You know you live in a yobbo town when the next door neighbours come home late (try midnight) on a Sunday night, drunk and let off some kind of detonator.
A loud one at that and then laugh and swear at how cool they are when the twins start crying and the horses at the farm protest loudly because they are scared out of their wits.
“Yeah, stoopid **fire truckin’ horses!”
We went to see the paed today.
Aside from having a new and shiny plan that now says, in writing, that Ivy is a ‘complicated case’,
I also learnt justhow old he actually was, when he mentioned some doctors have ‘a spack attack’ when nurses tell them what to chart.
I already knew we were around the same age, that just sealed the deal.
Also; that he felt it was ‘cool’ that my husband thought his presence was required at said meeting so he and the paed could have a light sabre fight on their collective iphones.
I guess, after three years of Ivy worry, we no longer have appointments.
We just chill,
for almost two hours.
The good news is Ivy has managed to put on 300grams in six weeks.
The bad news is…well, you already know most of the bad news, so I won’t bang on about it anymore, except to say the paed concurs.
I suppose it would be good to mention here that her left ear drum is now so scarred that any sound she is getting in, is probably pretty muffled.
As the ENT doctor says;
lucky she has two ears.
The highschool kids all came home today, having had their chicken pox vaccine.
A live vaccine
when I had asked for them not to have it because of…
oh, lets see, an immunocompromised child in the house.
A pre teen missed out, apparently because I had neglected to sign one side of the form.
I think it will be okay.
I won’t have to send them away, so long as they don’t exhibit any symptoms of chicken pox within 5 to 42 days.
If they get varicella, I think we are up the creek without that proverbial paddle.
Speaking of highschool kids, I think the shiny lustre of a new school is starting to wear off.
Immy asked if she could use some of my cardstock for a music assignment she has.
When I asked her what it was about she replied,
“I dunno, it’s something about something”.
Apparently all small make up sponges are named ‘Joe’ in this house.
The Joes like to swim in the toilet, it seems.
Especially after two pre schoolers have done their “big wees” before bath.
The tiny ‘mother’ of all the Joes gets most upset when they are flushed away, even when you explain that Joe wanted to be flushed (so the big Mummy didn’t have to fish around in the bowl).
For some reason she didn’t believe me.
She cried and said, “but Joe is my fwend”.
** not the word they actually used but you get my drift.