Tuesday, December 25, 2018

Mrs. Claus

When I was younger, in my late teens, I was pretty serious with this one fella....

And every year at Christmastime, his mom would give her kids gifts from Mrs. Claus.

Right? 

She's obviously brilliant. 

And she told her husband that Mrs. Claus was a neighbor or acquaintance or someone she knew from when they lived back east. 

Seriously. 

And to the best of my recollection, on the rare occasion that the husband questioned, then she was like "Honey, you remember! The lovely neighbor Mrs. Claus!" and that was the end of it. He blew it off...whatever.

I'm giving credit to my ex-boyfriend's mother on this Mrs. Claus thing up front because I had a major plagiarism case in my classroom last year, and I'm a firm believer in citing my sources. And while I have a lot to say about the major plagiarism case, I'm not saying anything because I really love the teaching gig I've had since 2002.

For the past year or so my family has been letting go of the traditional approaches to the holidays, and let's face it, we all know women have been running the show around purchases for Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or whatever holiday families celebrate. Women. And Mrs. Claus has been a silent partner too goddamn long.

My family celebrates Christmas, and not in the religious sense. We celebrate simply being together and yes, we do Santa. It's part of having a child who is chronologically 12, but developmentally 5. We will likely always do Santa....

Honestly, I put a lot into the Solstice, living up here at 48.12* N, and 123.43* W where the sun was up from 8:01 am till 4:22 pm on December 21. Each day after the solstice, the sun is up for a little longer. Let there be light.

In my house, we celebrate Christmas. And we're fine to say Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays and, really, I, like a growing number of Americans, don't give really care what kind of greeting you say, just be kind when you say it. For reals.

But, here's the deal, the Santa I was taught to love is an old white dude who's been given credit for the work of others for a few hundred years. And, honestly, Mrs. Claus has been getting the shaft, if you will, about this whole thing. I'll let Miss Granger deal with the elves, yo. That's not my jam...

As a feminist, my heart belongs to Mrs. Claus, because I, like many women I know who happen to also be moms, am the following Departments:
  • Planning
  • Purchasing
  • Wrapping
  • Decorating
  • Cooking/Baking
  • Cleaning/Housekeeping

Sometimes, we call the last two Departments the Bitch Work Departments, because obviously.

Also, as the primary food source (wasn't that shit supposed to stop after I weaned them? FUCK!) sometimes I add hate as a necessary ingredient in my recipies. A lot of people cook with love. But I find hate works, too. It's better than spitting into their food. I mean, that's just disgusting. But hate? Adds a little spice to life. Just kidding. I only add love. Because there's already a lot of anger in my house because of the myriad diagnoses my family has been handed over the past eight years. And, Jesus knows, there's a shit ton of hatred in the world.

So, as Mrs. Claus, it's my responsibility to ensure that Christmas happens...to be totally responsible and make magic happen for my kids.

And, as Mrs. Claus, I purchase really good stuff for myself. Duh. For the past several Christmases, Mrs. Claus purchased a gift certificate for a pedicure for me. Because Mrs. Claus knows I need to park my ass for an hour and indulge in self-care with no children around.

Mrs. Claus has even become so popular in my home that my kids say things like, "I sure hope Mrs. Claus has arranged for the elves to fill up my stocking!" That's right. They are boys being trained to know that women run the show.

Over Portugal
Even though my very bright, but young 4th grader is starting to question me about Santa...I went straight to Mrs. Claus: "Yes, actually, Mrs. Claus is the one responsible for overseeing all the planning including the route planners who work with the meteorologists, and then they coordinate it all and send it up to Google Santa Tracker and then Mrs. C gets the final word on all of that. You know?"

A couple of weeks ago, we were standing in line to see Santa at Swain's, because they have everything including Santa, my boys asked me where Mrs. Claus was, "Oh she just dropped him off and is gonna pick him up later because she's gotta get back to the North Pole and make sure the elves are getting the toys made."

Secretly, it's kinda fun.

I even talk to strangers about Mrs. Claus. I recently had a delightful conversation with a nearly 4-year-old girl and she's never fucking heard of Mrs. Claus! Sweet Jesus! That's just shameful. So I filled her in. I think her dad was a little concerned. He didn't turn around and look at me because he either didn't want to encourage me, or he wanted to get the fuck outta there. I can't say I blame him. I mean, some middle-aged broad with a purple pixie was talking to his 4-year-old in a pink pussy hat about Mrs. Claus. He was not gonna jump in on that conversation. Gotta penis? Get out.

Last night, as my husband and I were setting up and making Christmas happen, because my husband knows which side his bread is buttered on...our younger son struggled to get to sleep. It's the excitement of Christmas. I get it. I've been there. Sometimes I'm still there. But not when a child gets out of bed to pee...and then can't get back to sleep...because he's never been to sleep in the first place. Ugh.

Our living room and the boy's bedroom share a wall, and we were as quiet as we could be in our set up. But, due to sickness last week, we've been super duper minimal this year. It was all we could do to get the Christmas stockings out of the loft in the shed. I'm not down with live trees; allergies. And, I don't want to make our incredibly dedicated 4-legged child move out of her space.

Keeping in the tradition of thinking outside of the box, my 4th grade son decided to paint a Christmas tree...and we placed presents under it. He was concerned that Santa wouldn't find our house. I told him Mrs. Claus had it all under control, and that there'd be gifts from Santa and Mrs. Claus in the morning.

And there were. Complete with flame-less candles for the win. 

Painted Christmas Tree with gifts.


Sunday, December 23, 2018

NatrureBridge Field Trip

At the end of October, my son went on the biggest school field trip ever. The entire sixth grade class went to a 3-day, 2-night expedition to NatureBridge at Olympic National Park. 

All the gear. Note the van and packed trailer in the background.

The school district where my kids are enrolled is generous enough to pay for every sixth grader who attends school, as well as the teachers and a few parents that are crazy enough to chaperone, to go out to Lake Crescent and learn about the natural environment up here on the North Olympic Peninsula.

Waiting to load up





The sixth graders were given Field Journals, in which they take notes about what they learn in their natural environment: Old growth forests, the Elwha River system, studying water samples and macroinvertabrates, and geology.
Writing in his field journal

NatureBridge promises a classroom without walls, and they delivered big time for my son. Did I think he'd be capable of doing this? Yes, absolutely. Was I nervous about sending him? Absofuckinlutely. Did I over-pack the suitcase? Totally. But, when your kid is spending three days outside in the largest rainforest in the world, which is North America's Pacific Temperate rainforest, and it's the beginning of the rainy season, and you know your son gets messy at the drop of a hat, you over pack his suitcase.

Happiest kid ever
He didn't brush his teeth. He didn't take a shower. He may have changed his clothes. But he's a twelve-year-old boy who was with his friends, away from his parents, and upon his return I asked him if he did any type of personal hygiene, he said he "wasn't really interested" in those things.

