The little angel has grown a new personality.  I'm not sure if it is caused by a growth phase or her combination ear infection/sore mouth.  She now cries "Mama, mama," and clambors onto my lap at every possible moment.  She also will dramatically place her forehead on the floor in a praying-to-Mecca pose if I do not immediately pick her up and tell her she is, of course, the most beautiful little angel in the whole word, kiss, kiss.

On Saturday, twenty minutes before guests were due to arrive, the little angel was playing next to a wooden bench in our foyer.  I was watching her, then (just like the stories go - cue Fatal Attraction music), I turned my back to put away some of her toys. 

Thump.  SCREAM!  Blood.  Lots of blood.  I scooped her up and carried her squalling self over to the sink to rinse her now-bleeding lip.  Apparently she either thumped her mouth on the bench or just thumped her chin, thus causing her very pointy teeth to go through her lip.  All I know is that it was the first major blood I've seen, and blood is a scary thing.  She also bled on my new J.Jill tank top, something I tried hard, as a good mother, to overlook, but couldn't completely.

My beloved made fun of me.  "I don't know," he said, as I frantically dialed Ask a Nurse.  "Maybe we should call an ambulance." 

Of course Ask a Nurse, as they are wont to do due to our society's obsession with litigation, overhyped my worry like a Fox season finale trailer.  "Is it gaping?" the woman asked.  "She might need stitches." By this time the little angel was distracted by a stuffed duck.  She held her bloody arms out to it and laughed.  "Um, no," I said. "Not so much gaping."

"Is the wound more than one-fourth inch long?"

I peered at her mouth.  Her entire lip is not that long.  "Um, no," I said.  "I actually think she's okay."

"You need to wash that out right away," she said.  "She might get an infection."

I debated whether to tell her the little angel has been freebasing Augmentin since February.  "I think she's pretty good in the antibiotic department," I said. 

"You should wash the area of dirt and debris." 

Dirt and debris?  "The cleaning people just came on Thursday," I stammered, not sure what assumptions this woman was making about my housekeeping skills.

"OH," she said.  "I thought she fell outside."

Aha!  See where assumptions get you?

So we changed her clothes and mine and got ready for the party.  Now, a day later, the little angel looks sort of like Pamela Anderson after her latest round with the Collagen Fairy.  But it seems to be healing fairly well.  Her wound did not stop her from doing any of the following:  Sucking on a washcloth during her bath, insisting on a paci all day (we gave in, figuring she was in pain), ingesting an entire carton of yogurt plus 10 green beans, two chicken nuggets, a mini pita and countless appetizer Cheerios at dinner (this is way more than normal for her) or stage-diving off her PBK anywhere chair before bed. 

She also learned to say "book" this weekend, a fact that endears her even more to my own heart.  She loves her books so much that she will sneak over to the corner where the non-board, "good" variety live in an attempt to stare lovingly at their pages and rip the covers to shreds in the process.

I guess she will live.  Man, though, that blood thing sucks.

She's getting her ear tubes at the end of June.  Lord help her not get ANOTHER ear infection before then!

Notes to my daughter:

Your tiny fingers cling to my arms.
You try to crawl inside my skin,
wanting again
earthly fusion with me,
stunned that you are now free.

Your fever spikes every hour or two,
heat emits from your inner core,
your body’s small war.
Red hair cemented to creamy skin
frames lacy blue veins in your eyelids.

Newspaper horror doesn't compare
to a small child slumped and lethargic,
my thoughts’ only target.
I'm shocked with my anger’s capacity
when faced with the weakness of me.

The night passes slower than adolescence,
my thoughts paralyzing
upon realizing
that I can do nothing but lie here.
I am a paper tiger.

Dear Judgmental Pediatrician,

There's a reason I switched to your sweet-natured colleague.  It has something to do with the fact that every time I've visited you, when I'm already drowning in oh-my-gosh-what-is-wrong-with-my-baby-now, you've pointed out that you just could NOT send your children to daycare, that they MUST have a nanny while you spend your twelve-hour days serving the better good and earning fat cash doing it.  It might also have something to do with the fact you point out my child IS in a church daycare fraternizing with germ-monkeys five days a week every time I see you.

