In Sickness and In Health (Conclusion)

In addition to dealing with the flu, Kiddo has some physical and emotional issues that have required my husband and me to get ‘them’ to different medical appointments at least two times per week.

So after seeing two physicians over the course of nine weeks, it was suggested we then see a specialist.

Lucky for us, the five hour drive was close to our second residence, so away we went for a few days.

Making the drive over the mountain pass was rather rough. Not only was it below zero temps, we also got stuck in deep snow twice and did not arrive to the bungalow until early evening.

“I hafta go potty,” Kiddo said.

Though normally we would have proper accommodations for this, our porta potty was buried in two feet of snow.

“Okay,” I smiled, grabbing the next best thing. Then I quietly left the room.

Unbeknownst to me, Kiddo was pooping in the pail.

When I realized what had happened, all I could do was laugh.

My amusement disappeared though when I realized I had no running water to clean the mess.

My husband helped me melt lots of snow so we could rinse out the pail.

Then would you believe, it wasn’t long after Kiddo had to go again!?

UGH.

At least this time we were smart enough to put a liner in the pail.

The next day we all headed down the mountain and into the city so we could go to the specialist’s office.

“I hafta go to the bathroom,” Kiddo said.

No problem. Since I had a lot of paperwork to fill out, I thought it would be a good idea to let Kiddo go into the bathroom by ‘them’ self.

But after turning in all the forms, Kiddo still had not come out.

Another 2 minutes passed.
Then 5,
Then 10.

I quietly knocked on the door. “Kiddo, you okay?”

No response.

I jiggled the knob.

The door was locked.

Several people in the waiting room were now watching me.

“Kiddo,” I quietly begged, “open the door and let me in.”

No such luck.

A minute or so later a nurse began calling Kiddo’s name.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my face turning red. “Any tips on getting a kid to come out of the bathroom?”

The nurse just shrugged and then looked down at her clipboard to call out the next patient in line.

Trying the bathroom door again, I began knocking even harder. “Kiddo, open up. The doctor is ready to see you.”

A few seconds later the door flings open. Kiddo is standing there with pants around the ankles and then loudly yells, “I was Pooping, okay?!”

Everyone in the waiting room laughs.

When we get into the exam room I say to the doctor, “I apologize for keeping you waiting. I think Kiddo may be a little bit nervous about today.”

Kiddo quickly disputes with a shake of the head.
“Uh. Uh. Nope. I just had to go poop, that’s all!”

🙂

ete

“And Jesus said to them, “Yes; have ye never heard, Out of the mouths of babes and infants thou hast perfected praise?”
– Matthew 21:16

(Note: For confidentiality reasons, “Kiddo” and “them” refers to the child in our foster care at the time of this post.)

Any Way You Slice It – Part 2 of 2

My bloody finger was now wrapped in a paper toweling and twisted tight with a rubber band. Then just when I thought I had things under control, I saw dinner was burning on the stove.

Working quickly, I grabbed a wooden spoon with my good hand and began chiseling the bottom of the pan.

Oh well, I told myself. A little burnt taco meat never hurt. And besides, I had to get Kiddo off to bed soon, so I couldn’t afford anymore delays.

Despite the fact that I could feel my pulse through my finger, I managed to chop some tomatoes and shred some lettuce and cheese. I then added some corn shells to the toaster oven before turning back to help Kiddo open the remainder of the gifts.

So far so good. We had twenty minutes to eat, brush teeth, and go to bed.

As Kiddo ran around enjoying “them’s” new gifts, I turned around to see the taco shells toasting to a crisp.

Moving as quickly as I could, I used my one good hand to yank each shell from the oven.

AHHH! Two shells broke, and now my fingertips were burned.

Doing my best to stay positive, I plated the shells so the cracked ones could come to me and all of the burnt sides were facing down.

I then helped Kiddo get situated at the table and positioned the pan of taco meat in front of my place setting.

All I had to do yet was grab our plates. But as I set the wooden spoon down into the pan so it was ready for serving when I returned, the moment I walked away, the pan tipped over, the spoon went sailing, and taco meat went flying everywhere.

For the love of God!

My first reaction was to “fly off the handle” much like the spoon, but instead of yelling my little head off, I stayed silent and took it all in.

As I washed up the chili powder stained mess with each of my charred fingers, I looked up at Kiddo, happily devouring my disaster of a meal.

So this is motherhood, I thought.

It’s clumsy, it’s messy, and it’s exhausting.

Yet no matter how you slice it, it is a gift from God indeed!

ete

(Note: For confidentiality reasons, “Kiddo” and “them” refers to the child in our foster care at the time of this post.)

Any Way You Slice It – Part 1 of 2

It’s been over month since Kiddo arrived, and in the past few weeks, some family and friends have kindly mailed gifts to honor the occasion.

Kiddo was really looking forward to opening a package my parents had sent and excitedly opened the silverware drawer. “I help,” Kiddo squealed, grabbing the scissors and jumping up and down.

How sweet, I thought. ‘Them’ wants to help.

I reached out to take the scissors from Kiddo’s hands just as the blades opened and closed on my middle finger.

“Owwwww,” I cried out, pulling my hand back to cradle it from the pain.

“I sorry…. I sorry…I sorry,” Kiddo whimpered.

Blood began soaking through my fingers. “I know it was an accident,” I managed to say as I dashed into the living room and fell to my knees.

Rocking back and forth, I cupped my finger high in the air, taking several deep breaths for relief.

Moments later, I could feel Kiddo approach me from behind. I quickly pulled myself up off the floor then grabbed a Band-Aid from the hall closet.

After wrapping the bandage around my finger, “Okay,” I said as cheerfully as I could, “let’s see what’s inside of the package.”

Half-way through opening the first gift, my finger began spurting blood again.

Kiddo noticed it first. ‘Them’ began to squeal, “You okay? You okay?”

I looked down to see more blood dripping onto the gift packaging.

“I’m okay,” I winced, turning on the faucet with my good hand so I could soak my wound under the cold stream.

I stared at the red pool of blood forming at the bottom of the sink. Would I need stitches? I inspected my finger more carefully.

Nope. I’d be okay. I just needed to bandage two sides of my finger instead of one, since both ends had been caught between the blades.

Not wanting to delay Kiddo anymore, I yanked some paper toweling from off the roll, wrapped my finger in it tightly, then twisted a rubber band around it to keep things snug.

I have got this, I told myself.

And I nearly believed it too.
That is, until I realized dinner was burning on the stove.


ete

-Part II coming soon-

 

(Note: For confidentiality reasons, “Kiddo” and “them” refers to the child in our foster care at the time of this post.)