After all the drama at the weekend, I'd like to present to you some more... normal... stuff.
Owen woke up at 4.45am to cry, throw up, and generally annoy both himself and us. All the commotion woke up our cat, Bob, who decided that this was the perfect time to bring us a 'present'. As we settled back down to get another few minutes of kip, Bob was out hunting. And catching. And mauling. At about 5am, I was just nodding off again when the rather alarming sound of a bird twittering and tweeting very close to me brought me to my senses. Now, we had an amazing thunderstorm last night, so my first thought was that we had a hole in our roof and a bird had somehow managed to get inside the attic and couldn't find a way out again. Anyway, it stopped shortly after and as there was no water dripping on to the bed, I figured I'd just deal with it when I got up.
The alarm went off at 5.30am and Mike got up. Now, yesterday he had some minor surgery on his toe (more on that later), so he was kinda hobbling about and knocking shit over in an attempt to re-dress the bandage. So he turned on the light to see all the shit he'd knocked over. And saw instead, horror of horrors, that Bob had not only brought a live bird in to our home, but that he had chosen the spot just outside our bedroom door to play with it and kill it. There was blood and feathers and dead bird carnage EVERYWHERE. Bob, meanwhile, was nowhere to be found. He was obviously very pleased with his offering and had gone off to bother some more of Wisconsin's wildlife, and we were so mad at him that we closed his cat flap and locked him outside for a bit.
That poor, poor birdie. It's Bob's fourth present snce we've allowed him outside: three birds and a baby bunny rabbit. The rabbit was very sad, but at least it was a swift, clean kill. This latest one was obviously very distressing for the birdie because I could hear all its twittering as it died. I have no idea if, had I gone to investigate the noise, I could have saved the birdie, but I think it would have been even worse. Bob would have probably released it, and then we would have had a flying, twittering bird in our house with severe injuries. Poor little birdie.
Stupid cat.
So, Mike's toe surgery was to FINALLY fix a problem he's had for eighteen months. Christmas 2008 he went out in the snow to get something from the car, and decided flip flops were the sensible footwear of choice. As the snow was coming down thick and fast, he ran back up the steps to our (then) flat, and slipped on some ice, slamming his big toe into heavy-duty concrete. It's never been right since, and all attempts to help it heal haven't worked. Until yesterday he had a pretty serious ingrowing toenail, and an infected site that oozed pus every day. Well, the doctor whipped that sucker out and GOUGED OUT THE OVERGROWN FLESH that was trying to compensate for a poorly toenail, so that Mike is now left with two-thirds of a big toenail, and two open wounds on each side of the nail. He's pretty miserable and hobbling around with one toe stuck straight up in the air. Also, he can't wear open-toed shoes to work (oh, that he were a woman!), so he's planning some covert operation where he slides his shoes off under his desk and goes barefoot all day. Lol. We'll see how well that goes...
I've also joined a gym where childcare is only $1, but the free weights instructor completely kicked my arse today and I can't be bothered to type any more. Besides, there's still some blood on the carpet upstairs and it's not like I can ask Bob to clean it up.
Tina.
Showing posts with label Rain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rain. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Spoons aren't just for sick people
Came across this today: Spoon Theory.
It's definitely worth a read if you have the time.
As I was reading it, I was struck by how much I could relate to this woman. No, I'm not sick in the traditional sense, but I do have a mental health issue and I do take care of a chronically sick child. I too feel as though I only have a certain number of spoons in my hand at any given time, but for me they're weekly allowances, not daily.
Mike was late getting home today because we had extremely violent thunderstorms which knocked out some traffic lights down by his workplace. Plus, people always drive bananas when the rain comes and it takes you three times as long to get anywhere. Anyway, he called me while he was stuck in a traffic jam and to me it was the last straw. By Friday, I'm absolutely exhausted. I have no energy to feed my son, to cook (or even think about) dinner, to tidy up the house, or to run errands in the evening. I feel bone-tired, even though Fridays are usually my least-busy day of the week, and sometimes I just don't have the energy to get off the floor - which is usually where I am on a Friday afternoon. When Mike calls me at the end of the week, he's always so excited to be done with work, and every single time I manage to crush his buoyancy like a particularly annoying mosquito. I just can't bear it when he's so energetic and ... just ... MAD. He's like a small child on Fridays, and after an entire week of taking care of one of those, I just can't face another.
When I'm tired I can't make decisions. I find it hard to function normally, and as my 'normal' involves feeding Little O, I'm often driven to the point of desperation when Mike is late and can't do his Friday 5pm feed. Today I nearly cried when England drew against Algeria because Owen REFUSED to sleep at his usual time, which meant he cried and cried and cried, which meant his stomach muscles contracted like mad, which meant I couldn't get his feeding tube to drain properly, which meant I couldn't get his lunch inside him, which meant he didn't eat his entire lunch, which meant I felt extremely guilty, which meant I was exhausted after two hours of battling reflux and guilt, which meant when England didn't secure a win I was VERY upset. And very, very tired. I could NOT face another round in the ring for Little O's dinner, and I was almost catatonic on the floor when Mike told me he would be late. He came home to me still on the floor, propping Little O up on my arm while his automatic feeding pump whirred in the background. Sure, it takes three times as long to get a meal in him, but when you just don't have the spoons left to fight another battle, it sure as hell makes do.
Today, my spoons are all gone. But tomorrow, thank God, I get a fresh supply.
Tina.
It's definitely worth a read if you have the time.
As I was reading it, I was struck by how much I could relate to this woman. No, I'm not sick in the traditional sense, but I do have a mental health issue and I do take care of a chronically sick child. I too feel as though I only have a certain number of spoons in my hand at any given time, but for me they're weekly allowances, not daily.
Mike was late getting home today because we had extremely violent thunderstorms which knocked out some traffic lights down by his workplace. Plus, people always drive bananas when the rain comes and it takes you three times as long to get anywhere. Anyway, he called me while he was stuck in a traffic jam and to me it was the last straw. By Friday, I'm absolutely exhausted. I have no energy to feed my son, to cook (or even think about) dinner, to tidy up the house, or to run errands in the evening. I feel bone-tired, even though Fridays are usually my least-busy day of the week, and sometimes I just don't have the energy to get off the floor - which is usually where I am on a Friday afternoon. When Mike calls me at the end of the week, he's always so excited to be done with work, and every single time I manage to crush his buoyancy like a particularly annoying mosquito. I just can't bear it when he's so energetic and ... just ... MAD. He's like a small child on Fridays, and after an entire week of taking care of one of those, I just can't face another.
When I'm tired I can't make decisions. I find it hard to function normally, and as my 'normal' involves feeding Little O, I'm often driven to the point of desperation when Mike is late and can't do his Friday 5pm feed. Today I nearly cried when England drew against Algeria because Owen REFUSED to sleep at his usual time, which meant he cried and cried and cried, which meant his stomach muscles contracted like mad, which meant I couldn't get his feeding tube to drain properly, which meant I couldn't get his lunch inside him, which meant he didn't eat his entire lunch, which meant I felt extremely guilty, which meant I was exhausted after two hours of battling reflux and guilt, which meant when England didn't secure a win I was VERY upset. And very, very tired. I could NOT face another round in the ring for Little O's dinner, and I was almost catatonic on the floor when Mike told me he would be late. He came home to me still on the floor, propping Little O up on my arm while his automatic feeding pump whirred in the background. Sure, it takes three times as long to get a meal in him, but when you just don't have the spoons left to fight another battle, it sure as hell makes do.
Today, my spoons are all gone. But tomorrow, thank God, I get a fresh supply.
Tina.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)