you see one in your tank, you’ve likely got dozens, and they breed faster than a bunny on speed. Then you have a nuisance that will irritate pricey and prized corals.

I think that’s me. When it comes to style, I have to make an effort, which I often don’t. Come on, how long should I take to get dressed and do my hair to drop the girl off at school and come home to clean the bathroom, or go out to dogwalk? But sometimes I do. It’s fun and it feels good, nothing says “I can do this” more than a kick ass pair of shoes with the right outfit. So when I do make the effort, sometimes I hit it, and sometimes I don’t, but even when I do, it’s never perfect. There will be one little something that tips the scales from I’m rocking it to oh shit, I’m still carrying my dog walking bag. Which then leads me to notice the dog hair I didn’t get off my skirt, the smudge of mascara under my right eye, the eek! of questioning if I used deodorant under both arms.

Taking Flower Child to school this morning, I saw a young woman running for the bus. Tall, slim, and cute, she was wearing clunky wooden heeled sandals, and a too long nightgown looking brown maxi-dress, with a faux-fur gray sweater on top. Oy. On my way back home, I saw another woman running across the street for a cab. Black suit, ivory turtleneck underneath, and black patent leather stilleto pumps. I was more than impressed by how well she was able to run, though I’m guessing it produced more jiggle than she generally shoots for.

The Patent Leather Kid (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What made one work and the other not? I don’t know. One thing I love about the city is that women never seem to be limited by what’s “in.” Personal style is encouraged, influenced by many factors, and expressed through textures, lengths, fabrics, and accessories. Fun to watch, and a bonus in that it makes coming up with the beginning of a character sketch pretty easy.

I’m not talking about the women who are so stunning it doesn’t matter what they are or are not wearing. It’s the women who have whatever the it factor is that allows them to look like the definition of fabulousity no matter what their age, style or dress size is. The difference between wtf -is-she-wearing and wow-I-wish-I-could-pull-that-off.

Is it studying old episodes of What Not To Wear? Reading fashion magazines? Being the victor when battling for that dress at the annual Barney’s sale?

I don’t think so. I honestly think it comes from within. Part of it being a good eye, knowing what lines will work with your lines, and much of it is confidence.

I have a neighbor who always looks elegant. And when I say always, I mean even when staking a claim for the most efficient dryer in the laundry room. She isn’t young, she isn’t particularly tall, she isn’t slim. But she is always styling.

Lautrec the tattooed woman 1894 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

On the High Wire

high wire 1 (Photo credit: _gee_)

That’s Mrs Fringe. You can wave, but I won’t wave back, or I’ll surely lose my balance before I’m at the halfway point.

I’m just going to ramble on a bit this evening. Every time I sat down to post today, the phone rang or Flower Child needed help, so whatever ideas I had for a coherent post are gone. I am sending out apologies to my fellow bloggers. Adding a daily fiction writing block to my schedule, in addition to blogging and those other couple of things I do has me working hard on my time management skills, and I need to catch up on what everyone else has been doing.

I’ve felt like I’m up on a high wire for quite a while now, but with my new commitment to, umm…what was that again? Oh yeah, me. And writing…it’s a little different, because I’m trying to add in a bit of style and stay upright, not just hanging on with my pinkies. I think starting to blog was me opening my eyes. I’ve yet to look down. In case you’re wondering, standing up feels great, but it’s a whole lot harder than keeping my act limited to not letting go.

Vwoop. That’s the sound of another safety net being whisked away. Man Child leaves on Monday morning to start an internship. I’ve been trying to get as much done as possible this weekend while I’ve still got him here. Groceries, dry goods, and the best pizza in the neighborhood, because they don’t deliver. Shocking, isn’t it? A NY pizza place that doesn’t deliver. I’d be fine if the guys on the next block with the tasteless, rubbery cheese pizza didn’t deliver. Protip: If you come to visit and want really good NY pizza, go to Brooklyn.

I did have an excellent adventure yesterday morning. Can you guess?

How about now?

Grand Central Station. I haven’t been there in eons, but I went yesterday, and had the pleasure of meeting Caitlin Kelly, of the Broadside Blog. For the record, she is every bit as smart, sophisticated, and lovely in person as she seems to be on her blog. I had a blast. We got to know each other a bit, and spent a while talking about writing, ideas, life, and careers. I walked away feeling energized. Yup, Mrs Fringe being a grown up woman.

Flower Child was home sick from school, but Man Child was able to postpone his plans and babysit. Thank you! Even the rain held off, so I was able to wear my favorite boots. Why are my favorite winter boots suede? Because they’re awesome, I can’t believe you needed to ask.

I miss that too brief period in my life when I was actively involved with writers groups, attending conferences and taking myself seriously in a way that resulted in a lot of fun. Hence my high wire routine. It’s definitely harder than it once was (hell, getting up from the floor is harder than it once was), but I’m doing it.

Cuddling With that Late Night Booty Call: Want

Deutsch: Irische Hard Shoes, auch Hornpipe Shoes oder Jig Shoes genannt. Jig Shoes. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

*Warning: Defensive post ahead.

