Recently the question was put to me "If you got laid off, do you have a plan B?"
That's a very good question, and one that I don't have an answer for.
If I got laid off now, what, exactly, would I do?
Well, first, I suppose we would be okay for a while with unemployment. I could also concentrate on growing my soaping business, I suppose.
The one thing I would love to be able to do, though, is to go back to school. I would love to get a degree in Psychology. I wonder how people go about getting grants and loans for such a thing?
So, in this troubling economy, do you have a plan B?
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Norovirus and the Working Mom
Okay, I admit it. The norovirus won. I’m defeated, utterly and completely defeated.
My downfall started simply enough. Spencer, 7, came home from school Monday last week, perfectly happy, ate his dinner with his usually sunny disposition, and then proceeded to projectile vomit the likes of which I haven’t seen since the movie ‘The Exorcist’. Luckily it wasn’t green, but still.
Then Josh, 20, the oldest of my lov-i-ly bunch of coconuts, starts complaining about stomach upset, and proceeds to give Spencer’s audition as the new Linda Blair a run for his money.
Then, Friday morning, I get a call at work that Quinn, 4, is now throwing up. Quinn, unlike his older and much more thoughtful brothers knows deep in his heart that a toilet is no place to stick your head, and it is much better to vomit all over the house then in the commode.
He is also too young to give proper homage to the number one commandment in our house: Mom does not clean up throw up.
Here’s the thing. I can stand just about anything. Being the youngest of 7 kids growing up out in the middle of nowhere, I have a cast iron stomach, and the only thing that riles me slightly is saucer-sized wolf spiders (suckers are fast!!!). Worms, snakes, bugs, nothing fazes me, much to my sons’ consternation.
Also, being the mother of five, dirty diapers and poop doesn’t bother me in the least.
But mom’s weakness, her kryptonite, is vomit. So, I always made my sons aware of the rule: You throw up on the floor, you clean it up, because there’s no use in both of us being sick.
But Quinn, for some reason, hasn’t quite grasped that concept yet. Luckily, I have 3 teenage sons that are used to cleaning up vomit, so they don’t hesitate to help me out.
So, back to Friday. I’m busy working the Christmas Through Lowell, trying to help customers, and all the while, realizing I’m starting to come down with a pretty gnarly cold. Try talking customers up when you have a throat that feels like ground round. Then I get the call…Quinn has thrown up. What, precisely, my family expects me to do at that point I’m not sure. I guess mom is supposed to have a magic wand that miraculously makes everything all better. Well, sorry, guys, mom traded in her magic wand for that Xbox you just had to have, so figure it out on your own.
So, Saturday night I come home, carrying with me the mega-sized bottle of Nyquil and a jumbo box of puffs. If there was a commercial use for phlegm, I would be a multi-millionaire. Really, how can one person produce that much snot? It’s a question for the ages, I guess.
Well, finally, Monday, we think everything has gotten back to normal. After spending all day Sunday in bed, I’m feeling pretty good, no one has thrown up in 24 hours, always a plus. So, things are looking up, right? Guess again.
Did you know you can get re-infected with the norovirus? WHAT?!?!? That so isn’t fair.
So, Monday night, Spencer decides to start hurling again, but this 7 year old angel knows mom’s abhorrence for anything vomitous, so he makes it to the toilet just in time. Wish he could teach that to his younger brother, because Quinn decides to start up again, too.
So, Monday sees Spencer and Quinn both home, and a new player hits the scene…darling Dad. Yes, my darling husband succumbs to the horror known as the norovirus. Luckily, he decides the best thing for him is to stay in bed. He’s more right then he knows.
Amidst this turmoil, mom has a craving for chili. Go figure. Well, that which does not kill us makes us stronger, right?
Well, this is starting to get a little ridiculous, so I take the little guys to the doctor, where she proceeds to tell me everything I already knew; clear liquids, no protein, blah blah blah. Glad I paid good money for that advice.
