Yes, this post merits a title of three "eewww"s, so consider yourself forewarned if discussions of oozing pus, detached fingernails and painful procedures on screaming 5 year olds isn't up your entertainment alley.
About two weeks ago, my son pinched or slammed two of his fingers in a screen door. I wasn't with him and don't have the full report of exactly what happened, but he came home with obvious bruises on his fingers. Over the next few days, the nail on his ring finger turned purple, seemingly from blood pooled underneath it.
Last Friday, he told me his finger was feeling sore, but I didn't notice anything and didn't think much of it. By late that afternoon, though, it became obvious there was a problem.
We were at Toys 'R Us shopping for a birthday present for a friend whose party was the next day when he reached for something on the shelf. I caught a glimpse of his hand and immediately grabbed it to look at his finger, which was obviously ragingly infected -- red, swollen, hot to the touch, crusty from oozing pus and, best of all, entire fingernail a funky greenish white color. (This is as tame a description as I can come up with. It's all downhill from here for the squeamish.)
It was 4:56 on a Friday afternoon when I grabbed the phone and muttered a prayer under my breath that someone would still be answering the phone at his doctor's office. She was -- whew! -- and had us meet the on-call doc there at 5:30.
The doc decided we needed to drain some of the pus from my son's finger and proceeded to cut a hole in the skin just under the edge of the nail. My son winced a little but took it like a champ. That move wasn't as effective as she was hoping, though, so she moved on to Plan B.
Plan B, unfortunately, was to jab a hole through my son's fingernail, into his very inflamed and tender flesh, and squeeze and prod his painful finger to coax out the offending pus. He laid there on the crinkly exam bed paper with tears streaming down his cheeks and into his ears, whimpering "ouch, Mommy, ouch" while a nurse bodily held him down and I stroked his head and tried valiantly to choke back tears. It was really awful.
But it was over relatively quickly, and we were sent home with an oral antibiotic and instructions to soak his finger in warm water and squeeze it a couple times a day. Great.
By Tuesday, though, it was clear that the antibiotics weren't making a dent in the infection. His finger was getting more red, more obviously filled with pus, more painful to the touch, so back to the doctor's office we went.
We saw a different physician this time who, although he's not been my favorite doctor in the past because of a somewhat lacking bedside manner, impressed me with his thoroughness.
Upon realizing that the original problem came from his finger being slammed in the door (which the first doctor also knew), he took an x-ray to make sure a broken bone wasn't contributing to the problem (no break). One point for the previously unfavored doc.
He also put a hole in my son's fingernail to drain the pus, but he used a different implement and did it in such a way that caused my son next to no pain. Two points for the previously unfavored doc.
He lastly asked if the previous doctor had cultured any of the pus to determine what type of bacteria was going on (she hadn't), so he sent some of what he got out to check for MRSA (that antibiotic-resistant bug that goes around hospitals a lot). That's a scary thought, but nevertheless, three points for the now obviously favored doc.
He sent us home on a stronger oral antibiotic, a topical antibiotic and, again, instructions to soak finger and squeeze. The infection has since cleared up wonderfully and is well on the road to healing (lab tests finally returned today -- no MRSA).
The last bit of ick I'll foist on you, though, will be this tidbit: his fingernail, which I knew he was destined to lose through all this, is now hanging by little more than a gooey bit of flesh near the base of his nail. I can lift the whole thing up and use a q-tip to get the antibiotic ointment down in there, which is probably great, but still pretty nasty. It literally makes my skin crawl every time I touch it -- and is giving me the heebie jeebies while I sit here and type about it. Ugh (insert bodily shudder here).
So, another unexpected and rather disgusting travail of parenting under my belt. I just thought you'd all like to know.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Apparel woes and the single mom
I have always been able to keep my son in clothing relatively inexpensively. My mom's an ace at catching end-of-season clearance sales where she helps me stock up for the next year. And I'm a huge fan of consignment sales and any hand-me-downs I can get my hands on. So for the past 5 1/2 years, with a little planning and a little luck, I've been able to keep my son's wardrobe stocked without forking out a pretty penny.
That golden era has officially come to an end.
