Saturday morning found me fast asleep in my very own bed, dreaming contentedly about mountains of marshmallow frosting and inexplicably John Mayer (who, I should add, I find to be a complete douche. With amazing talent. But a douche. But damn, can that white boy play or what?), when through the door burst The Daver carrying Alex. Not entirely unlike the time the Incident When Alex Ate A Dime, but now Alex was 2 and no longer a baby.
Before I knew it, he’d thrust Alex into bed with me, unceremoniously, and while I was delighted to see my son, after a full two painful days away from him, I was suitably UNDERwhelmed to hear what came pouring from The Daver’s mouth.
“I’m sorry to wake you up, I know you got in late, but look at Alex’s eye.”
Alex was laying on his hands on top of me and all I could see was his gigantic hair covered head, and his eye was out of sight. Finally, he popped his face up to look at me (and thankfully did NOT thrust his tiny fingers into my eye socket as punishment for leaving him) and I saw it.
Since the last time I’d seen my son, his eye had…well, grown. It was now approximately the size and shape of a small nation and swollen nearly shut. I could see the purplish streaks that signified bruising from the sudden influx of fluid into his eyelid. Knowing that if something had happened, say, he’d been knocked out in a prizefight or maybe defended my honor against some other toddler who was knockin’ HIS mom, I’d have been told, my heart sunk.
By the grace of God, I forced myself as awake as I could be and sat up. As I wrapped my hammy arms around my son and pulled him close, I sighed deeply.
Alex had cellulitis. Again.
It’s been years since I actively practiced nursing, but I remember several things vividly from nursing school:
1) A code brown best avoided
2) I was a terrible nurse
3) Cellulitis was a big fucking deal.
This cinched it for me: I wasn’t going to be going back to Chicago for BlogHer. Nope. No more $36 dollar bottles of diet coke for me. No more swag and no more marketers. Hell, I wouldn’t even get to meet half the people I’d wanted to meet which is the only thing about the prospect of staying home that made my heart wear a frowny face.
But such is life.
I sent Dave downstairs to put a call in to Alex’s pediatrician while I put on pants as Alex stared at me, making me sort of uncomfortable. He eyed me warily; his one eye studying me very seriously. I’d left him once, he knew, and he wasn’t about to let me out of his (one-eyed) sight again until he was sure I wasn’t going to recklessly abandon him again.
The poor kid had had a bout of cellulitis mere months ago, also orbital (read: around the eye) but this time in the other eye, and I knew that we were about due for another ER visit. I’m telling you, my ER Frequent Flyer Punch Card is nearly full! I’m almost due for a free emesis basin OR I can wait and upgrade to some IV tubing!
The last time, we’d avoided being admitted for IV antibiotics by the skin of our teeth, and I wasn’t taking any chances this time around. We dragged our sad sacks to Alex’s normal doctor, who seemed shockingly unconcerned, discomfortingly telling us to “wait and see.”
Which, hi, I’m cool with waiting and seeing about, oh I don’t know, an ear infection, or a skinned knee, or what crazy outfit Britney will wear next but with orbital edema so severe that my son could now not see at all out of one of his eyes?
The doctor was, apparently as he told us, still pissed that someone had called him at 3AM complaining of a swollen hand from an earlier bee sting. Which sucks, no doubt, but this is my son’s eyesocket, not a boo-boo on his knee.
My professional opinion? Fuck you and fuck that.
It was back to the ER with us. And hey, all’s well that ends well, and we got the script for some antibiotics…
(I feel I should disclose here, in order to assure you that we are not exactly hypochondriacs, that this is the second time Alex has been on antibiotics in his 2.5 years on this planet. And the second time that he’s been to the MD for anything OTHER than a well-baby visit. The first time? Follow-up from the LAST bout of cellulitis)
…and he’s feeling much better. The swelling has gone down while the bruising has gone up, so he really looks like he’s got a pretty rad shiner. I’ve always been fond of a black eye, I told him today, and he just looked at me like I was the world’s biggest idiot.
Because, well, at 2 my son has discovered what the world already knows: I am the world’s biggest idiot.
But anyway. You read my blog. You know I’m a moron. This is not national news.
Here’s what is.
(no it’s not)
(no, really, it’s not)
So, BlogHer gives away a bunch of swag, no? I’m sure you heard of it, what with the hoards of stampeding bloggers rushing the bags and elbowing kids out of their damn way (damn fool kids!). These are not lies, no.
I have a fool ton of stuff. Some of it I’ll use, but most of it? I took because I did not know what else to do with it. It could be useful to other people, but for as much shit as I have in my house, I don’t need any additional, and I was struggling what to do with all of it. There’s some pretty good stuff among the ads and coupons (those I tossed).
I was also stuck trying to figure out what to do with the huge ass stack of business cards I’d been told I needed to bring to BlogHer but didn’t get to pass out because I am a loser who went home early and then had to take her very ill son to the hospital. The loser part is incidental and irrelevant, because, remember, I win at LIFE, Internet.
So let’s do something with this stuff, since it would be green to reUSE it. Anything you don’t like, you can give away to your least favorite relative for Christmas. Here’s what my friend Lola suggested.
Leave me a comment, I’ll email you for your address, or email me outright (firstname.lastname@example.org) and then I’ll send you some business cards.
(Pithy Aside/Reassurance: do not worry about me stalking you, should you disclose your address to me. I have 0% attention span AND I am lazy. Plus, Dave is the only other adult in the house and I just asked him my middle name, so that I could prove to you that he is forgetful. His answer? Elizabeth. My middle name? Sherrick)
Do something high-larious with the cards–you know, take ’em out for drinks, give ’em to your friends, whatever–send me the pictures documenting what you did.
No, not like rubbing one off on them, because ew, but you know. Something creative, or funny, or just plain weird. I’ll throw up the pictures with a link to your site and we can vote. Whomever wins, gets some of the BlogHer stuff and some other obviously hilarious crap that I pick out for you. No, not like old banana peels and breast pump parts. It’ll be like a grab bag of The Awesomeness. But in gigantic box form.
And if THAT doesn’t sound appealing, leave me a comment telling me something else I can do with these cards. I mean, I feel like a tool keeping them, because what the shit do I do with them? No seriously, WHAT do I do with them?
We’ll run this contest until, oh, I don’t know, how about September 8? Because that’s Daver’s birthday and this should help me remember it. See, Internet, I love YOU more than I love The Daver.
Then you cannot say that Your Aunt Becky never gave you anything besides the urge to punch her in the head. Because that, my friends, is the universal gift Your Aunt Becky gives to everyone who meets her.
*Blogher didn’t REALLY break my kid. Just my soul. Whatever was left of it, I mean.