Well, by the time suppertime runs around, it looks like we might be making headway. Quinn and Spencer have had a light lunch, and seem to be keeping it down. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!!! Or, at least I thought so until Quinn decided to use mom as a target in his new game of “projectile vomit sharp shooting”. Little sucker tagged me flat in the chest. And he was fully loaded, too. Then has the audacity to look at me with a hurt look in his eyes.
Well, as I sit on the couch, dripping, feeling slightly nauseous myself now, Zack, my 16 year old son thinks it’s just about the funniest thing he’s ever seen. As he laughs, I think to myself, ‘You will be repaid, boy”. Truer words were never thought. More on that later.
As I’m sitting there, dripping, waiting for laughing boy to get me a towel, Josh had grabbed Quinn and rushed to the bathroom, where the boy erupted again, all over the tile, wall, toilet, and half the shower door. And I have to wonder, how much can that little tummy hold?
Okay, so Wednesday rolls around, and I get a call just as I’m getting home from work. “Mom,” Zack’s pitiful voice on the other ends groans, “can you pick me up. I’m sick”. Well, not so funny now, are you laughing boy?
Zack comes home, and I swear, he is the biggest baby ever. Nothing like a 6” tall, 170 pound baby lying on your couch, actually groaning, wanting his mommy to wait on him hand and foot. And of course, he has to have full control of the remote. That’s a given. Isn’t there some kind of male gene that connects being horizontal on a couch with the need to grasp a remote control device?
So, Thursday passes uneventfully. Quinn requests some food, and seems to be feeling fine. The big groaning baby has stopped groaning and is actually able to get his own food and relinquish the remote. That’s good for me.
But, Quinn isn’t done yet. The virus, for him, is like Al Pacino in Godfather III. Just when you think you are out, it sucks you back in again. So, little Mr. Projectile Vomiter hits his mom not once, not twice, but three more times over the course of a night and early morning.
So, darling hubby and I spend the better part of a night in the emergency room of a hospital, watching the clock and realizing that sleep isn’t in our forecast for today. Good thing it’s Friday. I get to spend my weekend washing bedding, and disinfecting rugs.
Buy stock in Arm and Hammer. Baking soda is a godsend when cleaning up after the norovirus.
Oh, well, I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
At this rate, I’ll be dead next week.
My downfall started simply enough. Spencer, 7, came home from school Monday last week, perfectly happy, ate his dinner with his usually sunny disposition, and then proceeded to projectile vomit the likes of which I haven’t seen since the movie ‘The Exorcist’. Luckily it wasn’t green, but still.
Then Josh, 20, the oldest of my lov-i-ly bunch of coconuts, starts complaining about stomach upset, and proceeds to give Spencer’s audition as the new Linda Blair a run for his money.
Then, Friday morning, I get a call at work that Quinn, 4, is now throwing up. Quinn, unlike his older and much more thoughtful brothers knows deep in his heart that a toilet is no place to stick your head, and it is much better to vomit all over the house then in the commode.
He is also too young to give proper homage to the number one commandment in our house: Mom does not clean up throw up.
Here’s the thing. I can stand just about anything. Being the youngest of 7 kids growing up out in the middle of nowhere, I have a cast iron stomach, and the only thing that riles me slightly is saucer-sized wolf spiders (suckers are fast!!!). Worms, snakes, bugs, nothing fazes me, much to my sons’ consternation.
Also, being the mother of five, dirty diapers and poop doesn’t bother me in the least.
But mom’s weakness, her kryptonite, is vomit. So, I always made my sons aware of the rule: You throw up on the floor, you clean it up, because there’s no use in both of us being sick.
But Quinn, for some reason, hasn’t quite grasped that concept yet. Luckily, I have 3 teenage sons that are used to cleaning up vomit, so they don’t hesitate to help me out.
