I Am Venom

I'm not going to lie to you, this week kind of sucked. And I can't put my finger on why exactly. Cambria's been sleeping though the night, and the lawn is looking better than ever so I don't know. I'm just not feeling it lately. Some weeks are like that. No matter how well things are going you're just off your game. Outwardly nothing's changed, but inside you'd rather be vacationing on some remote island, being served peach milkshakes by a burly native. You'd rather be somewhere else, even though you love your life, love your fabulous husband and children, love your home. Some weeks it just feels like you're just going through the motions. And you scold when you would normally laugh. And yell at the kids to stop yelling. And feed your family canned spaghetti three times in one week. And find excuses to be alone. And snack at eleven-o-clock at night even though you know its all going into your thighs. AND then feel incredibly guilty for everything you're doing wrong. Guilty for everything you haven't done right. Guilty for feeling down after all that God has blessed you with. Guilty for feeling guilty. Some weeks are a downward spiral that appear to have no bottom. Some weeks you make more mistakes than others.

Thank goodness for Sunday.

Darth Schlictenstein

Since Brooklyn was a wee infant we have been taking her Dr. Schlicter. From the beginning we have fondly referred to him as "The Schlictenstein" and in the beginning he was both pleasant and helpful. I turned to him for every cough. But in the last couple of years something has changed inside The Schlictenstein. He has turned to the dark side. The enthusiastic pediatrician is dead. Darth Schlictenstein is our new doctor.
I first noticed the change last year at Avery's two-year check up. He could find nothing wrong with her. This angered him.

"Where did this bruise come from?" He insisted.
"I have no idea." by which I meant I had no idea.
"Strange place for a bruise."
"Yeah." Oh wait, maybe it was from that severe beating I gave her. (heavy sarcasm).

"Does she stack blocks?"
"Yes, she loves Legos."
"No, not Legos BLOCKS. How high would you say she stacks them?"
"I have no idea."
"I see."

Then, at Brooklyn's five-year check up...

"Well, she's definitely knock-kneed."
"What?"
"Yeah, it will probably cause her problems in the future. Does she play hopscotch?"
"Um, no."
"I see. Can she count backwards from twenty?"
"I have no idea. She can add and subtract and read books and memorize songs on the piano and skip, and ride a bike and draw everything she sees. But I don't know if she can count backwards from twenty."
"I see."

Finally yesterday at Avery's three year check up...

"Do you have any concerns?"
"Not really."
"Really? Are you sure?"
"Well, I guess she could benefit from being around kids her own age. She's used to playing with older children and has a hard time playing with other three year olds."
"That's very immature."
"Yes, well she is three."
"I'd say she's acting more like a two and a half year old."
"Hmmm."
"How high can she count?"
"She's solid up to five."
"The next time I see her I want her counting backwards from twenty."

"No bruises??? Is she a couch potato?"
"Not at all."
"I get worried when I see no bruises."

"I see that last year Avery was in the ninetieth percentile for height. Now she is only in the fiftieth percentile. Its probably not a big deal; she may be in between growth spurts. So we won't check her for cancer just yet."
"WHAT?"
"Yes, children with cancer don't grow the way they should. We'll have to see how she grows this next year. No reason to worry...yet."

What the-!!!

I cried and fretted the rest of the afternoon until it occurred to me: The Schlictenstein is a real douche. Time for a new pediatrician.

My Wildest Dreams Just Came True