With my medical background I get really nervous working with raw chicken. But sometimes I’m like, “Well a little salmonella poisoning could be good for the waistline…”
Alex Wubbels is our leader. I want a tattoo of her face, on my face. So when people get out of line with me, I can show them my Wubbels.
Her arrest has gone viral for being shitty and wrong. Many scary, wrong things have happened to me as critical care nurse as well. But nothing could have prepared this poor woman for being arrested for simply advocating patients rights and clarifying hospital protocol (which was mutually agreed upon by the hospital and the police department in question, might I add). My God, that detective leapt at her like a rabid banshee! He’s lucky the holy hell of nurses didn’t rain down upon him then and there! There probably wasn’t time, he skedaddled out of there.
You would think people would have learned their lesson from The View, you don’t f@&$ with nurses. We take shit too, cops. I’ve held the hand of mom while she withdrew care from her teenage son and walked into the next room to feed a restrained, belligerent alcoholic some chocolate pudding. All while keeping a cool head.
And if that idiot detective ever does something else stupid like lights his face on fire and lands in Alex’s care one fine day, I know he will receive first class and professional care, as if they had never met (Lord knows he won’t have any unnecessary blood draws). Because if there is one thing I can tell you, us nurses can hand you your ass when need be. But when it’s time to save lives, it doesn’t matter what your name is, your life matters just as much as the next guy.
I guess that’s the difference between cops and nurses. Asshole.
What happens to my baby for the three hours she is out of my sights Monday through Friday?
Because she’s been doing this for a week now and she’s down a pound, begging for naps, and acting like she’s never been fed.
I send her to this primary colored looking baby love-me-land looking all tidy with her pigtails and cute dress. And I pick up this wild eyed, frizzy haired monstery midget with marker hands who is now dressed in someone else’s clothes, has one ponytail (I think), and a demonic voice is coming from her general direction demanding Spaghetti-O’s.
I can’t keep those things on the shelf either. Stupid Spaghetti-O’s (no I won’t Google how to really spell it!) And we’ve moved on to the “feeds 16 monsters midgets with marker hands” cans but it doesn’t matter because kid doesn’t even taste them. I’m thinking about getting her a straw next time to expedite things.
Oh and, I’m only allowed to warm them in the pan whilst she’s ripping her strangers clothes off with closed eyes, SCREAMING how she’s not tired. So about 30 seconds of “cooking”. But then they’re still, “TOO HOT MOMMY!”
My God people, be good to your teachers. I’m pretty sure most of them are currently thinking “why the hell didn’t I become a dentist?”
The toddler of the house has been talking about this toy at her new preschool that she just has to have for Christmas.
It’s been described to me as, “2 fuzzy heads that you put tiny colored fuzzy squished balls in and then they fall out!” Apparently this is SO HILARIOUS!
Finally after scouring the world wide internet to no avail, I got the bright idea to follow kid into preschool and have her show me said wonder toy!
Behold, 2017’s Christmas must have toy:
Save your pennies folks!
I saw my dad as ten foot tall and bullet proof as a child. Heck, even as an adult!
The truth? He was 6 foot 2, and experiencing crippling flashbacks of horrific wartime moments that included having a pallet of live ammunition dropped on his hand and then being Life-flown to army hospital only be to returned to the front line a few days later, being in the vehicle of a car that was being shot at while it reversed and drove over the little boy shooting at them, and watching the man next to him be killed.
Vietnam killed my dad; he died in 2015.
It wasn’t the Agent Orange (although I’m sure we will later find some connection to that and the significant physical and cognitive disabilities in my sister).
It was PTSD. I don’t think I need to spell it out, you’ve heard of that monster. It’s been all over the media. Its gaining support and momentum from everyone! Except the government. He didn’t sign up for the war. His soul wasn’t built to kill. But the one place these men and women were told to turn to, were told that they would take care of them, turned their back on our heroes.