Fantastic. For reals. Because I'm sure the other sixth grade boys also did not clean any parts of themselves, either. Integration at it's finest. Borderline Lord of the Flies.

In order for this trip to happen, my son needed additional supports from adults. My son is developmentally disabled, and struggles to grip a pencil to write his name, but did the best he could with his field journal. He walks really quite slowly, which translates to he needed a lot of gentle pushing, and perhaps even a bit of pulling, when they were hiking Marymere Falls. But he did it. He's done it before, so it's not like he's never been. But some of his peers had never been. It provided him an opportunity to be a leader.
At Marymere Falls

The adult that was primarily in charge of him was his former Special Education Teacher, Ms. B. She was in charge of my son during first grade, and then again in fourth and fifth grade. He was homeschooled for half of second grade, and all of third grade. So, she knows him, and our family, very well. I consider her an integral part of my son's education and we've become dear friends.
Eating the sandwich he made

My son made his own sandwich and ate it. I found this hard to believe, and Ms. B knows I would think she was totally bullshitting me, so she took a picture for proof!

Little bit of soccer practice
While he was out playing and learning and having the coolest experience ever, my husband and younger son and I had a little fun. I got to go to soccer practice. I typically didn't go because there's really no need for all four of us to go to practice. It's a logistical nightmare for all four of us to go anywhere during dinner time because it throws off the entire schedule in a way that takes days for my special needs child to recover, so he and I would typically stay home and play UNO. He's really quite good and ends up kicking my ass quite a lot.

Dinner: chicken, slaw, ginger cake. He ate it all.
My kid with special needs ate all of the food that was offered to him. We were not permitted to pack food for them. And, as a dedicated rule follower (mostly) I did not pack food for him. I'm sure they accommodate kids with special dietary needs...but that's not something my son deals with so it's not on my radar.

Because my son takes medications on a regular basis to control his seizures, a form needed to be completed by his physician, and of course, I had to send all of the necessary meds, in their prescription bottles. So, there was some homework on my end to get this shit done. I know intrinsically my kid isn't the only kid that was medicated who was going on this massive expedition, but when you're doing the prep for this, it feels completely fucking isolating. Because, as a culture, we're trained to NOT talk about these things. We're trained to NOT discuss the fact that some kids need meds to get through their day. There's no shame in the fact that my child needs medications in order to not seize. But my culture makes me sometimes feel like he's not healthy because he needs medications...leading me to meditate on "what does it mean to be healthy?"

The kids all went out to NatureBridge on Wednesday and came home on Friday. And everyone was exhausted when the buses pulled in to the school parking lot about 45 minutes later than they were expected. But, considering they had to move about 100 kids and adults, running 45 minutes late is understandable. In my experience of being at the lake, it's so beautiful out there that it can be difficult to leave and head back to reality.

I am so thankful that my son had this amazing experience and for the adults that helped him. Special thanks to Ms. B for having his back, for taking all the pictures, and getting them to me. We love and appreciate you more than we could ever express.
In the burned out tree on the trail






With Ms. B.
Larger than life


How Abby spent most of her time: on her boys' bed

In a canoe on the lake

Happy and exhausted
Brothers reunited; they really did miss each other













Saturday, November 17, 2018

How's It Hanging

9.5: Hey, Mom! How's it hanging?

Me: They're both hanging fine, thanks.

9.5: smiles and nods as he takes a drink of water.

Me: How's it hanging for you?

9.5: Fine, thanks.

Me: Do you know what that means?

9.5: Ummm...no….

Me: It means you’re talking about your penis.

9.5: No it doesn’t!

Me: Yes it does.

9.5: I'm never saying that again! (Pause) No it doesn’t mean that, Mom!

Me: Yes it does. Go ask Dad. Because, clearly, being a woman, I have no 
idea about penises.

9.5: DAAAAADDDD!!!!! Runs down the hall. Returns about 10 seconds later, 
running at top speed down the hallway into the kitchen.

Me: Well? What’d Daddy say?

9.5: He said it means I'm talking about penises.

Me: It’s fine to talk about penises, we just don’t need to harass anyone about penises. 
Or vaginas.

9.5: Right. Or vaginas, Mom.

Me: Thanks, I. I love you.

9.5: I love you too, Mom. 

Sunday, November 11, 2018

Surprise! Surprise!

So, My Little Brother, who is 12 years younger than me and provided me the BEST form of birth control EVER as a teenager, showed up at my younger son's last soccer game of the season yesterday.

They boys had the biggest and best surprise of their lives! Because they really do love their Uncle Sammy. No, he's not Uncle Sam. Never has been, and likely never will be. Because, seriously? In this political climate? No, thank you. 

My Little Brother brought his girlfriend, and they are rather serious. Like, I'm pretty sure they're gonna get married type of serious. You don't trek all the way up to the North Olympic Peninsula from Phoenix, Arizona, with your lady, if you're not serious about this broad.

And it's great! For reals. Because she's an ophthalmologist and his vision has been shit pretty much his whole life. She's got an impeccable future-sister-in-law-bedside manner because, according to her: "he needs some pretty powerful lenses." But, really, we all know he's really just interested in her for her LASIK surgery abilities.

That and our mother is probably thrilled that her son the lawyer is marrying a doctor. Seriously. Because it's all about appearances with my mother. She's a "what would the neighbors think?!" type of a gal.

The last time My Little Brother was on the Olympic Peninsula, was the summer of 2015, when I was going through chemotherapy treatments for breast cancer...and yes, he went with me to chemo...because he's a nice guy. My parents didn't come up. I'm still working on letting go of that...and it's not the point of this post.

The last time I saw My Little Brother I went down to Arizona in the spring of 2016, about 6 weeks before my husband was diagnosed with HPV caused tonsil cancer. He was living with a different woman at that time...and they were completely different. And while I was disappointed they didn't work out, I'm also kinda relieved...because the new girlfriend he's living with...in a completely different house...is delightful.

Like, she doesn't miss a beat, has a quick wit, with a touch of dark humor. We're very much looking forward to getting to know her this week.

They are not staying with us, thank you Jesus.

Partly because we don't really have the living space. I mean, we could make it work if we absolutely had to...but we are thankful they are AirBnB-ing it.

Partly because they are vegan...and the logistics of cooking two dinners...and sometimes I have to throw corn dogs and Ore-Ida French fries at my kids to get food in them...right?!

Partly because I'm recovering from the Ear Infection From Hell...and while I just finished 14 days of antibiotics, I'm still using ear drops 4 times a day (only 4 more days of that)...and nobody wants to deal with house guests when they're recovering from illness. Not to be rude...just being realistic, you guys. 