So, back to Friday. I’m busy working the Christmas Through Lowell, trying to help customers, and all the while, realizing I’m starting to come down with a pretty gnarly cold. Try talking customers up when you have a throat that feels like ground round. Then I get the call…Quinn has thrown up. What, precisely, my family expects me to do at that point I’m not sure. I guess mom is supposed to have a magic wand that miraculously makes everything all better. Well, sorry, guys, mom traded in her magic wand for that Xbox you just had to have, so figure it out on your own.
So, Saturday night I come home, carrying with me the mega-sized bottle of Nyquil and a jumbo box of puffs. If there was a commercial use for phlegm, I would be a multi-millionaire. Really, how can one person produce that much snot? It’s a question for the ages, I guess.
Well, finally, Monday, we think everything has gotten back to normal. After spending all day Sunday in bed, I’m feeling pretty good, no one has thrown up in 24 hours, always a plus. So, things are looking up, right? Guess again.
Did you know you can get re-infected with the norovirus? WHAT?!?!? That so isn’t fair.
So, Monday night, Spencer decides to start hurling again, but this 7 year old angel knows mom’s abhorrence for anything vomitous, so he makes it to the toilet just in time. Wish he could teach that to his younger brother, because Quinn decides to start up again, too.
So, Monday sees Spencer and Quinn both home, and a new player hits the scene…darling Dad. Yes, my darling husband succumbs to the horror known as the norovirus. Luckily, he decides the best thing for him is to stay in bed. He’s more right then he knows.
Amidst this turmoil, mom has a craving for chili. Go figure. Well, that which does not kill us makes us stronger, right?
Well, this is starting to get a little ridiculous, so I take the little guys to the doctor, where she proceeds to tell me everything I already knew; clear liquids, no protein, blah blah blah. Glad I paid good money for that advice.
Well, by the time suppertime runs around, it looks like we might be making headway. Quinn and Spencer have had a light lunch, and seem to be keeping it down. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!!! Or, at least I thought so until Quinn decided to use mom as a target in his new game of “projectile vomit sharp shooting”. Little sucker tagged me flat in the chest. And he was fully loaded, too. Then has the audacity to look at me with a hurt look in his eyes.
Well, as I sit on the couch, dripping, feeling slightly nauseous myself now, Zack, my 16 year old son thinks it’s just about the funniest thing he’s ever seen. As he laughs, I think to myself, ‘You will be repaid, boy”. Truer words were never thought. More on that later.
As I’m sitting there, dripping, waiting for laughing boy to get me a towel, Josh had grabbed Quinn and rushed to the bathroom, where the boy erupted again, all over the tile, wall, toilet, and half the shower door. And I have to wonder, how much can that little tummy hold?
Okay, so Wednesday rolls around, and I get a call just as I’m getting home from work. “Mom,” Zack’s pitiful voice on the other ends groans, “can you pick me up. I’m sick”. Well, not so funny now, are you laughing boy?
Zack comes home, and I swear, he is the biggest baby ever. Nothing like a 6” tall, 170 pound baby lying on your couch, actually groaning, wanting his mommy to wait on him hand and foot. And of course, he has to have full control of the remote. That’s a given. Isn’t there some kind of male gene that connects being horizontal on a couch with the need to grasp a remote control device?
So, Thursday passes uneventfully. Quinn requests some food, and seems to be feeling fine. The big groaning baby has stopped groaning and is actually able to get his own food and relinquish the remote. That’s good for me.
But, Quinn isn’t done yet. The virus, for him, is like Al Pacino in Godfather III. Just when you think you are out, it sucks you back in again. So, little Mr. Projectile Vomiter hits his mom not once, not twice, but three more times over the course of a night and early morning.
So, darling hubby and I spend the better part of a night in the emergency room of a hospital, watching the clock and realizing that sleep isn’t in our forecast for today. Good thing it’s Friday. I get to spend my weekend washing bedding, and disinfecting rugs.
Buy stock in Arm and Hammer. Baking soda is a godsend when cleaning up after the norovirus.
Oh, well, I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
At this rate, I’ll be dead next week.
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