Pediatric Mega-Practices and Their Obsession with Clipboards

If I were a betting mom, I would put the over-under on the number of cases of strep(t) my family contracts a year at 12.  To be honest, I am a bit of a betting mom, but my husband confiscates all extra cash, credit cards, and cash station cards during our allotted yearly visit to the gambling boats.  He suggested once that I could easily become a member of Gamblers Anonymous, to which I responded: duh.

I got a same-day appointment with my pediatrician who is somewhat of a baby-whisperer.  Dr. Henry Abusharif is able to get three-day-old infants to open up and say ah.  He offers his own comedy routine to every kid that comes in the door.  I've never seen anything like it.  The practice is such a nice departure from my old Lincoln Park Mega-Practice.  The Lincoln Park nurses would saddle me with 2 clipboards and 15 new forms to complete at every visit.  Just as I got situated with a toddler, an infant carrier, a diaper bag, coats, and forms, they would tell me I had to go to Room #26.  If I actually found Room #26 (instead of just giving up and settling for Room #18), a nurse would come in with more forms and clipboards before I could even put down the baby carrier.  I left that office feeling sweaty and stressed over trying to keep track of all their damn clipboards.

The nurses at Dr. Henry's office are so much different from the downtown Mega-Practice.  They remember my name and escort me immediately into an exam room (thankfully labeled 1-5).  I'm out of there in 35 minutes.  Walgreens and McDonalds are right around the corner, so you can shove nuggets down your kids while the pharmacist whips up your azithromycin.  Heaven.

Sometimes I regret moving away from the downtown area.  I miss the shopping, the museums, and mostly the energy of an urban city.  I even go as far as to visit various realtor websites to check out listed condos with lake and city views.  Yet any time I start feeling more serious about pursuing my past life of downtown living, I think about that Mega-Practice.  And then I think how often my kids get strep(t). 

So not worth it.

*Note to family members I will be seeing later today at bridal shower - I will try not to get too close to the bride in case I'm a carrier like the ebola monkey but with heels.

**Note to family members we will be seeing even later today at graduation party - Daniel will have been on antibiotics for longer than 24 hours by the time you see us - safe to hug. 

***Follow up for  Atheist-Friend - see below verification that my pantry has been revitalized, bug-sprayed and somewhat organized.  Not up to your standards, I'm sure, but pretty good for me.  In hindsight, I guess I went little crazy on Ziploc bags last time they were on sale.  I was also delighted to locate the fire extinguisher because how embarrassing would that be if our house burnt to the ground??  My husband would never live it down at the firehouse.

Raindrops on Roses and Raid Sprayed on Insects

Holy thunderstorms, Batman.  Was anyone else in Chicago thinking about grabbing pairs of raccoons and alley cats to throw in an ark Wednesday night?  This was not a typical hour-long storm I'm talking about.  This was epic.  All three boys woke up terrified in our un-airconditioned upstairs (we're waiting on some part that starts with the letter "c"...convector? conveyor? compressor?).  Naively, my little offspring sought solace from their mother sleeping in her new Tempur-Pedic bed that will be paid for in full as early as 2062. 

As each son entered my room shaking and hysterical, I gave them a stern lecture on the rules of sleeping in the bed that cost more than my first year at Eastern: no talking, no moving, no peeing, no drooling. If anyone feels like they might have to throw up, GET OUT NOW.  After I scared them worse than the storm, I felt a little guilty about not channeling Julie Andrews and breaking out into "Favorite Things."  But I bet Julie didn't have a Tempur-Pedic.

When I woke up, I was holed up in the corner of my bed.  There had been a coup. They had somehow taken over the entire bed and relegated me to a 7"x7" box.

I loved how Joey fell asleep as though he'd been shot.  My comforter and  pillows were strewn aside.  The boys resembled little refugees seeking asylum via their Tempur-Pedic raft. 

After the skies cleared and morning came, I witnessed an endless parade of  Shop-Vacs being hauled in and out of houses.  Several neighbors asked what kind of flood damage our basement got.  I told them I was choosing to be happy and ignorant until Joe got home from work - at which time he could inspect to see if our Christmas tree survived the deluge.  After all, I had errands to run -  Target, dry cleaners, supermarket, post office, and the sporting good store all required visits that day.  Sure, they were all places I should have gone earlier in the week but I like to keep things exciting.  How many destinations can I fit into the 4 hours I have between getting the last one off to school and having to leave for the first one's carpool?