She has no desire to have kids. And I'm ok with that. Because, really, in the event of something catastrophic happening to my husband and me at the same time, I'll need my brother to step up....

But, if she can survive the week with my crew, and learns more about the Anderson Family Circus, then she's in......


Sunday, September 16, 2018

August 2, 2017

The kid sitters weren't available.

A-Team Leader Momma Christine wasn't available, since she had out of town guests. From Japan. When Momma Christine was Teenage Christine, her family hosted a Teenage Exchange Student from Japan, and now that lady was a Momma and she was traveling with her family to reunite, in person, with her American Host Family. Hence, Momma Christine was unavailable.

A-Team Leader Momma Bonnie was unavailable because her family had returned the day before from an extended road trip. I chose to not ask because it just didn't seem like the right thing to me. There was a no in me. And I know she would've taken my kids, had I asked, and it's totally cool, because seriously, I made the best decision I could for all 8 of us, Sister. It's all good.

A-Team Leader Momma Stacie? Working. I'm sure she was presenting some data sets at multiple meetings with administrators and physicians, because that's what she does. She's a Bad Ass Epidemiologist and dealing with data is her super power. So, in the interest of protecting public health, Stacie was not an option. Even though she's a good person because on March 20, 2015, the day of my lumpectomy, she was at our home before 6 am for the first round of Boy Duty. But, for this day trip to the city, I decided that it would be best for my family to be together.

So, Wednesday August 2, 2017, all four of us went. To Seattle, only a 90-ish minute car ride and a wait for the ferry, and a 30-ish minute ferry ride, and navigating the streets of a major city. No biggie. It was for the post-op with the Lady ENT, which was really a no-op, since she didn't really operate. We had to check-in at 10:30 am, the appointment was on a Wednesday in the summer, so traffic shouldn't be too bad. We'll have to get up early. Really early. What's the ferry schedule? Because we'll have to arrive two days before sailing, because summer in the Pacific Northwest means backups.

But Randy has super limited voice. And the boys are...the boys.... What the fuck am I thinking?

Oh! I'll get an audio book from the library. I've been wanting to read Wonder to the boys but I am unable to find my copy. Did I loan it to someone in book club? Or did I borrow it? Jesus I need that app that keeps track of my personal library. I don't have time to scan all of our books though. September is coming, maybe I'll find the time when school starts...? I think I borrowed someone's copy. But I returned it. That I know. Otherwise the book would be in my house. Ha. I have the best deductive reasoning skills, ever.

Abby will be fine. She can hold it. She can skip lunch. But just to be safe, Stace has keys and can get in, so she can be on standby for the four-legged dog-child. Summer traffic can mean a later than planned on ferry. Or a bridge opening. So, just in case, Stacie's got Abby if need be.

Randy and talked about it, and below is the jist of our conversation. Well, really I talked, and he whispered, even though he wasn't really supposed to, as directed by the Lady ENT. He's a rule breaker, though, you guys. 

Me: Nope. You're not going alone. You don't get to make that choice because the Lady ENT is going to do do some kinda procedure where she's gonna laser warts off your throat and you don't know if she's gonna give you a little sedative or something to help you relax and make it easier to get the goddamned warts off your vocal cords.

Him: silence, nods once. 

Me: Second, what if the pathology report is cancer. Again. Do you really want to get that news ALONE? Because I don't want you to get that news alone.

Him: silence, nods once. 

The smoke-filled sky on our incredibly early drive to Seattle Aug 2017
Me: Finally, you're a guy, obviously, and ultimately, even if you're in pain and you're gonna go through cancer  again, you're going to try and muscle through this and drive home, but do you really want to fucking drive HOME, regardless of the results, after she's gonna laser off more warts? We're talking Seattle. We're not talking a quick jaunt to Sequim.

Him: (whisper) fine. What about the boys?

Me: I's cast is off, so they will be capable of waiting in the waiting room with our old their iPhones with their headphones, like when we went over and the Man ENT biopsied your tonsil and you had a PET scan done. You know, when the Man ENT said, "Cancer"? It'll be like that for them and hopefully a lot different for us.... I'll be able to check on them as time permits while I'm supporting you during your appointment. It's a Team Anderson effort and event, dude. It'll be fine, just fine.

Him: (whisper) Ok. Thanks for thinking this through and planning. I love you.

Me: I know. And I love you too, dude. And you're welcome. I don't have a Master's Degree in Health Education for nothing, you guys.

And so our alarms each went off at 4:30 am. Got that? Fourgoddamnedthirtyam. That's before Steve Inskeep is on the air. I really, really, really love my husband. And I really, really, really needed to be with him at this appointment. Dealing with health issues is my super power.

My husband drove like Batman, because that's what he does. And we listened to "Wonder" on CD, which was brilliantly done. We got to the ferry with plenty of time to spare.

Plugged in, complete with headphones, for two hours
And the boys rocked it in the waiting room like the bosses that they are. For two hours. TWO WHOLE HOURS while I accompanied their father into the back of the house, if you will, so they could get him ready for the Lady ENT to use her Laser Wart Removerinator on the inside of his throat.

Laser.

In his throat.

Again.

Fuck me. Can this stop? Because seriously, I'm starting to crack a little under all the Wonder Woman pressure. I'm not her. She's a God. I'm a mortal adult woman who has found herself in incomprehensible, extremely stressful, mind-blowing, situations in a very short time frame, that have changed the way I live and breathe. I have been forced to become proficient in dealing with multiple life-threatening health issues for three of my four immediate family members, including my oldest son, myself, and my husband.

I suppose this is why I have two degrees in Community Health Education. I know it's my super power; what I've spent years in college and grad school studying and teaching: Health. I'm highly trained in the art of Health Communication and I really do know when to be diplomatic and and how to effectively speak with individuals who are highly trained in their professions, including but not limited to:

As a patient, parent, wife, and caregiver, I know when to advocate, and even push, for myself and my family to receive the adequate health care we deserve. And I know when to back off...but only a bit. I'm academically and professionally trained to research what current scientific research and data show regarding the multiple health issues my family faces. I know I'm only one click away from ending up at ScareTheHellOuttaMe.com and I do my best to avoid that.

And I know when to drop F-bombs; I'm really good at that: FUCK Universe, stop dropping so much fucking shit on me and my family! Please. For the love of all that is fucking holy. Just fucking stop, motherfuckers! See? I'm pretty good at the use of the word fuck. I know how to employ it as an interjection and a noun. Sometimes I unpack it as an adjective.

And, no, I don't think I've ever said "fuck" to a practitioner. Except those two separate times I gave birth to each of my lovely little boy babes. I'm sure I said fuck at least once during each of those situations. Laboring women get a free fuckin' pass on that. And my doc is awesome and didn't bat a fuckin' eye.