There is something else that bothered me even more about you.  The breastfeeding comments.  I know, I know, I KNOW I should've breastfed longer than seven weeks.  I read all the books. I would have flagellated over it, but you know what?  Breastfeeding hurt about as much as whipping myself with knotted leather, so I kind of felt like I'd already done my time.  Finally?  I had ear infections as a kid, so wouldn't she have also maybe have inherited the shape of my ears, which is really the major cause of the ear infection anyway?  Is it conceivable that even had I breastfed her until she was 25 and never left my home, that that in and of itself might not have been a perfect solution, either?

When I visit you, Oh Wise One, I don't want you to tell me what I've done wrong. I want you to give me sound advice about how I might best address the situation at hand, not the sins of the past.  I'd like you to recognize that I'll be working until late at night in order to drop everything, fetch my child and drive all the way through the damn Plaza in order to spend 45 minutes waiting to get this earful, since you are running so far behind.  It's okay for you to run behind, because as you've told me six times, you have a nanny.  She won't fine you $20 for every ten minutes after six that you show up, will she?  No.  Because you take out her taxes.

Your colleague never does this.  Your colleague looks at me sympathetically and puts her hand on my arm. "Oh," she says.  "I'm so sorry you guys have to go through another ear infection.  We'll make it all better."

Why do you not realize, Dr. B., that the pediatrician is teaching the new parent how to react to illness as much as she is treating the child?  Why can't you instill confidence in me and my skills as a mother instead of hacking away at my fragile Mama Ego?

And so, screw you, Judgemental Pediatrican.  Screw you and your Scooby-Doo stethoscope carrying case.  My daughter never liked you anyway.

Sincerely,

Desperate, Non-Earth Working Mother 

Twat?  I cun't hear you. I have an ear infuction.

Yes, I am childish.  The little angel has another ear infection, after only two weeks of respite. Tubes, tubes, here we come.

Shitdamnhellfuck.

This afternoon when I went to pick up the little angel from the Emerald City, I noticed two things:  1) she was NOT wearing the same pants she showed up in and 2) her sheet informed me she'd "been in a fight."

Were there guns?  Or was it the old fashioned, black-eye, garden-variety fight?  What did they do?  Was there an Emerald City Fight Club of which I am unaware?  WHAT IS GOING ON HERE??

Let me back up.  When I first arrived, I did notice the pants, but I was also eavesdropping on a conversation between little J's  mother, the always-fashionable, Mama J., and the late-afternoon Emerald City worker (not my favorite).  The late teacher was telling Mama J. that little J. had been biting.  I was packing the little angel's things, secretly gloating that my little angel would never do such a thing.  I kept my self-satisfied smirk to myself, fortunately, because when I went to grab her sheet, I saw the news.  I gasped audibly. 

"What?" asked Mama J. 

"Did my daughter really fight?" I asked. I thought I saw Mama J. sneak her own smirk. 

It turns out the little angel and baby P. were both playing on the same large, plastic toy.  Apparently P. invaded the little angel's personal space, because she apparently appeared ready to bite him with her new, pointy teeth.  The little angel has discovered she packs heat.  She was the perp.

I asked them how they'd handled it.  "Well, we were going to put her in time out for one minute," said the late teacher, snapping her Hubba Bubba, or whatever it is she chews.  "But Dionne started playing with her, so it didn't really work out." 

Ah, discipline in the city.

I looked sternly at the little angel, realizing that she isn't nearly old enough for hours-after-the-event parental disapproval.  I secretly wondered if she won.  Bad Mama.

As I walked out, I discussed this new thing with Mama J., who told me J. had started doing this sort of thing about a week ago.  We are still friends, because our children did not attack each other.  It is an unstable alliance.

But then, as we huddled near her very fashionable car, the little angel leaned over to J. and gave him a hug.  J. smiled cherubically.  They were perfect children.  Ah, how thickly the wool can cover one's eyes when one's gene pool is involved.

