Where Everybody Knows Your Name

I almost didn’t tell you about this.

But I knew you, my dear, faithful readers, would understand.
Because you know me.  You know my kids.
And you can completely understand how it is entirely possible to end up in the Emergency Room. Twice.  In.  One.  Week. (Actually, about 5 days, but who’s counting?)
Oh, I wish I was kidding.  I thought about not sharing this because, you know, you might think I was serious about the name of my blog.
I mean, I wouldn’t want you to think we really are THAT family.
But. We. Are.
We met my parents for dinner at one of our local favorites.  We cleaned our plates and let the baby join the other kids in the game room area.  She was having a ball, sticking her hands in the gum ball machines and eating off the floor.
She sauntered back over to our table, crawled up on the picnic table seat and with all four adults watching, she slipped through the space between the bench and the table and landed head-first on the concrete.
The hit made a sickening sound.
I jumped to grab her and smeared ketchup all over my hands.  So, when I picked her up, my family thought she was bleeding.
And it probably would have been more of a relief to see a small gash.
Nope.  Nothing.  
Only a pale, screaming child, who began vomiting from her head injury.
I’m so not kidding.
And she couldn’t walk.  We let her stumble around for about 12 seconds and decided an ER visit was for dessert.
My parents took my older kids home and the hubby and I sped to the hospital.
They rushed us back to triage to check her pupils and look her over.
The nurse recognized me.  From my visit on Father’s Day.
So did the Doctor.
By this time, our toddler was acting more herself (as in dumping the contents of my purse onto the floor).  
As the Doctor tried to decide whether or not to sedate her for a CT scan, the nurse commented on our frequent visits.
And so I said, “Yeah, we’re like THAT family.”
I thought my hubby was going to choke on his own saliva.  Later he said, “My word, why didn’t you just pull out your laptop and see if the ER had WiFi, so they could read today’s entry!”
I told him I couldn’t help myself.
They gave our toddler a bag of cookies and  cup of apple juice to see if she would continue throwing up. 
She didn’t and she enjoyed the snack.
They sent us home with stern instructions to wake her up every few hours all night long and return if she vomited or her stumbling grew worse.
We signed off on all the papers they shoved in our face as the discharge nurse called, “See you in a couple of days for stitches.”
That’s verbatim, people.
And the receptionist encouraged us just to ‘come for coffee next time if we really wanted to see them.’
Yeah, we’re pretty much gonna have to move.  To another town.  Immediately.
*Update* Our toddler showed no further signs of a concussion and after we berated ourselves for our negligence, we all slept happily ever after. The End.  Until the next time…

It’s Official: We are White Trash

Okay. That’s it.  We’ve truly reached new heights of lowness.  

Sunday on our way home from CHURCH, we smelled something.  It was a strong odor.  Overwhelming.  It was so bad, we pulled over.

On inspection of diapers and shoes, we discovered my son had stepped in dog poo on the playground, at church, in his new church shoes, the ones I bought to wear only to church, so they would always look nice. 

(By faith, I’m believing IT was from a dog.)

Some things just shouldn’t surprise me.

And yet it’s like someone’s screaming “GOTCHA YA!” in my face.

Every day.

So, we did what most people of low intelligence with a high sense of smell would do.  We rolled down the window and hung the offensive shoe from the shoelaces.  

All the way home.  From Church.  We are THAT family.

My white trash parenting tip: hang your sticky shoes and children out the window. All the trashy Moms do it!

For more bad parenting tips, visit White Trash Mom!