But ain't no amount of schooling gonna teach a person how to best manage the cards I've been dealt. There is no class called "how to effectively raise your oldest child with life-threatening neurological disorders while you homeschool him and do drug trials to stop his seizures, WHILE you go through breast cancer surgery, chemo, and radiation, AND THEN your husband is diagnosed with HPV caused tonsil cancer less than six months after you finish your treatment for breast cancer, and let's throw a broken arm on the younger son, just for the sake of it" because who in their right fuckin' mind would sign up for that shit storm?

I guess now I know why some of my professors in college and grad school had us use the book they wrote: not because they were egocentric jackasses, but because they had knowledge to impart. So I'm imparting my knowledge via blogging.

Annnyyywaaayyy...

Back in the prep room, they had slathered cotton balls with some type of bullshit numbing agent and stuck those cotton balls up my husband's nose. They also sprayed some serious numbing stuff up his nose and it slid down his throat...or maybe they sprayed it directly into his throat through his mouth...? I don't know exactly what was sprayed where...but they numbed the shit out of his nose and throat because LASERS were coming at him.

We went into another room, and were given some very fancy orange tinted glasses to put on over our eyeglasses, like the cool shades senior people wear, because the laser she was going to be firing onto my husband's vocal cords could really fuck up your eye sight. I don't know. I didn't ask. But I did put my glasses on and I did occasionally steal a glance at the monitor that the camera was attached to and I also sat in the corner like a good wife. I may have even crossed my legs at the ankles, like the fuckin' lady that I am.

So the Lady ENT came in. And the Speech Therapist. And the Laser Guy, who literally takes this big ass machine around the hospital to different clinics and helps get it set up. And the medical transcriptionist, because that woman was recording everything that the Lady ENT said and did. Standard. Who the hell else is going to take notes? I mean, that's usually my job, but nope, not today. Today I'm the one responsible for transporting my family home.

Because at this point, my husband is so numb and the Lady ENT has got scope up his nose and down his throat and I don't know if the laser was attached to that but she turns the laser on by stepping on a pedal like it's a goddamn sewing machine, and the laser makes a noise and goddamnit technology is so cool this better work, please Jesus, let the laser fuckin' work and let the warts be burned off. For reals.

The Lady ENT working the laser, my husband, and the Speech Therapist
And, please Universe, don't let the Lady ENT suddenly sneeze. Because if she sneezes, she's gonna laser his vocal cords right off and he'll never speak again. I don't know if that last part is really true. I didn't ask. Because there's some stuff I don't want to know so I just sit there and am quiet about, with my legs crossed at the ankles, like the fuckin' lady that I am, and in a skirt, no less, because it was hotter than a motherfucker outside. Because it was AUGUST, and August is hot no matter where you live in the Northern Hemisphere.

Let's just say the room started to smell...burning flesh...she didn't sneeze...and yes, it really took two hours for all of this to go down.

I'd flit in and out of the room to check on the boys and make sure they had not completely destroyed the waiting room. Because my kids are feral monkeys. And sitting in the car for 90 minutes to get to the ferry and then sitting another 2 hours in the waiting room for their father, and then sitting another 90 minutes to get home would make anyone batshit crazy, and my kids are fucking clowns who go batshit crazy if they have to sit for five seconds, so I was deeply worried about what five HOURS of sitting was going to do. Apparently my kids were so well behaved and so quiet playing in our old their iPhones that the front office staff forgot they were there...? Huh. Well good for me that my boys to be that well behaved. Seriously. I'm one fuckin' fantastic ring leader! And, thank you boys, for behaving like gentlemen. I love you both and am proud of you. I know you each have a lot on your plates.

Also, my husband is the toughest motherfucker I've ever known. Because I just watched him take a tube the same width as a pencil, up his nose, then it went down his throat, and he allowed the Lady ENT to use a laser on his vocal cords to remove warts in order to prevent them from growing and possibly developing cancer again. He said that at one point, he could feel it being burned off, but that he knew she was nearly done and he just wanted to finish, so he didn't speak up. I get it. Not that he could speak up, because, duh...but he didn't notify her that he could feel it. And, again, I get it...but, dude....

The Lady ENT finished lasering off the warts, and then we had to get the fuck outta there, because it had been two fucking hours...and I was beyond the point that I needed to eat. I asked the front office staff for a ferry pass, because by this point, well after lunchtime, none of us had the ability to wait for what would probably be a couple of hours in line for the ferry. And, no, I'm not driving around through Tacoma. Fuck that.

Since providing medical passes for the ferry is not something that her office usually does, they had to scramble, and it took a lot longer than anticipated. Fortunately for all four of us, they got their shenanigans together and made it happen, given our situation, they were as helpful they could be. Thank the goddesses for compassionate physicians providing direction to their support staff. We loaded up and headed to the ferry dock; I drove, because my husband was not capable. I think the boys ate lunch in the waiting room...? I know I packed lunch, and I know they ate, because their lunchboxes were empty. There was no food stuck to the waiting room wall, so I presume their tummies were full. Let's go, dudes! We got a boat to catch!

After a full day of sitting in the car, and in the waiting room,
we're finally heading home to the Peninsula. Run, boys...run.
When we got near the downtown ferry dock (don't judge me; I HATE driving up to Edmonds!) the line was...longer than a bunch of fucking bullshit! Are you fucking kidding me? I have a goddamn medical pass! Here! Thanks! I zipped us over to the ferry terminal, paid the $50 million fare and we cut way ahead of the line. Sorry, bitches! My husband just had his throat lasered because HPV on your vocal cords is a thing and he's a hot goddamn mess. I was given the choice of being near the bathroom or the stairs; my husband said bathroom, but I'm pretty sure he didn't get out of the car for the entire ferry ride across Puget Sound; I know he was mentally and physically exhausted.

The boys and I got out, because we all needed to move our bodies and use the potty. Because we go when we get the chance. My husband has a bladder of steel but didn't get out of the car until we got all the way home; I know he slept on and off and I'm so thankful I used my super powers to be there with him.

And, thank the goddesses for whoever made the decision to put family bathrooms on those boats, because my Family Circus uses them. Not that it saves my sanity to have my boys watch me pee, because they think it's weird that I squat over a potty and the less things I can fucking touch in a public fucking bathroom, the better, right? This includes the paper that is supposed to be for my protection. No. I'll squat. Work on my glutes, yo. I always go last, and remind each of them to not flush, because the toilet's too goddamn loud and everyone has sensitive hearing. No my boys don't pee at the same time to save everyone's sanity. Don't even get me started about that bullshit.

Please don't wash your hands. I have a gallon of hand sanitizer in my purse. You don't live through cancers without that shit.  

OH for fuck's sake! Don't touch the goddamn faucet! But it saves my sanity to not leave my boys alone on a ferry.