All the way home, I eyed the little angel with a new vision of how life will rapidly change.  She has always had such a pleasant personality.  What would bring her to the dark side?  Just teeth?  Is that it?  Does absolute power corrupt absolutely?

We'll see what happens tomorrow.  In the meantime, I did what any self-respecting mother would do - I put the sheet in her baby book.

Okay, I've wanted it to rain. It's been really hot.  But today is just so gloomy and doomy, not at all the sort of day I want it to be to take the little angel to get her ears examined.

I am still nervous about this whole tube thing.  Hopefully they will be able to allay my fears. I am the daughter of a woman often accused of hypochondria.  She is not really a hypochondriac, my mother, she's just very aware.  Thankfully, that very awareness helped her discover cancer early and she's still around today.  That whole incident has fed my own hyperawareness and general malaise on the subject of health.

Earlier this week, for instance, I was exiting the post office on the way to Large Corporate Telecom, when a woman came screeching up in her minivan.  "Do you know you have a brown recluse bite?" she asked, her eyes rolling wildly.

"I know I have a bite," I said.  "I think it would be flesh-eating by now if it were a brown recluse."  (This was false bravado - I had been on WebMD the night before looking up brown recluse bites.)

"I had one of those last year," she said.  "It's a brown recluse. I'm sure of it. There's a ring around it."

So there I was, again struck by fear that I had been working all morning on ridding myself of.  Damn people!  Why is my sense of denial not more well developed? 

So I sat through this meeting at Large Corporate Telecom certain my flesh would be disappearing at any minute.  I tried to go to Large Corporate Telecom emergency clinic, but after letting me sit there for twenty minutes, the receptionist looked down at the form and said, "Oh, we only treat people who work here."  Even though there was a box for "contractor" on the form.  Nice. 

Then I drove to the mall, where there is another urgent-care clinic.  "Have you been here since December?" the receptionist asked.  "Probably not, huh?"

But of course I have been there since December!  I almost died in February in Cambridge, Mass.!  I had to have a breathing treatment and the pharmacist pronounced me the sickest human he'd ever seen walking!  "Yes," I said.  "Actually, I have."

"Well, you're lucky then," she said.  "You get to fill out the short form." 

Lucky?

By the time I got back into the little room, I was starting to feel silly.  The doctor came in, I told her my story, she looked at the bite.  "You have a strongish allergic reaction to whatever bit you," she said.  "It's okay."

"I feel silly," I said.  "It's just that my little girl..." AND I STARTED CRYING!

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

The doctor was very kind.  "When you become a mother, you start worrying about all sorts of strange things, don't you?" she asked kindly.  "I can't even watch commercials anymore.  It's okay."

The whole crying jag was over as soon as it started, but then I felt stupid on compounded levels.  I thanked the nice doctor, gathered my things, and headed back to Large Corporate Telecom to continue behaving as though I really am a sophisticated professional.  (sniff) 

Last night, I gave my Composition I class final.  The test was worth 20% of the students' grades.  I told them this several times throughout the course of the semester.  I also told them (and printed in the syllabus) how much every single thing they did in class and outside class was worth.  Then I handed back every single thing they ever did, with the grade prominently printed at the bottom of the page. 

Finally, I gave them a study guide last week that spelled out what to study. I then told them that some of the lectures would be particularly important to the final, and if they had EVER missed a class, they should ask their friends for notes.

When I handed out the test, I explained how I had printed how many points each question was worth ON THE TEST ITSELF.

Here is my list of favorite things they came up to me during the class and said:

• But I don't know the answer to this one.
• I think the answer is "A."
• I don't remember this!
• What are you looking for here?
• How much will it hurt my grade if I don't answer these?

And my all-time favorite:

Was I here this day?

After I graded the finals, I was pleased. Last semester, not one student got an A in my class. This semester, I had three out of 18.  Now I am really not such a hard teacher - at least I don't think I am.  These students seem to be in shock that they are not getting all As.  This makes me wonder about the current state of our secondary school system, because if these cats were acing their high-school classes, then we are all in trouble and have no business competing in the global marketplace.

However, the As.  There is a glimmer of hope, after all.