That too is all over the media. You’ve heard of that monster as well. The failing VA. But let me tell you what happened to my dad after his diagnosis.
He had to surrender his guns. His 2nd amendment was ripped away.
He had to “secure a fiduciary”. It was me, his child. He was told his child was of more sound mind to handle his finances than he was.
He was denied disability for two years after taking an early retirement. He had to retire early because his VA therapy meetings and doctor appointments consumed his time. He had very little to no money for those two years being a divorced man.
And on top of it all. He never slept.
He always saw that little boy in his
Disease processes secondary to Agent Orange that my dad was diagnosed with:
-Diabetes mellitus, type II
-Ischemic Heart Disease
-Peripheral neuropathy, early onset
He was being treated for severe depression, anxiety, and insomnia in addition to the PTSD and above mentioned diagnosis. But those diseases had consumed his life. And not at all by his choice. The appointments and meetings and medicines. As so often done in the medical field, a list of meds and diagnosis replaced a person. Became the person.
But he seemed so peaceful and happy the year before he died. So involved with the family and relaxed and social. So at peace. We just didn’t know that he was finally at peace because he’d made a decision to take back control of his life and…quit.
The day my husband and I found my dad on his floor was the day before we found out that he had quit taking all of his medications. Quit going to all his appointments. Quit begging the government for help. Quit.
The official cause of death was natural causes, likely cardiac.
But Vietnam killed my dad.
This is the cost of war.
written by my dad after being diagnosed and subsequently declared “incompetent” related to his PTSD
There are two things you don't want to hear when picking up books with your 4 year old.
1. Mom! CATCH!
2. Mommy, I need a ladder!
When I was ten I was convinced my mom had eyes in the back of her head. I'd stick my tongue out at her when I was positive she wasn't looking, yet she would know.
Now that I'm a mom, I realize that it's just something moms know. I know when my kid rolls her eyes at me. I can almost hear them roll to the very back of her pretty head.
Lord knows I don't have eyes in the back of my head. But I found this one on my butt today:
Screaming first breaths and counting tiny toes
10 is my favorite number
“Line up on your number, children,” first day of school
10 is my favorite number
Toeing the line between tom-girl and heels
10 is my favorite number
“Ugh mom, no one else has a curfew on the weekends!”
10 is my favorite number
Tear of joy
Stop and think
Rinse and repeat
From beginning to end
My little girl forever
But for now,
Schools almost out or is out for you. Depends on where you are. I can’t help but fear for next year already. You see, next year Baby et al. begins real preschool at a school she will be at until 3rd grade and with the children she will graduate with.
But Baby et al. has developed a knack for one liners. It’s started soon after she was two when she asked a homeless man at Walmart if he was her daddy. Cute, but embarrassing for mommy. She quickly followed that up when she yelled at an elderly lady at Target, “HEY YOU! Girl! Are you happy?”
Oh and then she would walk into any room and ask, “popcorn anyone?!” And then not provide popcorn. Which is both deceiving and disappointing. She would also tell obviously fictional stories like, “I got my foot stuck in a volcano!!” I know what you’re thinking. All kids say these things, plus they’re cute. STFU Her et al.
But then, at her strict Lutheran preschool, she started ending her prayers with either “Love you. Cookies. Amen.” Or “Amen, butterflies.” Her teachers went out of their way to mention it to me, but didn’t seem to care but I was motified.
And she’s yet to say anything worthy of calling DHS….just you wait. She’s learned to top herself with lines like “I had a baby and she ran away.” And “I use to live in a green, green house with lots of green bugs.” And “I use to live in a truck.”
I can see it now, when the DHS lady is conduction her unannounced home visit, Baby et al. will flatter her with “why do you have so many cracks on you face. My Grammy doesn’t have that many cracks because she isn’t as old as you.”
Annnd this is why I have to keep my house clean. Potential, unannounced DHS visits secondary to bizarre comments from my preschooler.