Itchy, Itchy, Ichabod.

We almost had ourselves a regular Situation this weekend.

My Mom's CRAZY!

It started out innocuously enough; I felt a little itchy on my belly on Friday afternoon, but promptly forgot about it due to the two miniature people demanding things like warmth and sustenance. That evening Peej had his holiday party at work (returning home in time to tuck in the Norabug, obvie- what a rager), and I ran out to get some groceries-

-Making a quick, super-secret stop to pick up THE BEST CHRISTMAS GIFT EVER, ohmigod I've said too much-


-And then met up with Kat for some seriously awesome Grouponed Tank sushi in Lincoln Square. Came home at a reasonable hour, kissed P.J. and Zuzu, checked on Nora, and went to sleep.

I woke up two hours later in a bit of pain. My hands seemed to be on fire, and were completely raw from the fact that I had been scratching them non-stop since I fell asleep. (Apparently. Either that, or someone awfully mean was scratching them into bloody stumps for me.) I went to the bathroom to find some hydrocortisone or something with which to prevent them from falling off. Happened to look in the mirror on the way out.

Saw, rising up past my tank top straps, ugly red welts spreading up my shoulders. Panicked.

I ran downstairs to find P.J. asleep on the couch and shouted something about how I was being eaten alive by a virus. Or something. Peej, for his part, woke up in a panic, thinking he was about to get reamed for falling asleep on the couch again. Panicked even more when he saw that I was a) not angry, but b) potentially dying.

But being the helpful guy that he is, he checked me out for other hives (who says romance doesn't exist after kids?) and went to get the hydrocortisone that I had flung in my rush to find him. Went to rub some on my shoulder blades. And saw that there seemed to be a bit more of the rash. He lifted the back of my shirt to find that in the past fifteen seconds, hives had appeared on my back and belly. Also, there was now one on my jaw.

And my hands were still puffy from my Claws Of Death.

P.J., who becomes even cooler during times of duress (as opposed to my regression into flailing toddlerdom), started a bath for me, got out some baking soda and oatmeal, and ran to the 24/7 Walgreens. Not caring much for "directions" or "amounts," I dumped in roughly three cups of each, and proceeded to immerse myself into a salty and dense bath o' gruel.

I'm not gonna lie- it didn't feel good.

At this point, hives were appearing down my arms and legs in fiery lines. I leaned out of the tub to begin Googling things on my phone; "rapidly spreading hives", "itchy (bloody) hands", things like that. I highly recommend a late-night Google session like this. It really calms the panic, especially since terms come up like "Ebola." (People never post things on the internet when they're feeling coherent and logical. It's just like Yelp- no one ever posts things like "It was a completely middle-of-the-road experience, one that was just fine. No complaints. No excess praise, either. Just nice." I don't know why I expected differently from medical postings. You're either imagining things or you may already be dead.

By the time P.J. had returned (less than seven minutes later), I had mentally revamped my will (I think my beneficiaries will be pleased with the changes). I then got out of the bath to take some Benadryl and actually gasped at my reflection. The welts on my legs had joined together to make eight-hive-wide snowflake patterns. These were now SupraHives. P.J., stoic as he was, could not completely mask his shock/horror/disgust(?) at his wife's condition.

It seriously looked like I had been beaten by a rusty chain.

So we did what we do best: We talked it out for about an hour. Should we go to the ER? Do we call our neighbors to come stay with the girls? (You're welcome, Angie.) Did I really feel it warranted immediate attention? Did you notice that my right arm is now completely crimson?

In the end, we [I] decided to just go to bed. After all, if I was still breathing okay (and nothing makes one think that there's breathing trouble like continuously asking oneself if one has trouble breathing) and had taken an antihistamine, I'd most likely end up just needlessly sitting in the ER for about five hours. Also, I deeply feared getting a cortisone shot. Sure, I had just [extremely recently] been the recipient of a spinal, but cortisone? NO SANKYOU.

