Naw, it’s not really raining over here, just figuratively. I have a throwing-up kid, dear little Wacky Boy. Fever? Yes. Fever? No. Throwing up still? Yes. Then no. Then we’re better. Then we’re not.

Gotta blame it on something. And… Wacky Mommy out.

Edited to say:

“Why can’t I go to someone’s house? I’m not throwing up at the moment.”

That is classic 6-year-old logic for you.

Also:

“Shark Week isn’t on? Why do they call it ‘Shark Week’ if it doesn’t start ’til seven tonight? Huh?”

Discovery Channel, don’t mess with us.

Edited at 2 o’clock to say: Argh. He locked me out of the house!!!! I ran across the street to say hey to our old friend, who’s working in the neighborhood this week. Then came back to a locked front door. Outwitted!

me: Little pig, little pig, let me come in! (My friend is across the street, busting up. I’m thinking — aiiiiiiiiiiii…)
Wacky Boy: NO! (finally relents, unlocks lock. and pulls stool over to unlock deadbolt. Nice!)
me: Don’t lock me out again.
Wacky Boy, dismissively: Well. It’s your own fault for not taking your keys. (Next breath…) It is not FAIR that my sister gets to play at a friend’s house and I don’t. I’m not even SICK anymore.
me: (deep breath.)

Don’t forget to click here daily to help fund mammograms for those in need.

Yeah, that’s a grown-up tooth growing in there, alright. The dentist told us to “push the baby teeth out” with popsicle sticks.

Both kids: “POPSICLES!??!!”

Dentist: “You can re-use the sticks, you don’t have to eat a new popsicle every time.”

The baby tooth in front of the grown-up tooth is hardly wiggling at all — but the one right next to it is. Hmm.

Also, according to Dr. Tooth, this does not indicate that all of the teeth are going to come in crazeee like this — or that the new tooth won’t “float forward.” He also suggested to the kids that they could try his daughter’s tried-and-true method from childhood: Any tooth that is loose, work on it, pry on it, push it back and forth until it comes out.

“It would usually take her two, three days. All of her teeth were gone by age nine.”

Wacky Boy: “Then I’ll be able to get LOTS of money from the tooth fairy!”

“Yeah,” the dentist told him. “You’ll never have to work a day in your life.”

We’re at the orthodontist’s yesterday, to get started on Phase I of Project Braces for my daughter with the crookedy teeth and the crazy jaw. (Estimated cost ’til completion of project, as of yesterday when we did a worksheet: $7,000. Insurance will pay: Nothing.)

“So, you’ll be next!” the tech says, perkily, with dollar signs in her eyes, to my son.

I say, “NO! He has my teeth! Straight! She has her father’s teeth.”

“Sorry, sorry, of course, I can see that now,” etc. sez the tech. “Did your husband have braces?”

“No,” I tell her. “My father-in-law has a thing against orthodontists.”

Today, Wacky Girl tells me, perkily, with dollar signs in her eyes, “We can’t eat out anymore. You’re saving for my braces.” Of course. Of course I am, honey. I can see that now.

Not ten minutes later she tells me I need to look into her brother’s mouth.

“There’s something real weird going on in there.”

She’s right, there is something weird going on in there. A great big grown-up tooth, his first, snuggling up right behind his baby tooth. (Which is not wiggling, by the by. Which is firmly holding on to its own real estate, smack up against the big boy tooth.)

She tells him, “You’re like a crocodile! With double teeth!”

He grins a big toothy grin at her.

“Maybe your great-great-great-great grandchildren will have the same problem!” she says, like this is the coolest thing that has ever occurred to her.

At least I won’t be responsible for their dental bills.

We’re seeing the dentist tomorrow.

I cannot get my head straight to write here. I will give you bullets. In return, you will leave me comments telling me what you’ve been up to because hello??? I miss my readers when we don’t talk.

* my daughter, my sweet, awesome incredible daughter, is having some of the worst asthma of her life.

* I hate asthma.

* Would it be too hard to cure asthma, you smart researchers and doctors? Get on it, please. Stat, as you all are so fond of saying. We’re in trouble here.

* I hate asthma as much as I hate my thyroid (or lack thereof). Go read Y’s blog, she’s going through hell. Again. I love that girl so much. She deserves a cruise on the French Riviera, don’t you think?

* I keep e-mailing my husband (we’re not in the same room) in the hopes he will turn off the election results, already, stop blogging and come to bed.

* So far, no luck.

* And how lazy is that, to e my husband instead of walking to find him?

* We were awake all night last night with daughter having asthma attacks. It was awful.

* I am too tired to be blogging, but still, I persist.

* Tomorrow I have booked: too much. I booked, like, ten things for one tiny day. When will I learn that each day has only 24 hours, and at least 3 of those are generally spent sleeping.

* Or blogging.

* Is it summer break yet? Oh, wait — I’m working all summer. No break for you, mama.

* Is anyone even reading this? If you are, probably best to skip it and move along.

* Reading: Odd Girl Out, by Rachel Simmons (excellent); The Giver (freaking me out); Tuck Everlasting, by Natalie Babbitt (a lot of young adult fiction, because of my job); and The Wanderer, by Sharon Creech. Also, Real Simple magazine and a few blogs because, why not?

xxox

wm

Still stuck in the ’80s over here. It’s my new comfort zone apparently. I’m all better, recovered from surgery, feeling okay. Now Wacky Girl has a cold, fever, sore throat and wants to throw things around the room. She’s learned from the best, I guess.

Off to do yoga, vacuum, watch more videos and placate my sweet daughter.

xxox

wm

ps — who can live without a little Ebn Ozn?

Do you love Yvonne even half as much as I do? No, I don’t think you do, because I love her THIS MUCH. Her obsession with bean dip and Rick Springfield (not in that order. I don’t think, anyway), her funny hubs and kids, especially her charming little kick-ass daughter. She is so damn sexy — all the time I’m thinking, honey. You are gorgeous! Go look in the mirror! Also, she takes superb photos. She needs a little lovin’ right now and frankly, so do I.

Plus we are Thyroid Sisters. And now, being older, I can one-up her: I have Other Troubles. (Is that vague enough? I’m sorry, but I cannot be specific. You can e me if you want all the grim details.)

She sez:

Dear You,

Me

I’m asking you — do the same for me, would you? Because I’m so sick and tired of being sick and tired.

wm

internets, i would like to blog, but i still feel like hell. Also, why did I work today? Zip said, It will be too much. Steve said, It will be too much. They were right. Again.

Finally watched Juno, it was good. And started in on Season Two of the Wire, which, when you’re coming out of anesthetic, is just not so much fun to watch. Dead bodies and all. The new episode of the Office last night made me sad. I love the Office — do not make me sad, Office. You are there to entertain, got it?

I can’t concentrate on books — the words go all swimmy together.

Maybe it’s the anesthetic talking, I’ve got no idea.

Off to change back into p.j.’s. Leave me notes if you want, I’ll check in later.

yours,

wm

…in case you were wondering.

She appreciates all your good thoughts, and is sleeping off the anesthesia as I write this. I’m sure she’ll be blogging on the morrow.

suspire (suh-SPYR) verb tr., intr.

[From Latin suspirare (to breathe up), from spirare (to breathe).]

(Thanks, Anu.)

I don’t really like being wide awake at 3:30 a.m., the cat pressing on my leg, a kid snoring in my ear. I like my kid — I like both of ’em, thank God — and I like my cats — all three of them, but at 3:30 a.m.? What I really like is sleep.

I’m running the dishwasher (finally), blogging, catching up on work e-mails. Yeah, baby.

You?

wm