Once the kids got home, I went into the pantry to retrieve some instant oatmeal for their after-school snack (okay fine, for dinner) and spied a flurry of ants scurrying around.  They were apparently seeking a new home once they got rained out of my backyard paradise (made worse by the Slip 'n Slide we played with the day before).  I hate bugs.  My husband encouraged me to just spray the baseboards and have done with it.  I insisted we empty all the contents of our pantry and go balls to the walls.  If the cops for any reason were to come over while we were doing this, I'm sure they would have taken instant custody of the kids.

After spraying enough ant spray into my pantry to wipe out ten generations of these nuisances, I closed the door feeling righteous.  This was my turf.  I don't step on them when I'm outside.  I'm courteous.  I have respect.  But come into my home? I will go gansta on your ass.

Three hours after I caked the floor with Raid, I opened the pantry door.  After nearly passing out from the fumes, I held my shirt over my nose and inspected.  Legions of ant carcasses littered my pantry.  I grabbed the Dust Buster and went to town.  As I turned to put my Dust Buster away, I noticed one last living ant making a desperate run for freedom.  He had escaped the pantry and was crawling towards the kitchen cabinets.  For a moment, I almost felt bad for the little guy.  But that was only for a moment.

(please note the following video contains graphic images that some viewers might find offensive):

And that's how Mariane went all Jersey Shore today.  By the way, I forgot to tell Joe to check the basement for flooding and he's working again tomorrow. Seriously, what's the worst that could be down there?

Don't answer that.

20th High School Reunion? Pass.

I've only recently rejoined Facebook after deactivating my account last year.  I was a full-blown junkie in desperate need of counseling.  But like most addicts, a relapse was inevitable.  I'll be sure to provide full disclosure on my addiction in a detailed post, but that story must wait for another day.

As I cautiously dipped my toe back into the Facebook waters, I was somehow included in a group for my 20th high school reunion.  Out of curiosity, I looked at the page.  I received my diploma with about 500 kids, and I could hardly recognize a soul.  Except one.  The girl who made my life a living hell from 7th grade through high school graduation. Let's just call her Herodias (I like biblical references because I know how much they annoy Atheist-Friend).  For my "Old Testament Only" readers, Herodias was the gal who demanded the head of John the Baptist.

With her smiling profile picture staring up at me, I clicked Herodias' info.  A mother with daughters.  Daughters.  For avid readers, you remember that one of the reasons I am relieved to have sons is my horrific experience with mean girls.  Six-footers with limited athleticism in high school are pretty much the low-hanging fruit for Queen Bees.  I was a sheltered kid who attended mass, did extra credit, and loved diagramming sentences.  I mean, really?  Couldn't Herodias even try to look for a challenge?

For years, Herodias mocked my Kmart jeans that were way too short, my ultra-flat hair in the age of super-sized poofs, and the horrible facial hair young brunettes display unwittingly before they discover the miracles of waxing or electrolysis.  I was a train wreck and Herodias knew it. 

As a mother now, I suppose I should recognize the "bully" profile and feel a certain amount of sympathy towards poor Herodias.  Many bullies come from single-parent homes.  They have less frequent contact with adults.  Esteem is low.  Herodias could only feel better by making me feel worse.  But I'm still not ready to let go of that defeated 13-year-old girl with the bad posture and shy demeanor. When I got a follow-up email from another friend from high school asking why I was no longer on the FB group, I told her the truth:  the wounds were still there and perhaps only aggressive therapy and prescription medication could prop me up so as to endure a 50th reunion.  Sorry, committee.  You may just want to cross me off your list for the next few decades.

They say that living well is sometimes the best revenge.  As this blog clearly shows, my life is far from perfect.  Yet I am happy.  I do sometimes miss the career that introduced me to phenomenal people I still love.  I also miss the opportunities to travel, develop creatively (in a non-blog way), and improve on my managerial skills.  But nothing compares to the three little boys I over-schedule and cook frozen pizza for. 

Then there's my husband who loves me despite the fact that I listen to Rent and have no rhythm whatsoever (it was his idea to take dance lessons for our wedding).  Naturally, Joe was one of the cool kids in high school - resembling a boy-band member with high cheekbones and stunning blue eyes.  He thinks I'm exaggerating when I tell him what a geek I was in high school.  He doesn't want to admit he married the equivalent of "Captain of the Band-Campers."

