Mouth Misery. Again.

My baby has to have surgery. Again.

Oral surgery, and my baby is eight, but it stinks all the same.



Last Wednesday he bounced from the school bus in a pretty good mood, as Wednesday is early release day followed by a park playdate.  While walking home, he mentioned that he had a bump in his mouth. We paused and I peeked. Sure enough, the area where he had oral surgery in September was swelling up again. Again. Freaking Peachy.


(To read why he had surgery to remove his Supernuemray Teeth and the Hell we went through, read here.)

I didn't write about how Kiddo's mouth became horribly infected in December. The gums under his incision scar first looked like it formed a blister. Then it swelled up, formed a head like an erupting tooth, and exploded, all in about two days. I took pictures, but I will not gross you out with them.  I was scared to death. The oral surgeon put him on some nasty and hard to find antibiotics, and supposedly he would be fine.

That was a week before Christmas.  The infection has returned. Apparently, he is NOT fine.

As soon as I raced through the door Wednesday afternoon, I called the oral surgeon. We had just been there the week before. We had been at the orthodontist the day before.  I fell into a near panic when the surgeon's office gave me a run-around, trying to say I needed a new referral and they had to make phone calls and. . . I called the orthodontist, they were right around the corner. Someone had to see my baby, someone had to give us that antibiotic prescription. After some more confusion, we had an appointment for the oral surgeon the next day.

So, Thursday afternoon, after an x-ray and inspection, the surgeon determined that Kiddo's mouth was indeed infected. Again. And it shouldn't be.

"You need to give me another sleepy shot and go in and fix it," Kiddo told him.

 I laughed.

"You know, I think that's exactly what we're going to have to do," the doctor said.

I stopped laughing.

Friday morning, we get to go through it all again. They are going to cut his gums open and try to clean out whatever funk crept into the wound last time. Thank God Kiddo doesn't remember the last time.  He took Atavan the night before and the morning of the surgery to make him groggy and cause the day fade into a haze. We'll have to put the numbing cream on for areas for the I.V. — the numbing cream that didn't do a damn thing last time, because he screamed and cried when they stuck the needle in. I cried as I held him down.  I can only hope I won't have to carry him out the door after he wakes from the anesthesia, hysterical, unable to understand why he feels that way again. I won't have to sit with him in the backseat of the car as he pleads for water, though I can't quench his thirst, for his mouth is numb and swollen.  I know I'll lay with him in his bed all day, help him through his frustrations as he tries to fight his way out from under the veil of anesthesia, nausea, hunger, and pain.

He is an amazing patient, brave, uncomplaining, and far tougher than I would be.

And I totally don't want to put him through this again.

On the surface, he is thrilled he gets to miss school next Friday. He missed school last Friday because I was afraid his gums would rupture, and the school wouldn't know how to deal with it/drain it before I could get there. It didn't pop. We waited all day Saturday. No pop. Sunday. Still nothing. Picked him up early from school Monday. Waited. Watched. Finally got some action (at bedtime, of course). We'll see how it goes.

Can you tell he didn't want to go to school?

Oh, and did I mention that sometime in the not so distant future he is going to have to have surgery AGAIN?  And braces? Not for teeth straightening — that set is still a few years away. I can't think about that yet, we just have to get though this week. Again.


 

Wordless Wednesday: Pura Vida

Pura vida 

Pura = pure and vida = life

Technically, "Pure Life" in Spanish would read "Vida Pura."

Instead, one meaning of the phrase is closer to plenty of life,
or

full of life,

this is living,

going great,

real living,

awesome,

cool. . .  

It can be a greeting, a good-bye, how are you doing, see you later...

The phrase decorates t-shirts and bumper stickers, covers sarongs and skin tattoos.

Pura Vida IS Costa Rica.

Jaco Beach, Costa Rica

I want to be there. 

Instead I will live vicariously through my characters, 

through daily writing and editing, and through my memories.

Pura Vida

Gone Baby Gone

My Kiddo was known for his long hair.

He attended preschool at the local high school's early education program. While causing all the little teen girls to swoon over him, he noticed how all the "cool" older boys wore long, shaggy locks. He asked to grow his out. Okay, fine with me. I came of age in the grunge generation, and have no problem with guys with longer hair.  So, Kiddo grew his hair out at age four.

Now, I'm not talking Celene Dion's boy's long hair:  

(Yes, that is a boy.  To each their own.

And I wish my hair could look like that.)

But just brushing his shoulders, growing blonder each summer, highlighted by salt and sun.

age 5

We received no end of flack for his long hair over the years. Some friends and family of the older generation gently teased him. One relative flat out called him a girl and added an "a" to the end of his name (making it sound like a weird, yet feminine name). But he learned to stand up for himself, and the hair stayed.

Until yesterday.

