Our little girl had her tonsils removed two days ago. We already can tell she's breathing a lot better as her tonsils were very huge and were blocking a part of her airway. It was a long wait to get them removed, but we're grateful now it's all over.
It was a little rough in the morning of her surgery, having arrived at the ENT's office at 7 a.m., and watching our little girl go through what she had to in order to get better. I do hope our other kids don't have to go through anything similar.
When we were leaving the surgeon's office, our girl groggily said to me from the back seat, "I don't want to see a doctor!" I told her that she wouldn't have to again (for that, anyway.)
The good thing about surgeries is the food! On the first day, she enjoyed eating her share of applesauce, ice cream and yogurt. It didn't take too long for her to realize, however , that something wasn't quite right. She was being hustled. It became reality when she saw her brother eating a banana. She wanted one, too. When Glory whipped it up for her in the blender, she cried bitter tears.
"I don't want a banana like that!" she cried. Poor girl.
It's going to be two weeks of pureed food for our little patient, and all of us will be quite happy when this fortnight is over. I promised her I would buy her a double cheeseburger in two weeks. She loves "bubble" cheeseburgers. That seemed to brighten her spirits for a couple of seconds.
I must say one of the hard parts for me is being told by the nasty nurse before the surgery that I couldn't hold my daughter's hand when he gave her the gas and put her to sleep. I know the staff have their reasons, all of them valid, but I was not too pleased being told I had to stay in the post op room while they carried our crying and frightened little girl to the OR. It's like having your kid being ripped from your arms by complete strangers. Someone should look into things like PST for children who have had surgery. I'm sure it's more common than people realize.
But now things are fine. It's just 12 more days of soft foods for our little girl. I hope she can be patient for that bubble cheeseburger.
Bill
Friday, January 26, 2007
Friday, January 19, 2007
Memories of cats
It's hard to know sometimes what I like more: my kids being small or being older.
I do like them small, but the disadvantage is that they have little memory. It's always sadened me to think that they would not remember their family members should something happen to any of us.
So when our little girl started relaying stories some time ago, incorporating events that had actually happened, we knew we were at the point that she would remember things important.
Last night while we prepared to go to bed and were ready to pray, our three-year-old mentioned Mona.
Desdemona, our white feline, and Othello, our black cat, were part of our household until last spring when we gave them away to an acqaintance who lives on a farm. Though we liked our cats, we didn't like the fleas they brought with them from the outside. We also didn't like the jealousy that Mona displayed through peeing on everything after our little boy was born. With little kids, the price just became too high to have cats in the house.
So it was a sad day last spring when we dropped off the cats at the farm, or Hell's Outhouse, as we have called it. As soon as I carried him out of the van, Othello spied the farm family's big Saint Bernard charging out of nowhere toward us. Othello leaped from my arms, leaving me resembling a scratching post, and bolted toward a cattle pen. He ended up getting trapped between the gate and the fence. We retreived him and petted him and he calmed down. Too soon afterward, Othello and Mona were left to settle into farm life as we sadly drove away.
The cats have come up in conversation from time to time, so it doesn't surprise me when even our little girl brings them up. But last night was particularly sweet.
We started to pray, and our little girl asked where Mona was. I reminded her that Mona was living at a farm with all sorts of animals. I told her Mona was having lots of fun with the cows, horses, pigs and dogs.
She wanted to be sure that the cats were OK, and asked other questions, like if the cats were warm and if they are being held by someone. I assured her that the cats are being cared for by someone who loved them. That someone is one of our oldest daughter's friends.
"Is she nice to them?" she asked.
Oh yes, she's very nice to them, I told her.
"Is she careful?" she probed further.
I again told her that the cats are in a good place. We then prayed for the cats and for everyone else, too, before going to bed.
Today she asked again about the cats and prayed for them at lunchtime.
The cats played an important part of our kids' lives, so I am sure we will be hearing about Mona and Othello for years to come.
Bill
I do like them small, but the disadvantage is that they have little memory. It's always sadened me to think that they would not remember their family members should something happen to any of us.
So when our little girl started relaying stories some time ago, incorporating events that had actually happened, we knew we were at the point that she would remember things important.
Last night while we prepared to go to bed and were ready to pray, our three-year-old mentioned Mona.
Desdemona, our white feline, and Othello, our black cat, were part of our household until last spring when we gave them away to an acqaintance who lives on a farm. Though we liked our cats, we didn't like the fleas they brought with them from the outside. We also didn't like the jealousy that Mona displayed through peeing on everything after our little boy was born. With little kids, the price just became too high to have cats in the house.