So if I'm not always living well (or rather perfectly), I am living with the best 4 guys in the world. The universe knew what it was doing in making sure I'd never have to live with a mean girl of my own making.  My boys like my Target clothes and tell me I'm beautiful as I pick dried milk off my shorts.  I don't feel I need to prove anything to  Herodias.  Plus, the poor thing is going to have 3 teenage daughters under her roof in a few years.

Karma is a bitch.

Random Act of Insanity Courtesy of Luis the Bike Man

Every Friday, I let my kids play at the school park for an hour or so.  And just about every Friday, Luis-the-heavily-accented-dad appears with his elaborate bike trailer.  I'm going to guess he's Brazilian because he's often wearing a soccer (futbol?) jersey.  Brazilians love their soccer, right?  Which reminds me of a comment my hockey-playing 11-year-old nephew made when I was complaining about the overall hassle of having kids in ice hockey:

Drew: You know what they'd call hockey if it was easy, Aunt Marianne?

Me: What, Drew?

Drew:  Soccer.

The school kids know the routine for Fridays.  They get in line, shove each other around for a few minutes trying to establish a pecking order, and then board Luis' cart-o-fun.  Some kids help pedal.  Some kids ride in the passenger section.  And some kids just run along screaming things.  I don't like that last bunch so much.

I don't know what kind of genetic mutation causes a man to commit such generous acts of kindness for obnoxious children (mine included).  It could be sweltering outside, and there's Luis carting around 200 pounds of kid.  Even when he looks miserable and sweaty while wishing he'd just driven the minivan to pick up his own children, he still gives every last kid in line at least one ride.

Luis is just another example of someone who goes through life a far nicer person than me.  I'm the mom who never remembers which playdates are allergic to peanuts and I've almost put 5 kids into anaphylactic shock.  Geez I hope those moms aren't reading this today.

Cheers to Luis.  Maybe I'll bring him one of cousin Kate's beer coolies this week.  I wonder if they have a pattern at Joann Fabrics for Carnival? And how the hell do you say "beer coolie" in Portuguese? 

Who Needs Six Flags?

The American Revolution: An Excuse to Not Take Out the Garbage?

I'm on the phone with Atheist-Friend and she tells me she's reading the John Quincy Adams biography.  I stifle a yawn and feign interest as she goes into detail about JQA's upbringing.  Then she makes a comment about JQA's trip to France with his father John Adams.  Supposedly this journey was a sort of turning-point in the young boy's life.  Historians and biographers have cited it in detail as having a significant impact on the future president.  In an aggravated tone, Atheist-Friend provides her own interpretation of this historical trip:

Yeah, I know what happened there.  "Turning point" my ass.  That mom (Abigail Adams)  was home with four young children and dad comes marching in to announce he's sailing out on the next ship.  So what does mom say?  "Not without taking one of these frickin' kids with you, you're not."

I promised Atheist-Friend she'd get credit for that theory.

Atheist-Friend got me thinking.  I started doing a little research on the founding fathers.  And what did this finding mother discover?

Ben Franklin - 3 kids
George Washington - 2 stepchildren
John Adams - 4 children
Thomas Jefferson - 6 children
James Madison - 1 stepson
Alexander Hamilton - 8 children

Note these numbers reflect "legitimate" children as I couldn't find the numbers on other kids produced from various dalliances.  Atheist-Friend was right.  These guys were so bogged down by children and stepchildren, they started a revolution to escape the monotony of potty training and strep(t) throat.  When I dug deeper, I discovered that the two men with step-children (Washington and Madison) were some kind of cousins.  Perhaps the impetus of the American Revolution started over Christmas dinner and went along the lines of:

Washington:  My stepson Jacky is failing geometry and his mother is up my butt to set him right.  Every time I try that, all I get is "you're not my real dad."

Madison:  That sucks, bro.  You got to get out of that mess.  You'd probably have an easier time taking down England than teaching that nitwit math.

Washington (thinking):  You may be on to something, Jimmy.  I mean Martha can't hold a grudge against a fellow who is fighting a war, right?  By God, let's do it.  Round up the boys!