I went to bed after checking on the girls, feeling nothing but sorrow for Susannah's nonexistent memories of me, and even moreso for Nora, having recently baked some so-so cookies with her slacktacular mother. There were also a few moments of absolute surety that my throat was closing up...quickly amended when I realized that I had been holding my breath. P.J. promised that he wouldn't let anything happen to me- then promptly snored.

Woke up three hours later with nary a welt. Feeling one thousand and two percent. With no idea what caused it or how to prevent future outbreaks. (Like in "Outbreak".)

So, apparently there's something out there that I really should not be touching with any part of my being. But I have no idea what it is. So I'll just continue to...not touch anything.

Cinchy.

(Happy Monday!)

Meanie Pants McGee Neglects [One Of] Her Children.

Naw, it's cool.
Just a bladder infection.

And now, let's check in with everyone's favorite Terrible Midwestern Mama-

Me.

This week's descent into therapy is brought to you by the letter T, for Toilet Bowl. Nora had been happily using the potty, not using the potty, and talking about things she wanted to do whilst on the potty (read various books, call loved ones on the phone, not take her nap, etc.) for the better part of the hour leading up to her usual rest time. And as our potty training is generally Nora-lead, i.e. she can pee or not pee at this point and get applause, I was letting her take her sweet time about it- up to a point. Towards the end of The Great Pee, I realized that Suzy had been fussing in her bouncer/was being ignored for far longer than we usually allow (oh, about twenty minutes or so) and I encouraged my eldest to wrap it up. (I was already thinking about the laundry list of tasks that lay ahead during her naptime, like soaking/scraping dried eggs from the underside of her booster seat...and, you know, laundry.)

She happily obliged, hopping down from the toilet and preparing to wash her hands. I turned away for a moment to start the water/soap portion of the afternoon's entertainment and turned back to find- BOTH OF NORA'S ARMS FULLY IN THE TOILET.

I'm not proud of this moment, but I yelled. A lot. About how we do not put our body parts into the toilet bowl and how she was not being a good listener and could she please never do that again. It was a pretty full-on Keely Yell, I'm ashamed to admit.

She froze like she had been slapped.

"I'm sorry, Mommy." She held out her dripping arms in the most helpful way she could manage. I cleaned her up, paying careful attention to sanitize such crucial areas as her inner elbows. All the while she solemnly acknowledged that kind people don't touch the toilet water.

A short while later, as I was kissing her goodnight for her nap, I apologized to her. I explained that, while I was worried about germs and pinched fingers, I shouldn't have yelled quite so much. She quietly put both hands on my cheeks and held my face close.

"It's okay, Mommy. You're a nice girl."

"Thank you, Nora."

"You have pretty eyelashes."

"Thanks."

So that's when I left my daughter's room and had a ten minute crying jag. And yeah, for those of you playing along at home, my youngest kid was still expressing concern from the confines of her aquarium bouncer.

And lest you think that Susannah escaped unharmed from from my Bad Momitude (aside from abandonment in a vibrating, bubbly prison), she suffered neglect as a direct result of her sister's awesome social calendar.

Yesterday we were invited to see Seussical, the Musical (!) at The Marriott Theatre (thanks, Aunties Julia and Cindy!), which we all enjoyed. Nora punctuated her exceptional theatergoer skillz with exclamations of OH NO at Horton's plight, followed by concerned [loud] questions about WHERE DID EVERYBODY GO during quieter moments and solos. But, altogether a win in the Culture And Arts department.

Zuzu, for her part, had been snuggling nicely against me for the majority of the show. She started to get a little squirmy towards the end, to which I responded with a typical Mom-To-Second-Kid response: Shh...you're fine.

And I reassured her of this fact throughout the slightly trafficky ride back to our home, all the while attempting to keep Nora awake until her naptime. And maybe get her to eat a bite of her sandwich. And perhaps stop bending her books inside out. The usual.

By the time we returned home, Nora was settled down for her nap, and I finally had a chance to hang out with The Little, it occurred to me that Susannah hadn't had a chance to eat since a quick parking lot snack at 10am (What're you looking at, tour bus?) and was rather starving. It had, after all, been three hours.