So it was a sad day last spring when we dropped off the cats at the farm, or Hell's Outhouse, as we have called it. As soon as I carried him out of the van, Othello spied the farm family's big Saint Bernard charging out of nowhere toward us. Othello leaped from my arms, leaving me resembling a scratching post, and bolted toward a cattle pen. He ended up getting trapped between the gate and the fence. We retreived him and petted him and he calmed down. Too soon afterward, Othello and Mona were left to settle into farm life as we sadly drove away.
The cats have come up in conversation from time to time, so it doesn't surprise me when even our little girl brings them up. But last night was particularly sweet.
We started to pray, and our little girl asked where Mona was. I reminded her that Mona was living at a farm with all sorts of animals. I told her Mona was having lots of fun with the cows, horses, pigs and dogs.
She wanted to be sure that the cats were OK, and asked other questions, like if the cats were warm and if they are being held by someone. I assured her that the cats are being cared for by someone who loved them. That someone is one of our oldest daughter's friends.
"Is she nice to them?" she asked.
Oh yes, she's very nice to them, I told her.
"Is she careful?" she probed further.
I again told her that the cats are in a good place. We then prayed for the cats and for everyone else, too, before going to bed.
Today she asked again about the cats and prayed for them at lunchtime.
The cats played an important part of our kids' lives, so I am sure we will be hearing about Mona and Othello for years to come.
Bill
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Confessions from a power line underdweller
We live underneath a power line -- a BIG power line -- and I suppose that residing under such a life-sapping monstrosity would result in a lot of things bad for the Haven Five: nervous tics, uncontrolled swearing, groceries already microwaved and ready to eat within seconds of pulling up the driveway, rotting flesh, etc.
Fortunately, nothing of the kind has happened in our almost three years living in Electromagnetic Hell.
Fortunately, nothing of the kind has happened in our almost three years living in Electromagnetic Hell.
That's good.
But I wonder if some of the 20-odd house hunters who have even remotely considered our house their next abode believe that is what's in store for them and their loved ones should they decide to relocate here.
Through the fall and winter we have been treated with compliments on our lovely property: "Nice home," one has said. "I love the layout," said another. "Do you like having the firepit in the backyard?" queried a nice gentleman who likes the odd backyard barbecue. However, four out of five "satisfied" clients who ended up passing on our house have commented that they don't like the power lines. It's frustrating, considering that one can see them from a mile away. It's not like our house conceals the power lines as people drive up, only to shock and surprise the otherwise contented buyers when they scope out the backyard.
"Whoa! You didn't tell me you had power lines out here!"
"Sorry."
I really don't know what the big deal is, though. Like us, most of the folks in our neighborhood have families, and so far I haven't seen any of our children sprouting third arms or an extra eyeball or two. Even the pets seem normal to me. That chicken we caught last week didn't smell even slightly broiled. But my sense of smell has been off lately. I could have been mistaken.
Well, anyway, as we enter our fourth month as motivated house sellers, we will continue to put the smile on our collective faces and try our best to convince that one lucky house hunter that this already is his or her home sweet home.
But we may have to steer them into the master bath to have a second or even third look at the huge garden tub they can't live without when they begin asking about that buzzing coming from the backyard.
Bill
But I wonder if some of the 20-odd house hunters who have even remotely considered our house their next abode believe that is what's in store for them and their loved ones should they decide to relocate here.
Through the fall and winter we have been treated with compliments on our lovely property: "Nice home," one has said. "I love the layout," said another. "Do you like having the firepit in the backyard?" queried a nice gentleman who likes the odd backyard barbecue. However, four out of five "satisfied" clients who ended up passing on our house have commented that they don't like the power lines. It's frustrating, considering that one can see them from a mile away. It's not like our house conceals the power lines as people drive up, only to shock and surprise the otherwise contented buyers when they scope out the backyard.
"Whoa! You didn't tell me you had power lines out here!"
"Sorry."
I really don't know what the big deal is, though. Like us, most of the folks in our neighborhood have families, and so far I haven't seen any of our children sprouting third arms or an extra eyeball or two. Even the pets seem normal to me. That chicken we caught last week didn't smell even slightly broiled. But my sense of smell has been off lately. I could have been mistaken.
Well, anyway, as we enter our fourth month as motivated house sellers, we will continue to put the smile on our collective faces and try our best to convince that one lucky house hunter that this already is his or her home sweet home.
But we may have to steer them into the master bath to have a second or even third look at the huge garden tub they can't live without when they begin asking about that buzzing coming from the backyard.
Bill
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