He was born not in a cross-fire hurricane*, but with a perfectly heart-shaped tongue. Ankyloglossia, I remembered from my nursing days, was the medical term for it, but I preferred to call it a tongue-tie. It just seemed more appropriate for a baby whose mouth never stopped moving. Er, screaming.
I mentioned it to his pediatrician at his one week Well Baby check-up, not because I had concerns about his eating habits, but because I knew that as an infant, it was a quick office snip. His old-school pediatrician seemed unconcerned, providing he was eating.
And Alex, he was a boob man. Eating, screaming and DECIDEDLY NOT SLEEPING were the three things he excelled at.
The tongue-tie stretched a bit over time, but still, that delicious little heart-shaped tongue greeted me as he bleated for more food. Later, it began to affect his words…only very slightly. That heart-shape gave him the most delightful Jersey accent, and one feverish night, I wondered if I could potentially cast him in an upcoming episode of Jersey Shore. Once I realized the amount of spray-tan I’d have to invest in, I decided against it.
It was a matter of time, I knew, before we had to get it fixed.
What had once been a simple quick snip at the doctor’s office had now become a full surgical procedure. Mostly, I knew, because no four-year old will willingly let you near his mouth with a scalpel. Because four-year olds are smart.
I’d taken him last year, one summer day, to the ENT, who pronounced that it’d be a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sort of procedure: give him the gas, snip it up, and POW! Heart-shaped no more.
I stopped listening after he said he’d be putting the kid to sleep. Not because I had any specific, rational fears about it. Hell, my girl had her head carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey and this, this was the surgical equivalent of a paper cut.
But still, I couldn’t handle it. I tried to be all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER about it. I even went as far as to schedule the appointment. When it came time to actually bring him in, I bailed. Cancelled the surgery, ashamed that I couldn’t do something so simple. Every time I went to reschedule this – such an easy procedure – my heart raced, my eyes went all blurry and three-hundred pounds sat upon my chest.
Every time Dave would mention the surgery, I’d suddenly busy myself with a new cactus video or waxing my dog, or really anything besides talking about the surgery.
As this morning at 7:45, Alex became officially tongue-tie-less.
What shocks me is not that he pulled this incredibly easy surgery like a champ. It’s not that he just inhaled 12 donuts post-op. It’s not that he’s complaining that I have not yet bought him Oreos.
What shocks me is that I’d managed to entirely block out the surgery until yesterday. Last night, it hit me like a bag of oranges to the face, and when I began whining to whomever would listen to me on IM, each person was all, “OMG AB, HOW DID YOU NOT TELL ME?”
And that, really, would be the question.
All I could sputter out was that I’d forgotten. Which I had.
As Alex’s tongue became untied, mine knotted up, unable to share with even those closest with me.
*stands up and waves*
My name is Becky, and I am the Face of PTSD.
*that’d be me. Or Jumpin’ Jack Flash. OR BOTH.
I tend to get into television shows far later than most. In fact, if there’s a series that’s about to be cancelled or IS, in fact, cancelled, I will probably get into it, fall in love, then be devastatingly crushed when it is over. BECAUSE I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT, DAMMIT.
I’m still not over the ending of Prison Break – I cannot think of it without weeping. I may have a little bit of a problem.
A couple of months ago, probably while looking for tweets about laser kitties, I stumbled across The Twitter babbling on about a show called Mad Men. I sorta want to put it in inappropriate quotation marks just because.
Well, I figured that if the REST of the world was watching it, I’d probably hate it. Even though I’m married simultaneously to Dr. House and Dexter – both popular shows – I always assume I’ll hate popular culture. You can thank my parents for that one, Pranksters.
About a month ago, after reaching the end of Numbers, spending several days in mourning and then realizing I needed a new hobby besides becoming overly invested in television shows (see also: my marriages to Dr. House and Dexter), I finally queued up Mad Men.
I’m hesitant about any show that I alone pick because I spent at least three months watching Nip/Tuck while hating every goddammed minute of it. I screamed at the TV like it was a football game every night until I watched every single episode. And then? I’m STILL furious that I spent so much time watching a show while hating every. single. character.
Alas, I digress.