WHY DID YOU TURN THE HAND DRYER ON?! JESUS IT'S LOUDER THAN THE TOILET!!! We all make choices that are best for us.

NO! I'LL OPEN THE DOOR WITH MY SLEEVE!!! DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!!! 

The boys and I spill out of the family bathroom and begin to walk around the ferry for a while, waving goodbye to the city, looking forward to docking at Bainbridge Island. We are always on the look out for Orca, but instead see cargo ships and sailboats and, of course, the ferry headed to the city, which always causes my older son to say,  "Like 'Yellow Submarine'"and I know he's referring to the scene when the Beatles see themselves going backwards in time. So we wave, and he says, "Just like the Beatles, Mom." And I reply, "Yup. Just like Yellow Submarine, kid." It's a comforting exchange for both of us.

We go back to the car, load up, disembark the ferry, and drive a solid 90 minutes before we get home in the summertime traffic. It's been a long and arduous day. I'm thankful we are home safe and sound.

The Lady ENT keeps a close watch on my husband, and he's seen her about every 10 weeks for a check-up. And her "check-up" always involves numbing ointments and sprays, and a scope up the nose and down the throat. It's not easy, but he does it. He usually goes by himself, but when he went earlier this month, on September 10, 2018, which happens to be our older son's birthday...he had the opportunity to be driven by a dear friend who recently relocated from Seattle to Port Angeles. And in spite of the fact that our older son thought Brother Jeff (we're not Mormon, it's just their thing to call each other "Brother") was there to see him on his birthday at 6:15 am, and our day was super stressful and my son and I fought on and off throughout the day...this is the same friend who, when my husband had tonsil surgery two years ago, provided me with the support I needed in the city. So, when my husband and our dear friend went to see the Lady ENT in Seattle last week, it was a much needed opportunity for my husband to have a break from us. He went in alone, because that's what he wanted to do. But Jeff picked Randy up and they went to a fantastic Mexican restaurant. It is incredibly helpful to have a great friend who knows the city well.

The Lady ENT said that Randy's throat looked pretty good, and that the warts on his vocal cords are stable. She compares all of the pictures each time she's seen him, which makes me thankful for the technology that she can just pull that stuff up really quickly. Randy will see her again at the end of November. And in December. Because, just in case she needs to do another laser treatment in the clinic, like she did on August 2, 2017, she'd rather have it on her calendar, because it's easier to cancel the December appointment than it is to find room in her schedule for him...since it's a long two fuckin' hours, and it would be rather pressing. And, she's accommodating his needs in a huge way since she scheduled it right around the time we're done teaching, but before the boys get out for the winter break, so he can spend a little time resting his voice.

Or at least he doesn't have to listen for me yelling at the boys on the ferry.

WALK ON THE BOAT!!! WHAT WOULD THE CAPTAIN SAY!?!?

Thanks for reading. xo



Friday, August 31, 2018

A Tale of Two Casts (Part 2)

And here is the continuation of A Tale of Two Casts...

If you need to read the backstory, I encourage you to read Part 1.

So, we were at Hapkido on a Tuesday in August, which is my least favorite month after February, and after the big kids class, but before the little kids class, Mrs. V allows the all kids to get out all the climbing stuff out and party hard on the mat for about 15 minutes. It's a way for her to build community between the two age groups, kids are together on the mat, and figuring out how to work and play together. It's a very cool time of day at the dojo.

During the big kids' class, my younger son had the opportunity to work with the teenagers one-on-one, and both of the teenagers are both black belts. For the record: my son caused his injury all on his own, as usual; there were no other people around. But, he was feeling incredibly confident because they worked on some really cool stuff. The school is set up so that students of all ages are constantly teaching and learning. So the black belts each taught my son some things, and then he worked with another student and taught that student some things, and basically Mrs. V has it so that a person's brain works as hard as the body. The set-up for teaching and learning is absolutely brilliant.

During the play time in between classes, my younger son got on the monkey bars...you see where this is going...that hang from the ceiling and are higher than the monkey bars at school. My family has been at the dojo since January 2011, before the monkey bars were constructed and hung, so my kid has been on these monkey bars a lot. He lost his grip and fell onto the mat. It was that simple. He landed wrong. And he knows how to land, because in addition to eventually writing, staring, producing and directing...and be the cameraman...for his first ever full-length film...for which he'll win ALL THE OSCARS...he's also going to do ALL HIS OWN STUNTS. Duh. Because that's what he does. I am thankful that his vestibular sense is mostly on point. Mostly.

Below is a video of both of my sons at Hapkido during play time between classes. My older child is knocking down the bag, because he is a sensory seeker and needs deep impact. My younger child is on the monkey bars, crossing back-and-forth for the THIRD time that day. This is during play time between classes at the dojo. And, no, this isn't video of my kid breaking his arm, because I'm not that parent. But, it does give you a sense of the type of shenanigans that go down on the mat between classes.





The problem is that, as he's learned a lot in his young life, physics works; he's named after the man who discovered the Universal Law of Gravity. So, bear with me because I'm not a physicist: when my son fell from the monkey bars and broke his arm, he had a little forward momentum when his hand slipped and caused him to fall. The result of the forward momentum caused him to not land directly on his feet, which would've allowed for him to do a back break fall, decreasing the chance of injury. But because of the forward momentum, his feet and fanny hit at nearly the same time and, out of plain old instinct when a person falls from about 8 feet in the air, he put his left arm down, since he was falling to the left, and that was that.

He immediately grabbed his arm, got up, made eye contact with me, bowed off the mat, and quickly came over to me. Mrs. V came over and she assessed his arm...she's very thorough in her triage since dealing with injuries is part of what she does in her profession as a Martial Artist and personal trainer. He could bend and straighten all of his fingers, and he could move his wrist back and forth. He could bend and straighten his elbow; he could move his shoulder. And thank God for all of his parts moving properly, because it looked to me as though it was gonna be uglier than it was...and because of all the shit my family's been through, I kinda panic sometimes.

The only thing that hurt him was rotating his arm from front to back--so basically turning his hand and arm over to show us the underside of his forearm. He didn't cry...because he's pretty tough...but I knew he was hurting. He agreed to sit on the bench for the little kid's class with an ice pack on his arm. This was very difficult for him because his older brother was on the mat. So...brotherly competition...do I need to even say anything about that? No. No I don't.

One of the adult Hapkido students, who is a wonderful man, took the time to speak with me privately and disclosed that once upon a time, one of his daughters sustained an injury that is called a buckle fracture, and basically, her bone wasn't broken in two pieces, but it was slightly bent and caused some pain. According to the Pediatric Orthopedic Society of North America, a buckle fracture "occurs when only one side of the bone is compressed and buckles but does not break all the way through."