That would have to wait, however. For when I finally picked her up out of her car seat, I realized that she had pooped clear up to her neck. And was slightly unhappy about it.

After a quick sponge bath and disinfecting (the first for Susannah, the second for anything she or I had touched), I was able to actually feed her.

And she smiled happily up at me, like- You always take care of everything.

Which sent me off on another crying jag.

I don't think I'll be getting that Employee Of The Year mug anytime soon. Let alone World's Best Mom.

More like Hey, It's That Woman Who Cares For Her Kids With Astounding Mediocrity.

I think I've got the market cornered for that Hallmark moment.

Feeling That Gingerbread Feeling.

"Mommy, no more, thank you."

"No more thank you what?"

"No more thank you for the camera."

"...Oh."

Go Back To Bed, Michael.

Can't we just turn off the stereo?

I thought it would be enough for me to simply list the Christmas songs that get my Christmas goose. (I was gonna say "goat," but I've never heard of a Christmas goat. Even though accuracy has never really prevented me from writing before.)


But no. My ire, annoyance, and ear-worm eye-roll  has not been tempered in the least.


So I shall expound.


Okay, Jackson 5. I get it. You saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus under the mistletoe last night. Leaving for a moment how cloying it is whenever any adult (or half-grown adult, as in this case) refers to anyone as "Mommy," let's think this one through. Michael, your father was Joe Jackson. Being as he was a confirmed abusive fellow, maybe we should refrain from "telling [your] Dad" anything about anyone's misdeeds. I can't hear that line without cringing over the can of whoop-ass that has just inadvertently been opened.


Staying on the Jackson 5 train, can we all just agree to stop playing their positively suicide-inducing Little Christmas Tree? For the [blessedly] uninitiated, here's a sample:


I hear the Christmas bells
The happy people singing
The songs of good cheer
That only brings me tears
I sadly close my eyes
And say a little prayer
You'll be waiting there for me
I look but all I see is
Just a little Christmas tree
Looking sort of sad and lonely just like me
No one seems to care
They just went away and left it standing there
All alone on Christmas Eve.


Ohhkay. Listen, people, I don't care how many bells or trees you reference, this is NOT a good example of a holiday song. I can't imagine this is anyone's favorite Christmas chestnut. Who is requesting this song? He's saying a "little prayer," so he's clearly a praying kinda guy. Couldn't he just go to a Christmas Eve mass or something? Maybe volunteer at a soup kitchen? Anything's better than staring a small shrub. Also, come to think of it, why is Michael all alone on Christmas Eve? I can't believe that ever happened during his formative years- at least not with those Jackson 4 guys around. Not to mention LaToya and Janet. 


And the biggest offender of the Really Pushing The "Christmas Song" Category Envelope is: Last Christmas by George Michael. I know for a fact that millions of people adore this song. At least two stations in Chicago play it twice as hour (not even counting Taylor Swift's cover) and I've renamed Sirius XM's Channel 17 the Last Christmas station. ("All Last Christmas," all the time!") 


But here's the thing- this song could have taken place on any ol' day of the year: 


Last Christmas, I gave you my heart
But the very next day, You gave it away
This year, to save me from tears

I'll give it to someone special.

Look, this is basically a breakup song that just happened to have taken place on Christmas Eve. Substitute the holiday and you've got a pretty stellar Valentine's Day song. Or St. Patrick's or Arbor Day. Also, may I suggest not giving your heart as a present? Especially to someone who's clearly into December 26th store credit? Besides, wrapping up "Merry Christmas" with a note saying "I love you" (even if you meant it) is not a terrific Christmas gift. A sweet stocking stuffer at best. But if that was your only gift, I don't blame him/her for leaving you. 

I'm already questioning your serial dateitude if THIS year you're already planning on giving your heart to someone [randomly] special. 

Maybe take the season off. 

And now, I welcome your suggestions for truly abhorred overplayed Christmas ditties. This much rage should not be contained in solitude. We must stand strong, and stand together.

Or we're no better than that sad and lonely little Christmas tree.