So since Big Shot Husband and Perfect Eldest Son (Pes) have abandoned us for some "father-son bonding" nonsensical trip, Zsa Zsa, Eva and Gorby have had to endure my cheerful and sunny disposition in the morning. Let me explain. Though I am sometimes quick to point out Big Shot Husband's flaws, I cannot complain about his recognition and acceptance of my sole flaw: I hate the morning. As such, I stay in bed as long as humanly possible and he gets up and deals with the fray. To be fair (to myself), I am not entirely immune, as I get frequent visits (sometimes upwards of 20) between 630 and whenever I have to drag myself out of bed. Obviously, though, when Big Shot Husband is out of town, I have to be the responsible parent.
This morning I wake up to Eva gently caressing my arm and saying, "Mommy, can I lie down next to you?" I smile(ish) and grunt, "Hm." This means yes. She scrambles into bed with me and snuggles up. This is so sweet, I think. Two minutes later, the whole thing falls apart. Zsa Zsa and Gorby want in on the action, tearing into the room and my bed, screaming, fighting, namecalling. . .I stay still with my eyes closed. I think this is the same procedure as when a large wild animal wants to eat you. Eventually they leave and continue to fight and scream downstairs. After many visits to tattle on each other, I drag myself downstairs. Then we have to go to the allergist.
Zsa Zsa had a big allergy test last month that she failed. Her allergy to nuts was so severe that the scratch test alone resulted in a major reaction necessitating a shot of epi in the office. I guess we shouldn't ever feed her nuts again. So today we were to test for a few environmental allergens and once more for peanut. Because our regular doctor had the audacity to tear his ACL or somesuch, we were rescheduled from yesterday to today. When we got there, Zsa Zsa said, "I hate this rotten place." How prescient she was. It was clear when we arrived that they had no idea we were coming. Even though they called me to reschedule two days prior and just an hour earlier had called to make sure I applied the Emla cream to anesthetize her skinny little arms for the transdermal allergy tests, we were not on their list.
After half an hour of sitting there, I noticed that a) everyone else had been called back and b) Zsa Zsa's arms were getting reddish under the saran wrap (don't ask). I went to the desk, "Hi, um, my daughter's arms are getting really red and we've been sitting here for half an hour." "Oh yes," desk lady says, "She's calling you back soon." This is when I realize that at Shmordnick School of Medical Technicianry (you've seen the commercials), the sole training they receive is to either 1) be extremely vague or b) make stuff up really quick to avoid the ire of aggravated patients. You'll see what I mean. Soon.
Fifteen minutes later (30 + 15 = 45 minute wait time), we are called back. "How are you?" lady asks. "I was fine until I had to wait here for 45 minutes and Zsa Zsa's arms are getting quite red," I said. "Oh, that just means it's working," lady says. "And we didn't have you on the schedule, that's why it took so long." Note to self: 1) Google 'red skin means Emla is working' when I get home, and 2) Don't kill this lady. "Well," I retort, "that's not my fault, they called me to switch the appointment time two days ago and also just a couple of hours ago to remind me to put the cream on." And this is where she pulls out the Shmordnick School strategy, "Well, the longer the cream is on the better. In fact, one hour is just the bare minimum. So she's better off having had it on for two hours." Except that my head is about to explode, but no matter.
She does the tests, comes back and declares that Zsa Zsa is definitely allergic to peanut and mold. "Wow, interesting," I say, "because last time I told Dr. Adrenaline that she had just recently eaten chocolate peanut butter cups with no problem, isn't that strange?" "Not necessarily," she replies. Mr. Shmordnick would be so proud. "The doctor will be in soon," she huffs out. Except it was the nurse who comes in next. Wow, I guess they grant medical degrees here too. This fact was also corroborated when I opened the desk drawer earlier looking for a piece of paper and I found a blank prescription pad. I didn't touch it. I promise. Anyway, we were pushing a two hour visit here so after she consults with us, we get up to go. "Wait," she says, "the doctor is coming." We sit.
Finally, many moons later, Dr. Wienerschnitzel walks in. He is about 157 years old and wearing a brown shirt, ok, not really. (Is it un-PC to say stuff like that?) He looks at Zsa Zsa's chart and then starts dictating to himself and writing each word as he says it aloud, VERY SLOWLY, "Allergy to mold, takes blahblah nasal spray, only option is immunotherapy which will be started as soon as we can make solution." Hold on there, Dr. Sauerkraut, I am not doing allergy shots, I do not need another extracurricular activity. "OK," he says, "you can make an appointment to start the immunotherapy next month." It's called allergy shots in America, dude. "OK, sounds good," I say, and hightail it out of that place.
I am exhausted. "Zsa Zsa," I say, "Will you do me a solid and take the other kids downstairs tomorrow morning and put them in front of the TV?" "TV?" she asks, incredulous, "At 7 in the morning? Are you crazy?" Our anti-TV campaign sometimes has its failings. "Please," I say, "I am begging you." "OK," she says. "Oh, and make them breakfast too," I add. I figure now that my older kids are 10 and 8, I can relax a little. I mean, I did spend all those years getting up early with them. Ahem.
My cell phone rings, "HELLOOOO!" my mother chirps. (She is very cheerful, even in the morning). "How are you?!!" "I'm fine," I say. "What's going on?" she asks. "Nothing," I say. I realize I don't have to tell her anything anymore. She can just read it on my blog. I smile.
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