So it turns out that my 9-year-old has a buckle fracture. We found this out on Wednesday morning when we went to the walk-in clinic. But we went to the Emergency Room first, on Tuesday night, because my concern was that because he was in so much pain when he would turn his hand over, I was worried that the growth plate was broken, since his BFF Miss C broke her growth plate in third grade. And I knew it wasn't a complete fracture, which is what my son sustained last year when he broke both his radius and ulna on the monkey bars at school.

Fuckin' monkey bars.

But as we were getting ready to go to the ER, we went into to the bathroom at the dojo, and my kid was balling. He is not a crier. Dude didn't cry in June 2017 when I picked him up from school and took him to the ER with his broken bones when he was 8. So, if he's ugly crying in the bathroom, at the dojo, he's hurting pretty badly. So, I took him, and the ice pack, to the ER, which is less than 5 minutes away from the dojo. My husband went to the dojo to pick up our older son, because taking him with his brother and I to the emergency room was a horrible fucking idea.

And the ER was packed. Like, crawling with people, ain't even gonna get to see the goddamn triage nurse for an hour, sit yo' ass down because the doc won't have time to see you for at least three to four hours, type of packed.

We checked in: Anderson...s-O-n at the end. No, there are two A's in his first name, NOT two S's in his first name. How many times do I have to spell his names? How many times can you misspell Anderson or Andersen or Andersson or...seriously? Oh for fuck's sake, lemme come around that goddamn desk and access Epic and register him myself. How goddamn hard can it be? Yes, he's been here before. His birthday is XX/XX/2009. What? What do you mean you can't FIND him in the system?! A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N. One S, two A's in his first name. Are you fucking kidding me right now? He was here last June...? For a broken arm...? No the other arm. Yes. He's a frequent flyer. Yup. He's had stitches in his chin, too. Why the fuck can't I just pre-register this child for the ER? I mean, I was pre-registered with each of my kids when I was pregnant? It makes sense to just pre-register some kids for the ER, and my kid is one of them. Yes. Mmm-hmm....s-O-n at the end. Yes, A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N. Yup. That's my guy! Well, I'm really glad you found him, too.... Goddamnit...I totally should've gone to the other lady doing registrations....

Buckle fracture; left arm
Jesustapdancingfuckingchristonagoddamncross, that was painful, but we got in. Praise be. Because when we went to sit down some young woman looked like she needed to borrow my bag to puke in it.

As we were sitting there, and my son calmed down, we were able to talk. So, I asked him compared to when he broke his right arm last year, how badly does this hurt? And he said not as badly. We agreed that, since the waiting room was so packed, that it would be quite some time before they'd call him back. He said he was hungry, and I told him that I couldn't feed him because whenever they get him back there, they'd give him medicine to relieve the pain and we certainly don't need him throwing up. We agreed that it was a better idea to go home, get a fresh ice pack, some Tylenol and some dinner, and get to bed at a reasonable hour, and that if it was still hurting in the morning, we'd call our doctor's office.

So, we checked out. We didn't even stick around for the triage nurse. We did go to the other lady who was at the registration desk and formally leave, because I don't need CPS on my ass for eloping from the ER with a kid with a broken goddamn arm. Right?

Oh snap! Kinda. It didn't completely break in two.
Anyway, so home, dinner, Tylenol, ice, bed. Woke up the next morning still hurting. Called our doc's office...and they were closed for a training...of course. So we went to the walk-in clinic and were seen pretty quickly. X-ray revealed that he had a buckle fracture, and so the doc put a splint on it and said he would put in a referral to the orthopedic clinic. But he didn't. And yes, I've already had a very long discussion with the folks at Patient Experience since the very first part of my hospital's Vision Statement was not upheld: "...will achieve excellence, and provide quality, value and safety in everything we do." The physician completely failed my pediatric patient by not speaking with him about his injury and defaulting to me, when my kid is completely capable of explaining himself. Also, the doc did not make the referral to the Ortho clinic. Oh, and he totally judged me for giving my kid Tylenol and not Advil. No, really. So, three strikes means I make a phone call. And, yes, I also let the Patient Experience lady know all about how the lady in the ER couldn't find my kid in the system. I learned that usually the walk-in clinic docs don't ordinarily make referrals to the orthopedic clinic, but that since the x-ray revealed my kid needed to be seen, the referral should have been made. But this doc, and his sanctimonious tone regarding me administering Tylenol and not Advil...he's probably the type of man that also feels free to make decisions about my uterus, so I'll refrain from commenting further.

Annnyyywwwaaayyy...

My kid wore the splint on his left arm for a week, which, of course, I know from experience is standard. During that time we went to the county fair and partied pretty hard. He did the rides he felt he could; we were thankful that the carnival staff even let him on.

My boys, partying hard at the county fair!
And the following Tuesday after his injury, we went to see Orthopedic Surgeon Dr. M, who, fortuitously, is part of our Hapkido family. She and her son have been part of the dojo for many years, and she knows our family dynamic and is pretty familiar with our family health history. I was anticipating a partial cast; my son was thinking that he'd just stay in the splint. And Dr. M is fantastic because when she examined him, she talked with him like he was a person who is capable of understanding what she was saying, and she said that she really felt, since he's a rather rambunctious young man, it was better to put a cast on his arm for a few weeks to prevent it from breaking further. Because, as I stated in Part 1: prevention works.
Left: 2018 buckle fracture on the left arm. Right: 2018 mega fracture on the right arm

Here's the deal as to why my kid is in a short-arm cast, which I'll all the Half-Assed, Half-Arm Cast. This is probably the first thing my family has ever done half-assed. So, the way this buckle fracture thing works, the bone is weaker in that area, and even though the doc at the walk-in clinic said being in a splint for 3-ish weeks is acceptable, Dr. M said that if my son were to punch a bag, or to wrestle with his brother and take a hit to his arm, the risk of his arm breaking is higher and then he'd have to wear a cast for a longer time. And no matter how old a person is, it's easier to wear a cast for three weeks than eight weeks. And given that Dr. M has spent years of her life helping people heal their BONES, we chose to listen to Dr. M and get the cast. My son was true to himself and chose purple, which has been his favorite color since he was a toddler. Last year he chose blue, because he experienced peer pressure and thought that boys were supposed to like blue. I know this because in discussion about choosing his cast color last year, he said "no, Mom, blue because all the boys like blue." Bless his heart.

He's not in any pain, and really, with this break, his ego is not his amigo. We're letting him be a kid, taking reasonable risks with his extra-curricular activities. He's learned that a Half-Assed, Half-Arm Cast is easier to manage than a Full-Assed, Full-Arm Cast.

He's able to be on the mat at Hapkido, supporting other students by teaching, and of course he's also learning a lot. He's able to do some Hapkido, but Mrs. V said no rolling, no throwing any punches, and no throwing people. He is able to do some techniques. He is able to do all of his kicks. But no bokkens, until his cast is off. And bokkens are his thing, so that's a bummer.