Yesterday afternoon, I walked past a favorite shoe store, recently renovated so the ambiance matches the price points. In the window was an absolute wantwantwant Pas de Rouge shoe. So much so, I took a picture with a phone, posted it to my personal Facebook wall, and had fun with friends dreaming about $400 shoes. (for some reason I can’t transfer pics from my phone to this blog, sorry) Fun? Yes. Silly? Absolutely. But there’s something about a sole full of awesomeness that some roundheels like myself can’t deny. Resist, sure, but not deny.

But here’s what I’m thinking about today. We’re expected to deny our wants. As women, certainly as women with children, we’re supposed to forget about our pesky little wants, dreams, and desires, at least until all children our grown and gone. I’m not talking about ridiculously expensive shoes, but the other stuff. Like writing, or painting, or photography (except of our children), or going back to school, or a vacation that isn’t educational. Even hobbies are relegated to after the kids are asleep. You know what? After the kids are grown and gone is a long, long time. Add in a special needs child and multiply this by eleventy billion.

A newborn child crying. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It doesn’t seem so long at first, when they’re babies, toddlers, and young children, and your days meld together with feeding and changing, soothing and crooning. Hell, just looking at this photo makes my boobs tingle, preparing for a non existent milk letdown, and it’s been years since I nursed.

My belief that children come first is strong. Most of us deny ourselves a lot of wants, put off needs, because the kids come first. It’s what our biology and our society dictates; in my opinion this is as it should be. I know it isn’t just women who put certain wants off until the kids are grown, most of us, male and female, are on limited budgets, and many of us have to either give up or put dreams aside until the immediate responsibilities are fewer. Being last is okay, as long as I’m still in the race.

But since I began blogging about my newly rediscovered determination to get back to a regular writing and submitting schedule, more than a couple of my female followers have made reference (both on and off the blog) to wanting to do X, and waiting to do X until the kids are gone. Feel free to jump in and tell me you’ve heard otherwise, I’ve never heard a man say he’s waiting to investigate and pursue a hobby until the kids are gone. When I read the stories of writers who have been successful after having children, but before the kids are gone, they’re a little different. Both male and female showed tremendous drive, dedication, and passion. The men talk about coming home from their day jobs, locking themselves in whatever little nook they can carve out for themselves in their home, and writing. Women talk about coming home from their day jobs, supervising homework, making dinner, doing the bedtime thing, and then going to whatever nook they’ve carved out for themselves. Or, if they were SAHMs, writing during naps and loads of laundry. And of course, eating all those bon bons. Who needs sleep, right?

I don’t know about you, but when I sleep and dream, it isn’t about juicy younger men or my formerly perky parts. It’s about space and time for myself that isn’t shrouded in guilt.

English: A photograph of an engraving in The Writings of Charles Dickens volume 4, Oliver Twist, titled “Oliver at Mrs. Maylie’s Door”. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I think it’s valid, sensible, and important to recognize the difference between wants and needs, and then further breakdown to prioritize these needs and wants. What I don’t get is why this is supposed to equal no wants or dreams. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I recognize that I live in this spoiled American society and I am a spoiled American. I don’t have a McMansion and don’t want one. I also don’t want to live in a hut, with just enough grains of rice to keep me going, foraged Pepsi bottles strapped to my feet with woven grass. I hear those are terrible for dog walking.

Rompe La Cabeza

Question mark made of puzzle pieces (Photo credit: Horia Varlan)

In English, the word is puzzle. In Spanish, the phrase is rompe la cabeza, or rompecabeza. Translated literally, “breaks the head.”

Flower Child is my puzzle. A beautiful, delicate, complicated puzzle. For now, and for far too many years already, trying to put these pieces together…the Spanish feels more appropriate than the English. Breaking my head, trying to make sense of what is and what’s to come for my sweetness. The modern medical world is an absolute maze; so basically, it’s wandering through a labyrinth, trying to locate puzzle pieces, and then getting lost in an attempt to trace back to see where they might fit.

I used to like jigsaw puzzles. I found them relaxing. I had a teacher who used to call those types of hobbies mental masturbation. Made sense. But now? No, the very sight of those stamped cardboard pieces induces a PTSD type reaction.

English: Image from The Great War taken in an Australian Advanced Dressing Station near Ypres in 1917. The wounded soldier in the lower left of the photo has a dazed, thousand-yard stare – a frequent symptom of “shell-shock”. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Except for one teeny tiny contradiction, it isn’t “post” anything. I live it, we as a family live it, every day.

This morning I didn’t get up at 5AM and work on a story, or Mrs Fringe. This morning I got up at 5 to go over paperwork and organize copies of medical reports. Another visit to a new specialist, this one specializing in the puzzle pieces that make up each of us. Three hours of going over medical history–Flower Child, me, Husband, Nerd Child, Man Child, and extended families. If you’ve never had the pleasure, it’s the emotional equivalent of sucking down a chocolate milkshake when you’ve got a molar in dire need of a root canal. A quick physical, looking, bending, measuring, hemming, hawing, instructing, and note taking. Then a trip down to the lab, and 80 reminders to FC about “girl power” while waiting for a blood draw, and of course, the positioning of the doll, the iPod, and the negotiating about what the treat will be afterwards.

The testing least likely to yield information is expected first, in three to four weeks. The rest of the results should be back in four months. Follow up appointment in six months. An extra vial of blood was drawn, in case nothing useful is found in the testing done today, it will be used for round two of more detailed testing, taking another 6 months for results. Now we play the hurry up and wait game.