But I picked Mad Men, and I began to watch it, unsure of how I could handle a show where people aren’t eaten by sharks or otherwise horribly disfigured, depressed or maimed (see also: my love of Cold Case and Law and Order: You Lead A Charmed Life, Motherfucker).
I admit, I was bored by the show. But I kept on because I HAD TO SEE IF SOMEONE WOULD BE EATEN BY A GIANT BEAR.
And then, I sorta, kinda, maybe liked some of the characters. Like a little.
But mostly, I liked the clothes. So what if everyone is repressed, drunk, and chain-smoking? THEY HAVE KICKY CLOTHES THAT I COVET! So what if everyone is having The Sex with everyone else? LOOKIT THE FANCY HAIRS!
I’m making an executive decision. I will go back to being a repressed housewife in the 1960’s IF I can get clothes like that. Because have you BEEN to The Target recently?
One word: ROMPERS. For WOMEN.
(that was more like two words or like fifty-niner)
I’m SO not okay with that. I’m also not okay with the scrunchies, acid-washed jeans, or jeggings.
NOT OKAY, PRANKSTERS.
So bring on the copious amounts of booze, gimmie my pack of smokes and fancy lady lighter, and screw being liberated. IF I CAN WEAR A TWIRLY SKIRT, I’M YOURS.
I’m sorry, Pranksters, because I have to inform you of something.
I just won the Mother of the Year award. Certainly it’s better than my You’ve Been Blogging Since You Rode A Dinosaur to School award (highly UN-coveted, by the by), but it is no less an honor.
But nothing will replace the Mother of the Year award I just won.
Since Back To School stuff is long put away, it seems that Halloween is right around the corner. I myself can not actually read a calendar, so Halloween could be next year for all I know it could be tomorrow, which WHOOPS! SURPRISE! But I think I have a month to determine what, specifically, my children would like to be for Halloween.
I’m still pushing for the whole Land Shark thing, but if I don’t get any takers, I may be that myself….or the Twitter Fail Whale (which would be so much awesomer if I were pregnant this year. I could totally leash up my kids as wee birdies).
(for the three of you who haven’t seen it, I suggest taking a minute of your life and devoting it to basking in the glow of this)
Anyway, I’ve been trying for about thirty-five-niner years to get ONE OF MY KIDS to dress themselves as the Land Shark for Halloween. My kids are generally all, “PISS OFF MOM,” probably because they remember that I’d dressed them up as (in no particular order) a Grumble Bee, a Hot Dog and a Hedgehog.
Honestly, I think that ONE YEAR of being the Land Shark is WELL within my rights as someone who birthed these children out of my vagina, but NO. Which means that I will, one day, have to do it myself.
And I plan on eating many people. Just say we were together if anyone asks, okay, Pranksters?
Last year, Benjamin was a pirate (boring), Mili was a pirate princess and Alex was a Flutter-By. He won the award that year for having the best costume. I, myself, was pretty jealous of it.
This year, however, not one of my other children has decided what they would like to be for Halloween. Save for Alex.
Alex has his heart set upon being Saturn.
No, not the now-defunct car company, the PLANET.
The car, at least, I could’ve understood. But the planet? Um. Hi. How the FUCK do I make a Saturn costume? No really, I’m asking you. Because otherwise I’m going to stuff a yellow sweatshirt and call it a motherfucking day. And I’m sure that by not having the proper patterns around Saturn, I will be berated and probably cried upon for failing as a mother. Which, actually is not much different than any normal day around Casa de la Sausage + Mimi.
I really, really do not know how I am supposed to live through all of these creative-ass costume idears. I mean, I? I was a pirate as a kid. And potentially a Land Shark. Maybe a Fail Whale. Possibly wanted to be crazy pregnant Britney and K-Fed one year (but Dave wouldn’t have it). NOT CREATIVE, PRANKSTERS.
So until I come up with a better solution, I’m going to dose my coffee with Almond Extract and wait for the inspiration to strike. Probably in the form of “I NEED TO BE BILLY MAYS FOR HALLOWEEN!!”
Send vodka, Pranksters. Send lots of vodka.
P.S. How do I make a Saturn Costume? While drunk.