Over the past few weeks, I have thrown away no less than four pairs of pants that suddenly turned up with giant holes in the knees. And I don't mean some dainty little tear where a well placed patch could buy me at least a few more washes. No, I'm talking serious side seam to side seam rips, the likes of which would seem to require sharp objects to render in previously intact cloth. And yet son manages this kind of damage with nothing more than playground sand, living room carpet and little boy enthusiasm.
I know some of you are mumbling to yourself, "Of course little boys wear the knees out of their pants." First, I hold he's beating some kind of record for the speed with which he's going through these things. And, second, it's not just the britches. He came home from school Friday with a nickel-sized hole inexplicably in the middle of his shirt. He had no reasonable explanation for how it got there -- something about somebody grabbing or jerking on his shirt or something. Just a big hole right in the middle of his shirt.
And since he has to wear uniforms to school, every school item that meets its untimely end has to be replaced at, what seems to me and my secondhand-buying ways, a hefty price. I've come to the conclusion that I should just start forking my paycheck directly over to Land's End.
The problem has been compounded lately by a growth spurt my son has gone through, making many of his remaining intact clothes suddenly too small. When he got dressed for school for the first morning after Christmas break, I nearly burst out laughing at him wearing a shirt that had no chance of being tucked in and cuffs that stopped two inches too soon. This was a shirt (size 5/6, by the way) that fit just fine -- not roomy, but just fine -- in the weeks leading up to Christmas.
So back to the Land's End site I go for shirts in a bigger size. I might as well get some more pants while I'm at it. Heaven knows he'll run through or grow out of the three pairs he's still got in the next week or two.
And, oh my stars, the shoes. Don't get me started on the shoes. Can you order footwear in bulk?
That golden era has officially come to an end.
Over the past few weeks, I have thrown away no less than four pairs of pants that suddenly turned up with giant holes in the knees. And I don't mean some dainty little tear where a well placed patch could buy me at least a few more washes. No, I'm talking serious side seam to side seam rips, the likes of which would seem to require sharp objects to render in previously intact cloth. And yet son manages this kind of damage with nothing more than playground sand, living room carpet and little boy enthusiasm.
I know some of you are mumbling to yourself, "Of course little boys wear the knees out of their pants." First, I hold he's beating some kind of record for the speed with which he's going through these things. And, second, it's not just the britches. He came home from school Friday with a nickel-sized hole inexplicably in the middle of his shirt. He had no reasonable explanation for how it got there -- something about somebody grabbing or jerking on his shirt or something. Just a big hole right in the middle of his shirt.
And since he has to wear uniforms to school, every school item that meets its untimely end has to be replaced at, what seems to me and my secondhand-buying ways, a hefty price. I've come to the conclusion that I should just start forking my paycheck directly over to Land's End.
The problem has been compounded lately by a growth spurt my son has gone through, making many of his remaining intact clothes suddenly too small. When he got dressed for school for the first morning after Christmas break, I nearly burst out laughing at him wearing a shirt that had no chance of being tucked in and cuffs that stopped two inches too soon. This was a shirt (size 5/6, by the way) that fit just fine -- not roomy, but just fine -- in the weeks leading up to Christmas.
So back to the Land's End site I go for shirts in a bigger size. I might as well get some more pants while I'm at it. Heaven knows he'll run through or grow out of the three pairs he's still got in the next week or two.
And, oh my stars, the shoes. Don't get me started on the shoes. Can you order footwear in bulk?
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Hyperbole and the single mom
There's been a decent delay between when the story I'm about to tell actually happened and now, when I'm finally getting a chance to post about it. That's mainly due to the snow and the adventures it has caused in my life over the last few days, but that's a story for the next post.
On Friday, my mom, who quite conveniently works in the financial offices of my son's school, picked my son up for me. I got out of an appointment late and wasn't going to make it to get him from late stay on time.
When I got to her office to retrieve him, I found him literally rolling on the floor professing an agonizing headache. He would stand up when cajoled and then immediately drop back to the floor like a discarded rag doll, declaring that it hurt too badly for him to stand.
It was quite obvious, of course, that he was hamming it up a bit, but I figured he did at least have an authentic headache and told him we'd get him some Tylenol at home.
Still, it took no small amount of repeated requests and mounting frustration to get him to stay on his feet long enough to get to the car. If I got him to stand up and then made the mistake of pausing for a moment to say a sentence or two to my mom, he'd crumple right back to the ground.