There have been some requests to hear details about the Big Date.  I'm trying to figure out a good way to explain what we did.  There was dinner (Jack Stack), there were drinks (great new Waldo bar called Lew's - reminiscent of Iowa City's Airliner, complete with wood paneling and Budweiser-horses lamp above the bar) and in between, there was, well, the park.  I'm not going to say anymore. We're all adults here.

Last night, though, something very exciting happened.  Just two days after we finally got a child-safety gate installed at the top of the stairs, my beloved called down in a strangled voice "Come here!"  I thought she must have fallen and really hurt herself. I went bolting up the stairs to see her little fat feet operating all on their own!  I sat down, he let go, and there she was, 30 inches of tottering pink arms and legs ready to plow me down with no remorse.  She was babbling and laughing like a deranged person, obviously pleased with her new skills. 

We repeated the exercise downstairs to see if it was real (and to see how bad it would be on hard wood - even MORE supervision will now be required - just when I could almost use the restroom alone again), and she was able to walk from one of us to the other or from the ottoman to the couch - about four or five steps - without help. It always ended in a dive-bomb, and it was always accomplished at full throttle. I think she employs my friend J's ski technique to walking - go fast enough you don't need to steer and run into something soft-looking when you are done.

I am so excited for her.  I can't WAIT to take her to the park now!

This weekend, obviously, was Mother's Day.  This is a story about how unfun it is to surprise me.

I had to attend a friend's baby shower on Saturday afternoon.  I thought it was odd that when my parents showed up for the weekend, they were driving my father's Ford F-150, complete with topper. They almost never drive that truck.  My dad made some comment about the truck only having 800 miles on it, but I still thought that was kind of weird.

When I got home from the shower, my husband was sitting on the couch holding a driver's license of a guy I knew in high school.  My laptop stand was downstairs. I asked them why it was down there, and my mom said something about needing to borrow it.  I felt a little tug of fear in my chest at this point.  "What have you done?" I asked my husband.  He just smiled.

I ran upstairs, and lo and behold, my high school vanity (we had been using it as a computer desk for about six years now) was missing.  All the stuff that had been in my high school vanity - toe shoes, prom announcements, poems I'd written, etc. were stuffed in a bag.  Apparently my husband had gone through it and thought the driver's license was the only item of interest.  In place of the vanity was a spiffy new glass computer desk - big enough for not only our home desktop, but also my laptop  AND some room to work. Considering this was mashed into a tiny office that also has to contain our futon (ahem, guest bed) and Xbox, television and stereo, I was amazed at the use of space. Except for my filing cabinet, which was now sitting in the center of the room.

I looked the shiny new desk, the filing cabinet in the center of the room, and my high school memories shoved in a paper bag, and promptly burst into tears. This was apparently NOT the reaction my beloved was looking for after spending three hours on this project.

In time, after we moved a bunch of CDs downstairs ("Why don't we just stack them here, on top of the air-conditioning vent?" or "Maybe we could just stack them here by your feet - just don't kick them while you work"), shoved the filing cabinet against the wall behind the door and recalibrated the futon, it seemed to work a little better. I started to halfheartedly go through the bag, but in the end, I just threw it all away.

Lest I sound heartless, I do appreciate the work my beloved did. He knew the office was too small and that I spend all my time here now.  He knew that I liked this kind of desk, even.  It's exactly the one I wanted.  But he also knew that he hated my vanity, and I liked it. Just like he hated my blue chair (now languishing at my parents' house) and my black, ladder-back chair (now rotting in the basement).  There is a trend here, and it is to remove all the furniture that I liked. 

Now I admit, the new desk is better.  But he loaded up my vanity in my father's truck without even asking me if I wanted to keep it.  It was practically the only remnant of my old life left in this house.  It makes me sad to see it go.  And I am once again reminded that This Old House was not meant to have an office, or any room that actually looks nice upstairs.  At least once we have the electrician come, we can eliminate some of the thick, ugly power cords snaking all over the upstairs like jungle undergrowth. 

But it IS a nice desk, and it was a lovely effort.  However, I'm bad with surprises when they affect my personal space.  Do not be calling Extreme Makeover: Home Edition for me anytime soon.