So built a country.  I really can't blame these guys for wanting out of Dodge so badly.  I went to the dentist's office a few months ago to get an old filling dug out and replaced.  The procedure was pretty grueling and took a lot longer than the dentist had anticipated.  He apologized profusely for the "ordeal."  For me, it was the longest I had spent with my feet up and without a kid telling me he had to pee in years.  I thanked him. 

In our household, the modern equivalent to John Adams' trip to France is Joe's trip to every funeral home within a 100 mile radius.  As alluded to in previous posts, my husband is a hoarder of people.  He is friends with the kid he went to kindergarten with, the girl he took to prom, and every 3rd person in Beverly.  While this is wonderful in many ways, it becomes an issue when people die.  He spends at least 3-4 nights a month going to wakes.  When the kids were babies, I would fly off the handle as he spent so many nights at the firehouse and seemingly the other half of the evenings paying his respects. 

Without even knowing it, I eventually pulled my own Abigail Adams.  I started asking Joe to take between 1-3 children with him to every wake.  My sons have since attended more wakes and funerals than most people approaching their 70's.  At first, I was a little worried about issues they might have in seeing so many dead bodies.  Yet Jack now describes these events as "the parties with the dead people."  And why not?  There's usually food, crowds, and a few Irishmen in the parking lot with beer coolies.  Last year, he indicated he'd like to have his birthday party at Blake-Lamb Funeral Home.  I told him we should probably stick with Chuck E. Cheese.

Whether it be trips to France or the local funeral home, I have come to realize that men are programmed to seek time away from the family.  I think women are programmed the same way, but they just know that the kids will find them.  No matter where they go.  No matter what they do. 

I think I may need another filling replaced soon.

What Would Mickey Mouse Do?

I have a theory about the writers at the Disney Channel.  Several years ago, a senior marketing director walked into the CEO's office to discuss the decline in sales of Disney products.  The conversation revolved around brainwashing kids at a young age to meet the demographic needed to increase sales.

The kids would need to be self-important smart alecs who could manipulate their parents into buying wharehouses full of Disney crap.  Yet how could the network create such a demographic?

Enter stage right: Hannah Montana, The Suite Life, iCarly, and The Wizards of Waverly Place. In each and every show, there are recurring messages to kids:

• Adults are silly and gullible.  Lie to them.  Pacify them.  Then do whatever you want because you are smarter.

• Material stuff is important.  You need to wear trendy clothes and go to stylists.  How you look is more critical than who you are.

• Being glib and full of sarcasm is your ticket to fame, fortune, and popularity.  Work on these traits now.  Compassion, kindness, and real emotion are for suckers.  Unless of course there is a soundtrack and an audience that will say "awww" at exactly the right moment.

Back in my day (Saved by the Bell, anyone?), a lot of kid shows had public service announcements and real messages, albeit not always well-executed (anyone remember the one where Jesse took energy pills and got so amped-up she acted like she was on meth?).  Not every single line was designed to show how clever and smart the characters were.  There was a certain awkwardness to these shows.  Even plotting charmer Zack usually got caught by Mr. Belding at the end of the day.

There is nothing awkward about the new breed of Disney programs.  Slick sets full of 15-year-old girls with hair extensions and personal trainers are the mainstay.  All of Disney's stars can sing, primp, and pole-dance.  The smugness of these barely-teen kids is palpable.

I go a little crazy if I catch Daniel diving for the remote when I walk into a room.  It means he was watching one of them.  He of course thinks they're cool and tells me "everybody else" in his class is allowed to watch the Disney Channel.  My response?  Well, obviously their parents just don't love them enough to teach them that Disney shows lead to crack.  Harsh?  Yes.  But as indicated in previous posts, I myself am a bit fringe.  And do we really need to discuss all of the Disney stars with addiction problems?  I don't think I'm that far off track.

I didn't actually see it, but people aware of my hostility towards Disney have told me that the shows were mocked by Saturday Night Live recently for these very same reasons.  Thank you, SNL.  You have done what millions of moms across America should be doing.  Stop feeding the Disney beast!  Of course, we would like to plan a trip to Disney World before the boys get too old and get some cute pictures of Joey with Donald....but after that, we're DONE.

I will continue to fight the good fight as far as what my kids are exposed to, but I know that I am losing more and more control daily.  My wee ones are testing, pushing, and role-playing even now.  They are all stubborn.  Yet I have one secret weapon.

My husband.

Stubborn kiddies....

Meet your match.

This is my husband "smiling."