One of These Things is Not Like the Other.

Can you guess? Sorry to keep posting about pregnancy, but it is weighing heavily on my mind… and body. Back to my ankles. Or rather, ankle.

About a week and a half ago, my leg began to hurt, and less than a day later, it turned into my great-grandmother DeFore’s cankle. After a week of “living with it” (since I have learned that calling the doctor for nothing short of hemorrhage only results in my feeling stupid.) I gave in and called the nurse at my doctor’s office. After 6-8 hours, she returned my call, and assured me that although it was not a fun one, it was a normal symptom of pregnancy. Me, feeling stupid.

By the end of the week I, being the vain woman that I am, was tired of dragging “Stumpy” (as Josh has dubbed him…) behind me. Not one to be deterred, I decided that the doctor would have some cosmetic advice to give. Nonchalantly, I mentioned the curious case to my doctor during the Q & A section of our visit. He laughed, of course, but decided to take a look at it all the same. This is where my day took a turn into the unusual.

While I lay on the exam table, the doctor, now in the presence of the very nurse that I had discussed my abnormality with at the beginning of the week, began to palpitate my foot, ankle, and calf. I gasped at all the appropriate times, of course, and after the exam was over, a dark shadow came across my doctor’s face. “I think that we need to send you to Radiology for a Venus Doppler Ultrasound.” Great. That sounds fun. “It’s probably nothing, but it could be… a clot.” Even better.

3 hours, one trip to North Las Vegas and back to Summerlin, and two overnight bags later, I got to experience the Venus Doppler Ultrasound. I am pretty certain that my technician was not yet a legal adult, though, I was sure that she knew what she was doing as she respectfully asked me to drop my pants to my ankles and lay on the gurney. I really should have kept track of all the individuals who have seen me naked in my lifetime… perhaps we’ll recount those on another date. It’s getting impressive.

Ah, the ultrasound: She explained the procedure, which sounded simple enough to me, and we began. She would place the wand at various places on my inner thigh, and push “gently” on my calf. I should have known better than to trust a teenager. Oh, the first bit of her explanation was spot on, but when it came to the next step, I must disagree. Wand in place, she reached across me, and proceeded to do what I can only describe as a “Slug Bug” to my very swollen and sore calf. After repeating this move for 5-10 minutes, I was allowed to reclaim my dignity and slink out of the office.

To summarize: After making half a dozen calls, I finally got the results of my Venus Doppler Ultrasound. I do not have a deep vein thrombosis. I am not going to die. Not last week, anyway. Sadly, that also means that Josh has to wait until the 8^th of May for an induction.  Sorry, baby.  I tried.

The Bane of my Existence

It all started on a September morning as I trolled the isles at the local Deseret Industries. I was on a mission: Find ugly 70’s style clothing for Josh and I to wear to a dinner party. Having accomplished my task, I indulged my children (having behaved very well) in a few minutes of looking at “boy stuff”. That is when he saw it; An imperfect and incomplete Spiderman ensemble, calling to him from the Halloween rack. After trying for several minutes to talk him out of it and into the sensible cowboy hat, I gave up and paid the $3.00 for the Onesie that would make his life complete. This is when my nightmare began.

Since that day, some 7 months ago, I have fought to keep my sanity.

Wearing it all day long was just a phase. The costume was a novelty; the excitement would surely wear out by Christmas. Sadly, the costume died by Christmas making it therefore imperative that it be replaced via Santa, fueling his obsession.

Playing Spiderman all day is exhausting. Which, I guess, is the reason that he began to put it on seemingly for style and comfort only. After watching him for the third day in a row, put the rag on his body and sit on the couch to watch Caillou and the rest of the PBS line-up, I lost it. Spiderman needed a rest. I must confess that I hid him in my hamper. The bottom of my hamper. When my son’s eagle-eyes spied the garment, under a stack of dirty towels, I lied. "Um, no, that's not your missing costume..." then, "Shhh... it's hiding." and finally, "Spiderman died.".

My husband, as with most other things, thought that I was making too big a deal out of it. That is, until he saw our son break down in tears at the request of being properly dressed to go to the store over Spring Break. That's when he declared that it was no longer normal.

Since that day, I have consoled my conscience with the promise of saving my son life-long trauma and humiliation. He may only wear his Spiderman costume until it is in desperate need of a wash. Until it comes out of the wash, Josh bought him a Star Wars costume.

All in a Day.

Did you ever have one of those days where you knew it was a mistake to get out of bed the instant you put your feet on the ground? Where your day quickly goes from this:

To this:

To this:

And finally, to this:

This week has been an honest-to-goodness collage of these moments. Does anyone else have weeks like this?  No? Okay, it’s just me then.

I would say more on the subject, but tears hold little to no value in my home.