He is able to be on the soccer field and practice a little. He's mostly doing drills. His Dad is the assistant coach, and my husband played soccer for 20 years, so he and the head coach, who is also a Mom of one of the players, are putting some tight reigns on our son. Our 9-year-old is not permitted to play scrimmage because he certainly doesn't need to be taken down or tackled by another player. Any 1:1 work is against his head coach, because she's a bad ass and can hand him his ass in a nice way, without taking him down or causing further injury. We all know the other 9-year-olds on the field have no such discipline.

He'll start fourth grade on Tuesday with the cast on. He's carrying a black sharpie with him to get signatures, of course. The cast is scheduled to come off on Tuesday September 11th at 8:30 in the morning by Dr. M. His first soccer game is scheduled for September 15th, and we all anticipate he'll be on the field and capable of playing. I anticipate that the purple cast will be added to the art project that he'll create with the two blue casts from his right arm.




A Tale of Two Casts (Part 1)

This one's epic, so grab your favorite cuppa coffee or tea. Or perhaps it's a bong hit or stiff drink. Maybe a shot of apple cider vinegar...? Regardless, I encourage you to sit the eff down and settle in...this is the first in a two-part blog post, because the entire story is a doozy.

But first, you need the backstory, and this post is about the first broken arm my kid gave himself in 2017. The second post is about the second broken arm my kid gave himself in 2018.

And thanks in advance for reading about The Anderson Family Circus.

So, here's the deal with my younger son breaking his left arm on Tuesday August 21st, 2018: 
  • It's not nearly as broken as y'all think it's broken
  • It's certainly not as broken as his right arm was broken in the summer of 2017

Right arm, June 2017
On Friday June 9, 2017, there were only 7 days left in the school year, my younger son, who was in the second grade and had turned 8 about 6 weeks before, fell off the monkey bars during the first recess at school and landed wrong, breaking both his radius and ulna in his right forearm.

No, really. You have two bones in your forearm. And, yes, that's one hell of a way to get your first cast ever. Also, physics works: big lesson in Newton's universal law of gravitation.

I picked him up from school and took him to the emergency room, obviously. And, no, he was not trying to get away from a girl, like his father did when he was in the sixth grade...

Side note: when my husband was a child of about age 12, he jumped off a curb to get away from a girl, because apparently she had cooties, and he broke his ankle. So my husband, as an adult, has a lot of experience with dumbass shit boys do...and for that, I'm very thankful.

In the ER, June 2017

Anyway, my son's awesome second grade teacher, Mrs. N, even had a the kids make an gigantic "get well soon" poster and took a picture and texted it to me, which I showed him in the hospital. But he was pretty loopy on the pain killers and in shock from the entire experience, thinking he was going to go back to school that afternoon. He's very dedicated to his academics.

Anyway, so we came home from the ER and my kid had to spend a week in a temporary cast while we waited for the swelling to go down, which is, I learned, standard stuff.

Cool! No wrestling in the living room? Thank you, Jesus! Because we really don't need anything else broken, obviously. Especially the television, since you're going to need to park your ass, kid. And, hopefully, Please Jesus, this will cause my boys to tone it down about 12 million fucking levels. Seriously. Sometimes for a mental health break, I rub my eyes so hard and so long that I end up expressing gratitude that they don't accidentally pop out of their sockets. My eyeballs are in there really, REALLY, well. Also, sometimes I just need to see all the fractals my eyes can create naturally. You have your way of managing stress; I have mine.

At the end of about a week after his fall from the monkey bars at school, I took him in to see the orthopedic surgeon, as directed, knowing a full arm cast was eminent, and deeply worried about surgery, since my family has a history of things going to shit really unexpectedly and at lightening speed. Thankfully, there was no need for surgery, even though a good friend who is a pediatrician and knows my family very well, said so, I still worried because the shit my family deals with is borderline obscene. Either that or I really pissed people off in my previous lives.

Coolest cast ever, complete with glow-in-the-dark racing stripe!
Whatever.

So the full-arm cast went from the base of his knuckles on his right hand, all the way up his arm, around the elbow, and up to his armpit. The orthopedic surgeon wanted my son's arm as immobile as possible: no bending and/or straightening the elbow, and certainly no rotating the wrist and hand. He had limited mobility of his fingers and thumb. His arm was that fucked up. We Andersons don't do stuff half-assed. Only full-assed, if you will.

So, at the age of 8, for most of the summer, my son bravely wore his Full-Assed, Full-Arm Cast. He opted for a blue cast, complete with a glow-in-the-dark racing stripe down the entire thing. Because they had to give him something cool with this, right? Poor kid. Bless his heart.

The Physician's Assistant who casted my son's arm is a boy-girl parent and a boy's soccer coach, so he was pretty capable of working with me during the Mom of Boys Rundown: 
  • your arm is not a weapon 
  • no wrestling
  • if you hit your brother with your arm you risk having to wear this cast longer than than the 8 weeks the doctor requires 
  • your arm is gonna be pretty heavy and you may get tired and need to rest a bit more
  • no Hapkido
  • no soccer
  • no swimming
  • do not even go near the water or the lake or the beach 
  • absolutely no playing with the hose
  • you'll need your parents to help you take a shower, yes we'll use a full size 13-gallon trash bag
  • I & his BFF Miss C, who had a splint on
    her right arm; kinda cute, kinda not for
    them to match like that.
  • your arm is not a gun, I know it's shaped like a gun, and yes, it'd be really cool as a flame thrower and yes, you can move your thumb and it could be your trigger, but YOUR ARM IS NOT A WEAPON OF ANY KIND 
    • repeat as necessary; especially the "not a weapon" piece, with lots of vigor in your voice, because kids are feral.
He finished out the school year with lots of signatures on his cast, from classmates, teachers, and friends in other grades. I signed his cast first, obviously, because I called Mom Dibs. It's a thing. 

He went to all of his weekly appointments at the orthopedic surgeon, charming the lady X-ray Techs who got to know him well. And on June 22, only 2 days after school was out for the summer and the cast was full of signatures and art from his school friends, the x-ray revealed that his radius was bowing the wrong way. I'm not clinical, so bear with me, but the radius bone in our forearm is supposed to have a natural curve in it, and his curve was bending the opposite direction. Of course.

So the cast, with all of it's signatures, was cut off. They re-casted his arm, and then the orthopedic surgeon came in and bent my son's arm in the correct direction. No, really. Physics works like that. Also, this guy went to school for a really long time to be able to help people, and I reckon he took a lot of physics.