And it was an accident.

He and I both needed a hair trim.  Being frugal and not wanting to go far, I patronize a local chain hair salon (okay, "salon" is rather too generous) once every few months when I get a coupon. Since Kiddo's hair was long, he could go months without a cut no problem, and I'd just trim his bangs and maybe the back every two months or so — basically when he couldn't see anymore.  Easy-peasy.

Back in December before I gave him a quick home trim.     

No, he didn't actually wear it like this.

Yesterday, while enjoying a long day off from school, we went for trims.

I went first. I just had an inch trimmed off an a little layering. No problem. We both chatted with the stylist. Kiddo popped up into the chair. I explained where his bangs needed to go and showed her about an inch, inch-and-a-half that needed to come off the back.

 "Layered?" she asked.


"Sure," I said. Layering is why I actually took him to get his hair cut. I trimmed it myself for years, but I couldn't get those dang long layers just right.

She cut the bangs and trimmed up the back first. All seemed fine. I flipped through my magazine.  When I looked up just a minute later, she was cutting layers. Up at the crown of his head. And inches of hair dropped to the floor. I bit back a gasp. (Never startle a woman holding scissors.)

It was too late anyway.

His long locks were gone, strewn across the salon floor.

Kiddo now has — a short shag? I'm not sure what you'd call it. It's not a buzz cut. But it's NOT LONG.

He looked slightly shell-shocked when he studied himself in the mirror at home. I was too. But I assured him he looked great, very handsome, and it was good to shake things up every now and then.

"You look like one of the guys on those Nick and Disney shows you watch," I said.

"Which one?" His eyes narrowed, his suspicions rose off of each two-inch hair.

"You know, the cool-looking one. . ." They all look the same to me.

At the playground, I could barely pick him out of the mass of boys tearing around. His hair had been so distinctive, now it just blended in with the crowd.

I went so far as to call the Hubby and warn him. He had long hair until his late 20's and now totally lived vicariously through his son. I reminded him to be supportive.

This morning, Kiddo climbed into bed and told me how he really didn't like his hair. I reassured him again, but I can't blame him. Our hair is a vital part of our self-image, our character, what makes us US. And it's rather startling to loose it in one fell swoop.

I miss it too.

It'll grow back, right?

 

Yoga ain't for sissies

I gave Hubby a copy of the intense P90X DVD workout program for Christmas.

Now, I know giving a exercise videos or a  gym  membership could be construed as a rather rash gift.  Certain women, if they received such a not-so-subtle hint, might turn like a rabid pit bull on their partner until placated with jewelry or tremendous ass-kissing (pun intended). But my Hubby had been strongly hinting about how he wanted to work out more, so I thought I'd help him out.

Needless to say, the DVDs have not left their box. Until today.***

He decided we should do the 90 minute yoga program. Together.

Though I am most certainly not a pro, I've been practicing yoga once or twice a week for about a year.  I was hooked from my first class with my current yoga instructor. She replaced a teacher who was more suited for barking boot camp orders than balancing chakras. That fearsome woman nearly drove me to tears when I couldn't get up to a full headstand my first class. (I still can't, and have no desire to try.)

But I could have a total girl crush on this new instructor, if I was the type to do such things. Her voice soothes  like the waters of a steamy hot spring, her words encourage to stretch and soar, her hands melt skin when she gently moves a shoulder or hip for an adjustment.  She could make a fortune lulling people to sleep each night like she eases us into our final relaxation pose (Shavasana) after each class.

{ah, anyway}

Back the husband.

He's flexible. He's an athlete. He'd never tried yoga. He thought it was just an easy way to waste an hour practicing breathing (don't we do that anyway?) and stretching like a 5-year-old might before t-ball practice.  If 100-year-old skeletal Indian guys do it, so how hard could it be?

Heh, heh, heh....

After ten minutes his breath sounded irregular and craggy. I warned him no panting was allowed. After 15 minutes, he worked up a slick of sweat. I tossed him a bath towel. After 30 minutes, he struggled to stay on his feet and his balance and positioning resembled my elderly grandmother trying to get up with a broken ankle.

But he wasn't half bad for a beginner.

Granted, I did strip down from flannel p.j.s to a tank top and turned on the fan. And perhaps it was a bit tricky to keep traction on a 30-year-old camping mat while the cat licked my toes. But I was just fine. And perhaps gloating...just a wee bit.

"So, still think yoga is for sissies?"

"You are putting it nicely," he panted. "Yoga ain't for pussies." He sopped up his sweat with a bath towel before he collapsed.

But he finished. And enjoyed himself. And he's going to be hurting tomorrow like he ran the NYC Marathon (uphill both ways, barefoot, in the snow).  Maybe we'll do it again together next Sunday.

