The Wordmistress

The Puke Visa

Kids will come up with a million ways to get into your bed at night. Sometimes, just looking at you beseechingly is enough ... sometimes nothing they do would be enough for you to make room for them between the sheets.

Don't you want to sleep in your own bed like a big girl? I ask, dreading this inevitable tug of wills. Mama's bed, she pouts.  I try to be strong. I negotiate and cajole and finally, lay down the law. Bedtime or in you're in trouble -- no TV tomorrow.  For Mia, the TV threat usually works. And off to dreamland, she heads.

Late this Saturday night, however, Mia woke up sick. Nothing major, just messy. And after stripping her and the bedding and dousing us both in the bathtub, we had no place left but to go to my bed. She was, in fact, awarded the one, irrefutable ticket to Mom's bed -- the Puke Visa. I wanted her there anyway to keep an eye on her. Which I did. Until she puked in my bed.

Our nomadic trek through 850 square feet of toddler territory then landed us in the living room and onto the couch where Mia moaned and sighed for a few hours before we headed back into my room for some restless sleep before dawn. I was pretty sure it was something she ate, but then her fever spiked. Now, I'm convinced that she has the rotavirus, a  common kids' virus that's just enough to make me miss yet another day of work and drive my co-workers even more batty than I've already done. Nevertheless, right before she went to bed she was feeling much better and finally ate something. She desperately wanted to sleep with me, but I had work to do before I went to bed.

Thing is, this is the part of being a mom that I love. Of course, I hate it when Mia is sick. Like any parent, I can't stand to see my child in pain. But I do love having the chance be a parent. Cause I think most of the time I practice pro forma parenting. I clothe her and bathe her (sometimes) and make sure she gets from point a to b. But when you can make the person you love feel better just by wrapping your arms around them, well, then life is fairly SWEET!

So now that I've finished the writing I had to do for work, I'll get Mia and take her back to bed with me. Tonight, Mia will sleep in my room, so I can make sure she is fine. And tonight she won't have to argue her way there. Tonight, no visa is required.

Put a Fork in Me

I've wanted to blog so many times over the past few weeks, but the events have been so overwhelming, I didn't dare put pen to paper. Things have calmed down quite a bit, so let's sort it out.

Okey dokey. My Dad went into the hospital about three weeks ago cuz his heart, it just wasn't feeling all that well. Man, I know the feeling. I think all Kurzers start to feel heartsick in February -- this February being, of course, the three-year anniversary of Ross' death. But my Dad was actually in congestive heart failure, a condition that actually sounds much worse than it is in reality. It is, essentially, a condition where, as a result of diet and medication, your body goes wacky doodle and you are retaining all kinds of fluid and you can't catch your breath and you are a mess. The fluid pools in your legs, on your lungs and all kinds of various sundry places. And so into the hospital he went.

Here's the shitty part. And I guess I can admit it because it's the truth and it's life and it's the way it is. But I was prepared for him to die. You know, I've been through a hell of a lot the past three years and this guy, this guy who beat me as a child, who is stubborn as hell, who had me pay for my mom's funeral when he was at the casino losing that much in cash ... I figured it was his time to go. So this is where my screwed-up, stressed-out head was at ...

And his health signs pointed there as well. His weight was up, his diabetes was of concern and his kidneys were a mess. He had a quadruple bypass 8 years ago and after a chemical stress test indicated blockage, his doctors ordered a cath test. They also told him that because of his kidneys, they would not operate again. So if the blockage was severe, he was SOL. Lucky bastard got two stents to relieve the blockage. Unlucky, as he's been most of his life, he had a stroke. But the stroke was minor cuz that's the way we roll.

So my Dad was scared and, to be honest, so was I. At first, he couldn't move his arm or leg, but he quickly regained the use of both and got out of the hospital within two weeks. And within those two weeks, I was able to regain an enthusiasm for a healthy version of my Dad. He really seemed to look good and feel better. Moreover, he seemed to want to be better. Course, that might have something to do with the antidepressants I insisted on him getting -- finally.

Well, my Dad went home yesterday ... to an apartment I had professionally cleaned. I will spare you the horrendous details of the apartment, but suffice it to say that the apartment is now ... liveable. The lovely, lovely folks at Milwaukee's Maid Brigade did such a wonderful job cleaning that place that I cannot tell you what I would have done without them. But when my Dad got home, one of the first places he wanted to go was George Webb. Do you know it? The greasiest of greasy spoons. When I tried to admonish him, he gave me a lecture about his life, he's gonna live it his way, bla bla bla. Usually, your resolve lasts a couple of days out of the hospital doesn't it?

So, though I do have a renewed feeling of hope for dear old Dad, I am, as they say, done.  Time to focus on me me me and Mi-a. (Cuz every pound my Dad lost in that hospital ... I found).