I was not with my son at this appointment, because I was with our older son in Seattle who had an appointment with his pediatric neurologist, of course, which was made months before my younger son even broke his arm. So my husband was with our younger son, and with what went down in the ortho clinic, I absolutely got the better deal when we divided and conquered. Also, women in America make 80% of health-care decisions for their families, which explains why I'm the Default
"Mom! Get a picture of me doing this!"
Take the Kids to the City for their Medical Appointments Parent...so...ya know, what can you do? It's in my DNA.

Anyway, as we were all sitting down at dinner later that day, talking about how each boy did at their respective appointments, my husband explained what happened. And, basically, when they re-casted our younger son's arm and applied pressure to get the correct curve in the bone, our son was sitting there, happy as a clam that there were THREE GROWN MEN in the room with him, giving him ALL THE ATTENTION, which is a big deal when you're 8 and have a broken arm, right? And when the surgeon applied the pressure to our son's arm, my husband said that he watched our son's face change from smiling and happy to shock and pain. There were a lot of tears, understandably, since I'm sure it hurt like a motherfucker. And, had The Mommy been in the room, I would've probably pulled some Hapkido on the doc and made him my bitch, all to get him off my kid. Right? Mommies, you're hearing me on this. But, The Daddy was in the room, so there was this sense of Suck-It-Up-Buttercup, which is exactly what the boy child needed at the time. Not that the they weren't compassionate, because my husband said that all three of the grown men in the room were helpful and compassionate. I mean, it's probably that gender specific kinship of taking a shot in the nuts. Or giving birth.
Every once in a while I get a great candid shot of my boy

Captain. Obviously.
So, new cast on, I called Mom Dibs to be the first one to sign the new cast, duh. And that summer he had a lot of other non-school friends sign his cast; the second cast is signed by a lot of the members of our Hapkido Family. Both of my sons walked in the Fourth of July parade with Hapkido. We made the best of the cards we were dealt. I mean, what the fuck else can we do?

My son participated in Arts Camp for the first time, where he was one of several dozen children who worked all week to create, act, and dance in a play with a Steam Punk theme. However, based upon the fact that they gave him very sharp adult size scissors and had him cut the tape open on a shipping box but instead he ended up cutting the shit out of his left thumb, causing me to end up wiping his butt for a week until the cut healed. I mean, they didn't even call me. Just, "here's your kid, oh and he's got a bandaid because he cut his thumb" and my kid's a very detailed story-teller, obviously, so he filled me in. Don't worry, I already talked to the woman who needed to know. Of course I did.

Busting his moves on stage during the play
Turns out, he had a well-child check that same afternoon and the doc said that a little skin glue could've helped, but that, unfortunately, it was too late because the blood had already coagulated and we'd have to stick with a bandage. The next morning, when I dropped my son off, I told the lady in charge what the doctor said because, seriously? In what universe is it safe to give an 8-year-old child wearing a Full-Assed, Full-Arm Cast a pair of ADULT SIZE SCISSORS that were sharp enough to stop a CHARGING FUCKING RHINOCEROS and say "sure you can break down this cardboard box"...?!?! Not asking for a friend.

Anderson Family Circus, post performance
I know he's incredibly confident, convincing, and has a keen eye for detail...believe me, he learns from the best. I am sure he told you multiple times all about how confident I am that he'll eventually write, star, produce and direct...and be the cameraman...for his first ever full-length film...for which he'll win ALL THE OSCARS...but he's 8. All four fingers on both hands. No thumbs. That gives you EIGHT. He. Is. EIGHT. Years. Old. And, even though he is super independent and clever and figured out, all on his own, how to wipe his butt with his left hand, we are now having to wipe his ass again...so, yeah...thanks for creating more work for me. And his brother is disabled and often times needs help wiping himself...so, my husband and I get to now help TWO BOYS wipe their asses. Of course. I recognize this was an unintentional injury, however it could've been prevented if you'd had the appropriate sized scissors. Prevention works.

Wonder Woman battle scene drawn by my kid with his non-dominant hand,
as indicated on the bottom line of the drawing (July 2017). This hangs next to my bed.
Yes, I'm aware that he is ambidextrous, as evidenced by the picture of the Wonder Woman Battle Scene that he drew WITH HIS LEFT HAND. But still, basically, my kid is DISABLED because he's got a Full-Assed Full-Arm Cast on his dominant side, for fuck's sake, so please do not give any children adult-size scissors, ever. Please always give them kid-size scissors. That's what Maria Montessori would have done. Annnndddd Dr. Montessori would never have asked a child to break down a cardboard box with adult size scissors. For reals. Even though they had cardboard boxes back in her day.
Waiting for 2 hours in the Lady ENT's office

Anyway...we spent the summer of 2017 going to all of the appointments required for his arm, which I can attest, beats the hell out of spending two summers in a row at the cancer center. But my husband had surgery that summer over in Seattle. And then, because the Lady ENT wasn't able to completely do what she needed to do in the operating room, all four members of the Anderson Family Circus went back over to Seattle for her do a procedure in clinic, which was the longest two hours ever. But, still, totally beats chemo and radiation on my boob and his throat. And, by the time we went, the second Full-Assed Full-Arm Cast had been removed and my son was able to both straighten and bend his elbow (what is that? Flexion and extension...? A&P wasn't really my thing....) He was also capable of playing on my old his iPhone, which was helpful when we went to the city for the ENT to laser my husband's throat...like she does.

Practicing writing numbers with his non-dominant arm

He did a lot writing and drawing that summer...and he did a little bit of gardening, because that's a reasonable risk, but the deal was he and his brother couldn't be in the garden with the hose on at the same time, because that's an accident waiting to happen. And we absolutely, positively, totally stayed away from the lake and the beaches. There was a firm "no" in me on that.

Cut it off!
A little bit of freedom!
When he did eventually have the cast taken off for good, I think we all anticipated that he'd be out doing all his usual shenanigans, because it's hard to keep a good man down. But we were all surprised to learn that a person's skin is incredibly sensitive when a cast is taken off. I mean, duh, because the skin hasn't seen the light of day or even any air on it for 8 weeks, so it totally makes sense. So, he didn't really push me on going to the beaches or the lake. We ended up going to the lake one time in the summer of 2017, and that was totally ok. "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." My family is becoming well versed in the fact that sometimes we don't get to have the experiences we anticipate.

My son's first ever experience in a cast took the wind out of his sails for a little bit. And, yes, he still has both casts in his closet in his bedroom, and he's planning on eventually using them for some sort of art project, obviously, because he's an artist.

On the one hand, I'm thankful my son had some hard lessons, I just wish they didn't have to happen so close together and at such a young age. On the other hand, the lessons he's having are, hopefully, molding him into a more resilient and compassionate person.

That was all the backstory...

You can read about the August 2018 broken arm in A Tale of Two Casts (Part 2).

Because, really, I can't even with this blog post anymore, you guys. I'm Jabbaed Out.