And this was not a case of simply sitting down on the floor with legs crossed and head moping. No, no. This was full-body lying down in the middle of the hallway, arms and legs flayed out as if he were poised to make a snow angel or something.
Based on the dramatic dives this boy was taking, it would seem he's destined for a life as an actor or maybe one of those soccer players who always manages to get a penalty called on his opponent by virtue of his feigned agony.
But we finally made it to the car and headed for home. The ride proved therapeutic for my son, who gradually grew less interested in complaining about his headache and more interested in the toys that perpetually fill my back seat.
By the time we got home, all mention of his earlier pain had dissipated completely. He headed straight into the house -- he somehow mustered the strength to not collapse on the sidewalk on the way in -- and into his playroom where he dove right into some toys with nary a mention of his headache or the aforementioned Tylenol or anything.
I've long known that distraction was a key weapon in a parent's arsenal. It can stave off tantrums, dispel awkward moments and alleviate disappointments, all by simply turning a kid's attention to something more interesting.
"Oh dear, it seems the playground has been overrun by snakes, lizards and mustached bullies and we can't go play. ...Oh, look at that shiny thing over there! Let's go see what it is." -- It works like a champ, I swear.
I learned from this latest incident, though, that distraction wields even more power than I originally realized, apparently packing a great anesthetic punch, able to cure incapacitating headaches in 3.2 seconds with the application of cool toys.
On Friday, my mom, who quite conveniently works in the financial offices of my son's school, picked my son up for me. I got out of an appointment late and wasn't going to make it to get him from late stay on time.
When I got to her office to retrieve him, I found him literally rolling on the floor professing an agonizing headache. He would stand up when cajoled and then immediately drop back to the floor like a discarded rag doll, declaring that it hurt too badly for him to stand.
It was quite obvious, of course, that he was hamming it up a bit, but I figured he did at least have an authentic headache and told him we'd get him some Tylenol at home.
Still, it took no small amount of repeated requests and mounting frustration to get him to stay on his feet long enough to get to the car. If I got him to stand up and then made the mistake of pausing for a moment to say a sentence or two to my mom, he'd crumple right back to the ground.
And this was not a case of simply sitting down on the floor with legs crossed and head moping. No, no. This was full-body lying down in the middle of the hallway, arms and legs flayed out as if he were poised to make a snow angel or something.
Based on the dramatic dives this boy was taking, it would seem he's destined for a life as an actor or maybe one of those soccer players who always manages to get a penalty called on his opponent by virtue of his feigned agony.
But we finally made it to the car and headed for home. The ride proved therapeutic for my son, who gradually grew less interested in complaining about his headache and more interested in the toys that perpetually fill my back seat.
By the time we got home, all mention of his earlier pain had dissipated completely. He headed straight into the house -- he somehow mustered the strength to not collapse on the sidewalk on the way in -- and into his playroom where he dove right into some toys with nary a mention of his headache or the aforementioned Tylenol or anything.
I've long known that distraction was a key weapon in a parent's arsenal. It can stave off tantrums, dispel awkward moments and alleviate disappointments, all by simply turning a kid's attention to something more interesting.
"Oh dear, it seems the playground has been overrun by snakes, lizards and mustached bullies and we can't go play. ...Oh, look at that shiny thing over there! Let's go see what it is." -- It works like a champ, I swear.
I learned from this latest incident, though, that distraction wields even more power than I originally realized, apparently packing a great anesthetic punch, able to cure incapacitating headaches in 3.2 seconds with the application of cool toys.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The conniving button-pusher and the single mom
Yes, the conniving button-pusher mentioned in this blog title is none other than my precocious little 5-year-old.
Children have, surely for the entire length and breadth of human history, strived to wrap their parents around their little fingers. And generation upon generation of them have succeeded, at least to some degree. Kids know their power, and they wield it well.
Who else in your life (excepting, perhaps, a spouse or partner) knows so intimately what makes you happy, what makes you frustrated, what makes you sad? Has lived with and observed you day in and day out for years and knows exactly what makes you tick? Who else but a child can read the exact moment you're going to blow your lid and sidestep it adeptly with a quick apology or a race to pick up those toys after all?
