I'm, Apparently, Full of Eggs

Remind me to never blog the words "nothing much going on here"

Today after Show Low Days, I put Benny down for a nap and the kids went running around like uncaged monkeys. Then Ben woke up and we somehow were all hanging out in my bedroom while Bob played a video game.

Dylan was messing around on my work out machine and Benny was crawling toward him and then BLAM! Dylan knocked Ben right in the forehead with the dang Gazelle pedal.
AH CRAPSHIT!

Immediately Ben wailed. I freaked out and grabbed him up. A lump began to form. A big lump.

Dammit!!!

I swooped Ben (screaming) into the kitchen and got an ice pack for his head. He wouldn't let me hold it on there. The lump grew and darkened.

I informed Bob that we would PROBABLY be adjourning to the emergency room. Then we did.

Despite having a child with a head injury I was not immediately whisked into the sacred ER.
After he PUKED on me, I told the bitch ho behind the counter and she said "No worries!" and I said "Bitch please!" No.
I really said...
"Actually he got hit in the head, so I'm quite worried that he just puked on me."

Still, no action from the nurses.

Finally they call us back and we don't even get a room, we get a glorified hallway aka the suture "room" which is partitioned into two "rooms" by "curtains". No, they were real curtains.

On one side is a gal on a bed getting her leg stitched up after a quite nasty fall. Tetanus shot required. Patient privacy is a JOKE!
On the other side is Ben's exam area. There is no bed. There is however, a La-Z-Boy chair.
What???!?

Because there is no bed, I have to hold Ben the whole time. He is angry, hurt and squiggly. THIS part of the day really freaking sucks. Seriously, I've been home for two hours and my arms are STILL sore.

OK, anyway. 100 hours later the PA comes to examine him, by then he's puked again. So it's OFF to a CT scan for us! Yay!

Other than the puking and the total hatred of being at the hospital (which in my opinion is normal behavior) he's acting fine, so I'm not super concerned at this point.
We get to CT and it's just like on House. And I said that. And the CT tech said, "oh baby, tell your mom she's funny." And I wasn't sure if she meant it or if she was being sarcastic. I went with half of each.

Then despite having trained and able bodied people there, the CT tech tried to make ME hold Ben onto the CT scan table thingy...that was an epic fail. He squiggled too much and I love him too much to restrain him.

So that girl who halfheartedly said I was funny got Punk'd and SHE got to wrestle my baby and listen to him holler in her face. Who's funny now?

Then we went back to the room hallway and La-Z-Boy to await the results. About an hour later, and 4000 squiggles and screams, the CT results were in!

It happens so much faster on House.
Anyway, in the hour I waited, I kept hearing part of the M*A*S*H theme song (trivia: It's actually called "Suicide is Painless" which adds to the ultimate irony of this story) being played in the ER.
When a nurse type person finally came into our hallway I asked her about it and she said that the trauma system was set to play the M*A*S*H theme song as an alert tone to let the ER staff know that a patient would be arriving by ambulance or helicopter. Pretty fricking dark no?

Ben's CT scan was clear, no sign of brain trauma or bleed, which I expected given his demeanor, which was normal. As we awaited our discharge paperwork, I heard the M*A*S*H theme song three times. One sick baby, two assaults (one on the Rez).

Shortly thereafter, we were discharged. While I loaded Ben into the car, I saw the helicopter coming from the direction of the reservation. Mr. Assault Victim. As we turned out of the ER parking lot and onto the main road, there was an ambulance. Two minutes later, the other ambulance. Wow. Those ER people were about to get VERY busy.

Since Benny was fine and I was starving, I hit the KFC for a grilled chicken meal. So I guess I went to KGC.

When I got home, I was immediately descended on, like crows to a fresh squirrel carcass in the hot summer sun.

"You're not getting any of MY dinner! You guys ate pizza!" I said.

Dylan eyed my tray like the Terminator.

Chicken. Rejected.
Mashed potatoes. No match.
Cole slaw. Negative.
Biscuit....analyzing....analyzing.....Approved!

"I'll just have aaaaaaaa biscuit!" he said with such glee that I just HAD to split the biscuit with him. What a sucker I am!

Then Elizabeth pulled the same move.

Potatoes. Ew!
Cole slaw. Gross!!
Biscuit. Missing!
Chicken wing....analyzing....analyzing....APPROVED!!

But she didn't speak. She just puppy-dog-eyed my chicken wing until I gave up and let her have it.
Then she wanted my spork! My SPORK!

I gave it to her.

"Mmmmm. Smork!" she said.

My meal plundered and consumed (Elizabeth saved her sMork). I adjourned to the loo, accompanied by Mr. Biscuit Thief.
Since he's potty training, he went first. A trickle at best, but a start!
He examined his work, and was proud.
Then I had to use the loo. I peed.
He was astonished at the loud loud noise!
"My pee was very quiet!" he said.

Then he examined MY work...

"Whoa mom! You're full of eggs!" and he flushed it away. I laughed so hard, I almost peed my pants, but then I remembered, I had just peed and as Dylan says I was "all out of pee."

So yeah, remind me to never say "there's nothing much going on here" ever again.

The End.

Dylan the Destroyer

Technically, he didn't DESTROY anything yet...but this is what he DID do...

This morning we tried to get him to use the potty.
When he woke up I put him right in to big boy underpants, which he peed in. Then I put him on the potty. No pee.
Back into jockeys...he peed in them too.
Onto the potty...nada.
But wait!!!

For his birthday he got a Thomas the Tank Engine birthday train which is magnetized, as in all the cars stick together with magnets.
ANYWAY. On his second trip to the potty, he brought one of the cars with him...
Experienced parents, you know where this is going....

I put him on the potty and went back to get my coffee, and settle in for a long session of "Go poo-poo in the potty! You can do it!" ad nauseum.

By the time I got back to the potty, one minute tops, he had tossed the train into the potty and I saw it sliding slowly down the potty hole and into oblivion. I tried to save it, but alas...the train was lost.
Dylan cried.
I felt bad for him but dang! Put POO-POO in the potty, not CHOO CHOO!!
Duh.

Now he'll NEVER potty train!

Oh. Good. Grief.

So just moments ago Dylan came over and told me "I want go potty" which means exactly what you think it means. Not like when he says "I want bla-da-bla-da-bla" which means "Give me a banana, wretched woman!" (yes, in my head, Dylan is Stewie)

We ran off to the bathroom, threw his Dora potty seat onto the toilet and I started to take off his cute corduroys while he simultaneously tried to climb up onto the potty.
Disaster!
He lost his grip AND his pants caught on his foot at the same time sending him face first into the side of the toilet.
Oh. No!

He did that crying-without-making-a-sound crying for about a minute. His lips actually turned purple he hadn't drawn breath for so long. Finally he gasped and let out a wail of sorrow.
Oh, I felt so bad!!!

If he hadn't already pooped his pants, he did after that, so getting to the potty in time was no longer No. 1 priority. Or No. 2. Heh.

Dylan got a big mama hug and I cleaned him up, diaper wise. Details spared.
I checked his teeth, they were fine. No blood anywhere. He banged the chubby part of his cheek and probably his nose since he kept sniffing for about five minutes after the incident. Not sniffing in, but like blowing out. It was strange.

Now he's got a big red circle on his face where he impacted. Like a half made up china doll. One side all rougey, the other, plain.
Poor baby.

If I was him, I'd never go near a toilet again!