{Ohmmmm}


*** Note: I wrote this post a few weeks ago. Since then, Hubby has been a trouper, and he now tries to do the yoga DVD a few times a week. He no longer looks like my Grandmother. And once in a while, Kiddo will even attempt a little bit of yoga zen.

Novel Inspirations & Memories Captured

I've been focusing on editing my manuscript lately. I've been loosing myself in the lush rainforests of Costa Rica, dreaming my toes are sinking into the black sand beaches where much of the story takes place.  I look back on the photographs of my journey through that wonderland daily, coaxing memories of the sound of howler monkeys in the treetops, the scent of orchid blooms mixed with gallo pinto, the feel of the pregnant air, heavy with with imminent rain.

Since I wasted spent an afternoon playing with my photos on Picnik, I lessened my guilt by using images that would inspire my writing, and words to go along with my characters and story.

Inspiration is everywhere

if you just take a moment to look...

I'm linking up again with Galit Breen of These Little Waves and Alison of Mama Wants This  

for the Memories Captured meme. 

Check it out!

My words, My Voice

Source: englishmuse.com via Vinobaby on Pinterest

I joined a monthly writer's meet-up group about a year ago.  I haven't attended each month. I wasn't allowed. If I hadn't cranked out enough words on my manuscript that month, I didn't consider myself a real writer. Slacker — yes, but writer — no.

Since I finished draft #1, I figured I damn well earned the title.

In real life, I am a wallflower. Seriously shy. My mouth might as well be duck-taped shut around strangers. At all of the previous meetings I attended I sat quietly, lips zipped, listening to electrical engineers and actresses, karate instructors and math professors read a short piece of writing.  

Their writing.

Some of their diverse pieces were amazing. Some...not so much.

But I've never shared my own work.

Last night I finally let them hear my voice.

It was a total last minute decision. I planned to bring in the first few pages of my novel, edited. Since last week was a giant clusterfluck, that didn't happen. Concerned I would soon be perceived as some kind of wanna-be-writer-stalker, I figured they deserved to read something from me. A half-hour before I had to leave, I alternated printing 25 copies of a blog post while prepping a quick gourmet meal for the family (premade bbq chicken and tater tots — whoohoo!).

I last spoke before an audience back in college, and I refuse to mention exactly how long ago that was. My feet tapped, my stomach knotted, my heart thought I was running a 5k. I tried yoga breathing and sipped on endless mugs of hot tea in a vain attempt to stay calm. (No wine available. Damn. I guarantee that would have loosened my tongue.) 

I didn't throw up. Though I really wanted to.

And I did it.

I read my Swimsuit Shopping {Part one: the Grey Hair} post. If it was funny enough for Scary Mommy, it should work for a bunch of part-time hacks, right?

The audience laughed on cue. I received a (minor) ovation at the close. They wrote positive, encouraging words on their reading copies (and corrected only one typo) before they shuffled the pages back down the tables to me. 

Hallelujah.

The woman next to me commented about how "candid" my essay was. Candid? Obviously she was unfamiliar with the blogosphere. As I scanned through  my published posts trying to find an accurate example of my writing, I gravitated towards humor. I can laugh at myself just fine. There was no way I could have read any of my truly candid posts, presented my tales of heartbreak or grief  for all to critique. Funny how they are far too personal to read aloud to a few dozen strangers, yet I can write them for the world to read and judge.

Hopefully next month I will have my chance to get some feedback on my 'real' writing.  I think I may throw up that night.

It gets easier each time, right?

I Should Have Been a French Parent

We've all heard how American kids are spoiled, whiny, co-dependent little zealots who are permitted to survive on boxed mac and cheese while their mothers drift off to Zanax-land because their demanding darlings still won't sleep through the night at age four. Whether or not you agree with this is immaterial. This is how much of the world sees us.


We give into our kids food cravings because we are afraid they will starve themselves to death.

We permit them to wake as often as they want at night, always rushing in to sooth them at their first call.

We spend our lives shuttling them from Gymboree to gymnastics from toddlerhood on, intent on giving them structured play time so they never feel bored.

We play with them on demand so they never feel ignored or unloved, and push off our chores until they have finally drifted to dreamland, sacrificing our chance for some leisure time to catch up on laundry.

We turn ourselves inside out trying to appease our little major generals. They rule our world. And they know it.

The French, simply don't.

We all knew those French were different. But, zut alors, perhaps we didn't know how different. First we discover French women don't get fat, and now they are better parents as well?

 According to all the buzz, Bringing up Bebe: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting celebrates les Français strict, yet hands-off approach to parenting.  Pamela Druckerman, an American journalist raising her children in France, dispels the myths of typical American parenting vs. the traditional French approach in her new book. 

For example:

• French kids eat real food. Sitting at a table, with adults, using silverware and napkins and manners. Their plates are more likely to be filled with broccoli and brie than chicken nuggets.