And, let's face it, it's in a kid's best interest to master these things. A little parental wheedling and manipulating goes a long way for a child who just doesn't want to be fussed at, made to do chores or sent to bed without dessert.
My son has learned this lesson well and has been demonstrating his new skills of late.
He's always been something of a sensitive soul. If I raise my voice at him, he dissolves into tears and asks if I still love him, at which point, of course, my heart immediately melts. I drop to my knees, wrap my arms around him. "Even when I'm angry or frustrated, I will always love you with all my heart," I say, tears likely streaming down my cheeks.
Well, Capt. Manipulator has learned from me quite well. He knows my tenderness; he knows I value love and affection even through anger; he knows I'll reverse emotional tracks instantly with the right prodding. So now when I get frustrated with something, he has taken to saying something along the lines of, "I'm always trying to be nice, Mommy. Even when you're angry, I'm trying to be nice."
Or if I fuss at him for some infraction, I'll get something like, "I'm sorry for everything I ever did wrong in my life," uttered with tears welling and lower lip trembling, quite possibly the most pitiful sight in the world.
Wow, here's the dagger from my heart, sweetie. I believe this belongs to you.
I can't decide if it's a more appropriate parental reaction to ignore these (obviously manipulative) statements -- he clearly wants me to just stop whatever negative emotions I'm projecting to him at the time -- or to see them as my son's ingenious, though perhaps unintentional, relief valve for me.
Those things he says certainly have the effect of making me calm down, take a deep breath and look at myself with a more critical eye. Am I overreacting to something? Is my response appropriate or overkill? And sometimes the answers to those questions are eye-opening, even with only a moment's reflection.
But here's the really scary question to ponder: if he's this good at handling me when he's 5, what am I in for when he has gained the psychological maturity and manipulating skills of a teenager? I'll just go ahead and start sharpening those daggers for him now.
Children have, surely for the entire length and breadth of human history, strived to wrap their parents around their little fingers. And generation upon generation of them have succeeded, at least to some degree. Kids know their power, and they wield it well.
Who else in your life (excepting, perhaps, a spouse or partner) knows so intimately what makes you happy, what makes you frustrated, what makes you sad? Has lived with and observed you day in and day out for years and knows exactly what makes you tick? Who else but a child can read the exact moment you're going to blow your lid and sidestep it adeptly with a quick apology or a race to pick up those toys after all?
And, let's face it, it's in a kid's best interest to master these things. A little parental wheedling and manipulating goes a long way for a child who just doesn't want to be fussed at, made to do chores or sent to bed without dessert.
My son has learned this lesson well and has been demonstrating his new skills of late.
He's always been something of a sensitive soul. If I raise my voice at him, he dissolves into tears and asks if I still love him, at which point, of course, my heart immediately melts. I drop to my knees, wrap my arms around him. "Even when I'm angry or frustrated, I will always love you with all my heart," I say, tears likely streaming down my cheeks.
Well, Capt. Manipulator has learned from me quite well. He knows my tenderness; he knows I value love and affection even through anger; he knows I'll reverse emotional tracks instantly with the right prodding. So now when I get frustrated with something, he has taken to saying something along the lines of, "I'm always trying to be nice, Mommy. Even when you're angry, I'm trying to be nice."
Or if I fuss at him for some infraction, I'll get something like, "I'm sorry for everything I ever did wrong in my life," uttered with tears welling and lower lip trembling, quite possibly the most pitiful sight in the world.
Wow, here's the dagger from my heart, sweetie. I believe this belongs to you.
I can't decide if it's a more appropriate parental reaction to ignore these (obviously manipulative) statements -- he clearly wants me to just stop whatever negative emotions I'm projecting to him at the time -- or to see them as my son's ingenious, though perhaps unintentional, relief valve for me.
Those things he says certainly have the effect of making me calm down, take a deep breath and look at myself with a more critical eye. Am I overreacting to something? Is my response appropriate or overkill? And sometimes the answers to those questions are eye-opening, even with only a moment's reflection.
But here's the really scary question to ponder: if he's this good at handling me when he's 5, what am I in for when he has gained the psychological maturity and manipulating skills of a teenager? I'll just go ahead and start sharpening those daggers for him now.
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