I spent most of a perfectly peaceful naptime yesterday afternoon on the phone with my doctor's office, the oncology pharmacy in Texas, and Celgene, the drug company that makes Revlimid, trying to correct some random error with my prescription that was 100 percent not my fault, 100 percent not in my control, but, apparently, 100 percent up to me to fix. It's a really good thing I wasn't on steroids when this happened, because even in my un-steroided state, I wanted to slap the pharmacy customer-service woman through the phone. It all worked out in the end, though, the delivery guy brought my next round of Revlimid to the door this morning, and I can go back to my one-pill-a-day, no-side-effects cancer treatment and try to forget about this cancer nonsense until I go back to Dr. GPO at the end of the month. That's why it's time for ...
A Whole Bunch of Really Cute Stories About My Kid
Story One: WCK needed a cleanup the other day. I asked Jay to bring me some baby wipes.
"No, Mommy," WCK said. "They're Big-Girl Wipes."
Story Two: I was making dinner (OK, I was reheating some leftovers for dinner), when I noticed WCK playing intently with a set of little stuffed dinosaurs. She was weighing them on the little scale that came with her toy grocery store, examining them closely under a toy magnifying glass, and poking at them with a paper clip. I'm not sure where she got the paper clip. I realize this is a big error in baby-proofing -- I mean, big-girl-proofing -- but she seemed to be handling the paper clip responsibly. I asked her what she was doing.
"I'm making the dinosaurs feel all better," she said, not looking up from her Very Important Work.
"You're a dinosaur doctor?" I said. "That's great!"
"Yes," she said soberly, still continuing to poke at the dinosaurs. "I care about so many things."
Story Three: When WCK goes pee on the potty (which she has been doing beautifully for about a month now) she earns one chocolate raisin and a sticker. The other day, she wandered in while I was in the bathroom, and declared that I had earned a sticker. It had Princess Jasmine on it and said "Excellent Work." WCK insisted I wear it to music class.
"I like your sticker," said my friend Abigail.
"Thank you," I said. "I went pee on the potty this morning."
Story Four: We've been going to the music class mentioned in Story Three since WCK was just a couple of months old. Back then, of course, she had no idea she was even attending a music class. I just wanted to get out of the house. These days, though, she really gets into it. The class is taught by this absolutely delightful, crazy-in-a-good-way woman named Alma, who is probably the happiest person I've ever come across. I want to be Alma for a day, just so I know what it is like to be so cheerful. I guess you'd have to be extra cheerful to teach toddler music classes. WCK has decided that ALMA. IS. HILARIOUS. My child has always been a hearty laugher, but at the last class, WCK was laughing so hard that her face turned red and she was gasping for breath. At one point, she choked out, "Alma!" as in, "ALMA! YOU'RE KILLING ME, WOMAN! STOP IT!" All of the other parents were looking at us, although they could have been admiring my Princess Jasmine sticker from afar.
Story Five: WCK's new hobby is stalling at bedtime. Her usual strategy is to announce that she has to go pee every five minutes after we put her in the bed. The other night, though, she tried a new technique. I put a perfectly healthy child in her bed and went downstairs. About two minutes later, I heard a voice over the baby monitor: "Mommy!" (Dramatic pause) "I'm sick now! I NEED MEDICINE!"
She kept up her plea for medicine for a good 10 to 15 minutes, while I was laughing so hard I nearly ruined my Princess Jasmine sticker earning potential. It turned into high drama, as though she were begging for morphine on a Civil War battlefield. "And give my love to Little Jeb and Amy and Big Joe and all the other folks back on the chicken farm! I see the white light!"
Eventually she realized the medicine thing was not going to work out, and decided to announce that she had to go pee.
I hope she invites me to the ceremony when she wins an Oscar. I want to sit next to Tom Cruise and ask him why he doesn't make Cocktail II.
Story Six: Our local library has a big Alice in Wonderland display up in the children's section. The last time we were there, there was a stuffed cat perched in a fancy paper tree. This morning, the cat was gone. This disturbed WCK greatly, and she spent most of story time asking me where the cat went. I kept telling her I didn't know, but then I realized ... this is the Cheshire Cat. He can disappear at will. So I told her the story of the Cheshire Cat. I told her he had disappeared by magic; he'd faded away leaving only his smile, but maybe he'd reappear the next time we came back. I kept thinking how clever it was of the library to remove the cat from time to time.
Then the librarian came by and said she'd taken the cat down so she could use it in a presentation about cats later in the day.
Oh.
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