Thank you Cigna for your medical opinion. And by that I mean Fuck You Dearly.
Yeah, we're fighting it.
Add to it, all the social skills group start at $50 per group. That turns into $200/month to go weekly, which is recommended by our Child Psychologist, not our insurance company. And, oh yeah, none of them take insurance because, as one lady said, "We decided it wasn't worth that fight a long time ago. We take cash or nothing."
Yeah, we're so not going there.
Last I checked, I don't shit $200 dollar bills so I got a little overwhelmed.
And then I got sick.
Let me rephrase that. Alex got sick and my last coherent thought before I came down with his infectious disease nightmare was, "I hate cleaning grout lines. Christ, is it hot in here??? I'm really hot."
And that is the last thing I really remember for the past six days.
Sure, I remember some things:
- Gracie eating cheese balls, cookies and trying to drink diet soda for lunch.
- Alex puking. And puking. And puking.
- Me getting a little jealous my six year old was holding down her diet soda. Note: I normally don't let the kids drink soda. Ever.
- Laying on the sofa watching something about the American Beaver for about six hours straight and thinking, "Hey, I wonder when the kids are going to figure out there is more than one kind of beaver...."
- Looking at the thermometer thinking, "101.4? Really?? You can do better than that."
- Realizing that, if I did indeed die, my kids would not notice till we ran out of cheese balls and/or soda.
At some other point, Lizzy graduated from Base Camp and move permanently into Camp I. Camp I is my bed. It was formerly known as mom and dad's den of occasional sex but now its become the catchall for anyone and everyone who wonders in at night.
And I'm not endorsing Tylenol PM here but man, that shit really works.
Anyway, he chews his clothes, pencils, pens, erasers, box tops, whatever he can get, he'll chew it. That includes, but is not limited to, his i-Touch case. So when I lost hold of his i-Touch, it had a good portion of the case chewed off.
|Shirt sleeve, chewed.|
And that little i-Touch in a half mangled case didn't stand a chance against the tile floor. It hit in the bottom corner and the glass shattered into a million little pieces.
Cue impending horror and panic attack.
|i-Touch, 0. Tile floor, 1.|
Then he became the devil incarnate. I have not been forgiven. He has not forgotten. He will not forgive or forget. The devil incarnate I tell you.
He's gone on a rampage that makes all others pale in comparison. I'd swear the paint actually went a shade lighter when that damn thing hit the floor and shattered. He morphed into his evil little twin, damning me straight to hell with every glance, every look and every move. Every pore of his little body has been seething anger and venom at my lack of fine motor skills.
I'm thanking my lucky stars he's not yet built a ray gun out of Lego's because if he had, he certainly would have blasted my ass into dust without thinking twice. I suspect this will not stop till I fix that damn thing and even then the residual, I-hate-you-for-dropping-my-i-Touch, effect will be felt for some time.
And I can't say that I blame him. I feel for him. I broke his Holy Grail and now we're all suffering.
And then, because I've not yet had enough drama in the last week my uterus decided to get in on all the action and I started my period.
And that, right there, is how I took a week off, only to get further behind than ever before.
Note: Yes, you are supposed to be laughing with me at this. Through it all, I've managed to get some of "me" back, if that makes any sense. I'm not as worn out and exhausted as I was. I don't really understand it, but there it is. I'm feeling better and I'm running with it.