• French babies sleep through the night at a very young age. It is the typical French  practice to start teaching  infants how to sleep through the night as early as two or three months, supposedly not through a strict Feberization, but more of an "attentive listening" process.

• French children throw far fewer temper tantrums than their American counterparts. They are taught to delay gratification,  that they can't always get what they want (sing it, Mick), and they are allowed to figure out how to resolve their own spats while their parents watch and nibble on a croissant.

• The French parenting ideal is called the cadre or frame. Children have strict, set rules for things such as school/daycare arrivals and departure times, meals, and naps. But how they spend the rest of their time is up to them. Boredom is encouraged, so children to learn how to amuse themselves. 

•  French parenting, as described by Druckerman, is "a combination of being very strict about a few key things but also giving children lots of freedom.”  No helicopter moms in French airspace.

• French parents claim to be far more relaxed and laid back. Their children are not the center of the universe at all times. "French mothers assume that even good parents aren't at the constant service of their children and that there's no need to feel guilty about this."

Happy parents lead to happy children, non?

Honestly, this sounds quite a bit like how I parent.  And I cannot tell you the amount of merde I get for my parenting style.

Since I can't afford to move to France (yes, it is a dream — lavender fields, good food, fine wine...) I will  appease myself by reading this book, so I can discover if the French really do have more of a clue about parenting.

Vive la différence?

Oui or non?

It's My SITS Day & the Origin of Vinobaby

 It's my SITS Day! A special welcome to all of the SITS GIRLS dropping by today. If you somehow don't know about the SITS Girls, a quick rundown: they are a fabulous support group of 15,000+  women bloggers who are passionate about building a community and sharing their blogging and social media skills. They are smart, savvy, and want to help make YOU a success. Check them out.


In honor of all the newbies, I decided to finally answer a question that has been burning in my online friend's minds for years:  How did you come up with that weird Vinobaby name?

Eons ago (okay 2008), when I first broke down and started this blog, I was a reluctant SAHM stuck at home with only my darling yet daunting 4-year-old for company, and I often teetered on the brink of sanity.  Days blurred together as I shuttled the Kiddo to playgroups and kept house like a frugal 50s flashback housewife (minus the pearls and heels, of course).

I parented differently than many of the moms cluttering the park benches and kiddie gyms. I wasn't afraid of my child like so many of them, wasn't terrified he wouldn't like me, or worried I'd scar him for life by telling him "NO" if he tried to bite me while drawing on the couch with permanent marker.  And I seemed to be the only SAHM who did not find changing diapers fulfilling. I longed to be more...

I had things I wanted to say, but I simply didn't have the proper audience in real life. So I went online. Like so many of you. Fearing I would be stoned on the playgrounds or plastered with a scarlet letter for my scandalous beliefs, I chose to remain anonymous.

Lets drift back a little further...

While growing fat and busty eagerly awaiting Kiddo's arrival, I explored some of the pregnancy message boards. Most of my friends IRL were child-free career girls and I was desperate to find women who had a clue what I was going through. I wasn't going to use my REAL name — that just wasn't safe of smart. I started thinking...

An ACHTUNG BABY condom package hung from my bulletin board, a souvenir from an amazing U2 concert years ago. (I was in college, it seemed like cool souvenir at the time.)

The Hubby and I married in Italy and loved going to wine tastings together...wine in Italian is VINO...

Besides having a BABY on the brain (and on my bladder) at the time, babies are often made with the help of a little vino. (You can't tell me ours is the only one. The preponderance of children named "Tequila," "Bailey," and "Margarita" would fail to argue.)

A screen name was born.

It may be lame, but that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

The original title for this blog was Musings From the Bottom of a Plastic Wine Glass.  I know. Too long. To lush. Not that Vinobaby's Voice is any better, but for now, I'm stuck with it.  If all goes as planned, I will complete my novel, my writing career will take off, and this will be the little blog attached to my big professional author website. Someday.

It's good to dream.

So, welcome to my world. If you are new here, you will find my blog is rather eclectic,  like me.  While I no longer consider this a just Mommy Blog, I do often write about kids and family. But as I've grown-up and my world has diversified, so has the blog.  I post about food, writing, books,  newsworthy issues, wine, and occasionally I whine. I try to keep some humor in most of my writing, because sometimes a laugh is what gets us through the day (at least until 5 o'clock). Check out the Popular Posts tab to see what other readers have liked.

So I invite you to pull up a chair, put your feet up, grab a mug of coffee or glass of wine and explore. Follow me on Facebook, join me on Twitter, and subscribe by RSS. Please? We can all use a bigger tribe. Feel free to look me up on Pinterest or GoodReads, too.  Thanks so much for dropping by!