Our family bathroom has a mirror that measures roughly 5 feet along and 3 feet high.
It’s a beauty.
All I can say is that the previous owner/builder of the property must have had slight narcissistic tendencies, but I’m not going to complain; not when there’s enough space to stand two children and a husband side by side at the sink with enough elbow room to avoid small scale conflicts.
Most of the time.
But any time I attempt to utilize the thing myself, I swear there is toothpaste covering every square inch of it! I know- I’ve just cleaned the thing again. And no one seems to see it but me…
There are a lot of home truths I’ve learnt since bringing my babies home:
1. Boys smell*. They really do. And no amount of washing, changing, and deodorizing seems to keep it at bay for any great length of time. Must be that Y chromosome.
2. Children are under the impression that being bored is the same thing as being hungry. It doesn’t matter if they’ve just eaten you out of house and home and have just sat through the latest family friendly feature film…they are like a crevasse in living form.
3. Kids are also under the assumption that Colonel Sanders makes toilet paper, as they seem to expect a ‘magic barrel’ with a neverending supply. As a friend of mine says: there is nothing that can come out of a human bottom to require that much paper to clean it. But apparently both she and I are wrong.
And
4. One small pea-size squirt of toothpaste (as recommended by dentists everywhere) can create enough white specks to cover previously mentioned 5 x 3 foot mirror! (And have you ever noticed that it doesn’t matter what colour the toothpaste is going in, it always comes out white?)
Luckily I’ve also discovered some nifty new wipes designed specifically for mirrors and glass-fronted furniture that promise to get “rid of streaks and leave your glass and mirror surfaces sparkling”. Unfortunately, there’s no guarantee that these wonder wipes will also leave an invisible coating of something akin to Teflon™ so that next time the offspring are on dental duty any sprays will simply go away.
Of course it doesn’t help matters that on the last visit to the dentist the nurse gave the “helpful” suggestion that - in order to brush teeth correctly every time- one should give ten decent ‘flicks’ in every direction. Now, you and I both know that by definition of ‘direction’ that she meant top, bottom, and side to side, in order to ensure every little nook and cranny and wobbly tooth gets a look in. Seems my children took her literally and literally flick the toothpaste in every direction!
I kid you not, this time it was even on the fluorescent light above the mirror!
Anyways, at least the entire bathroom region is looking spick and span and shiny again, thanks to my nifty new wipes. But I bet not one of the aforementioned family members will notice.
Now all I need to do is finish scrubbing the toilet bowls which also seem to be almost permanently sporting splatter no matter how clean I try to keep them (*see point #1 above), and replace yet another toilet roll.
Before I get back into it, I’ll just leave you with one of my favourite jokes of all time, which I think you’ll agree ties in rather nicely with the topic.
Sister Mary Margaret bursts into Mother Superior’s office with the complaint that the kids have been at it again and the boys’ toilet in particular was in a shocking state:
“The little devils have been having yet another competition about who can get highest up the wall above the urinal! I had to send for the cleaner yet again, and just as we were going back to tidy up the stinky streams, more of the bedeviled little creatures were in there having another contest."
“And what did you do?“ asked Mother Superior
“I hit the roof!!”
Jx
©2011
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Trouble Afoot
I had an unfortunate incident on my last visit to hospital for so-called “routine day surgery”.
Somewhere, somehow, the routine went wrong. The day turned into weeks. And counting.
After being last on the list into theatre, I woke up in Recovery to discover that not all of me had recovered. My right foot felt asleep. Make that my entire leg from the knee down.
The nurses were at a loss to explain what had happened, the doctor apparently didn’t think it serious enough to visit in the wee small hours of the morning to investigate, and the hospital seemed a little less than enthusiastic to let others know what was afoot (pun fully intended) so simply stuck me in a room at the end of the corridor and left me to it. Not even a name above my bed.
I wasn’t happy with that arrangement for some strange reason, and kept on asking to see someone, anyone, who might be able to tell me what was going on.
After the physio took a look, to no avail, my surgeon did his post-op visit, and the neurologist was called. He immediately diagnosed ‘foot drop’ at the very least and suspected a nerve had been pinched in my spine in the time I was under anaesthetic.
As the condition can be permanent and bring about other problems, and in order to see if more surgery was on the cards for me, the neurologist thought an MRI was in order. Easier said than done.
Since the very reason the imaging was ordered was due to my lack of mobility, the logistics of getting me to the MRI machine were pretty involved.
After going through the motions of my morning shower (which for the best for all concerned I won’t go into here) I had to manoeuvre myself out of bed into a wheelchair for my friendly transport driver to, well, transport me. Down the lift, clutching a vomit bag as my newly-discovered motion sickness kicked in, and into the ambulance where he loaded and locked me into the back, then left me shivering for a few minutes with all doors open while he went back in for more VBags…just in case. (Just quietly, I love these things- best thing since sliced bread- I buy them in bulk for my son’s adverse reaction to a certain medication, children’s travel sickness, the list is endless!)
Things got a whole lot more interesting once we got to the medical centre. Due to their regulations the wheelchair I was in could not go into the actual imaging room- I had to use one of theirs- so I was wheeled off to a changing cubicle with just a threadbare curtain separating me from the technicians in the room and informed I needed to take off everything except my knickers and put on yet another inglorious paper gown.
In the process, I had to transfer myself from the wheelchair to a little bench seat, get changed, somehow doing up the gown at the back, then pull another (OH&S-approved) wheelchair into the cubicle and wriggle into that. Of course I did the age-old female trick of whipping the bra off out my sleeves at the last minute as I really didn’t trust the curtain and quite frankly have bared enough of my bod in recent days.
When I got my breath back the tech wheeled me into the waiting MRI machine where I then had to get up onto the teeny tiny table. Lifting myself up with a muttered “Stupid right leg” the assistant asked me “Is that the medical terminology for your condition?” “No, it’s the layperson’s term,” I replied, “usually accompanied by an expletive or two.” Still laughing he left me lying on a table that definitely made my butt look big.
Once done, I had to repeat the performance and end up back in my original clothes in my original chair so that the original transport driver could transport me back to hospital.
To give you some idea of what was required, imagine if you will a sick and twisted version of the itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini song:
♫ From the bed to the wheelchair, from the wheelchair to the floor, from the floor to the table…I guess there isn’t any more. ♪
At least, there better not be today anyway.
Jx
©2010 & 2011
Somewhere, somehow, the routine went wrong. The day turned into weeks. And counting.
After being last on the list into theatre, I woke up in Recovery to discover that not all of me had recovered. My right foot felt asleep. Make that my entire leg from the knee down.
The nurses were at a loss to explain what had happened, the doctor apparently didn’t think it serious enough to visit in the wee small hours of the morning to investigate, and the hospital seemed a little less than enthusiastic to let others know what was afoot (pun fully intended) so simply stuck me in a room at the end of the corridor and left me to it. Not even a name above my bed.
I wasn’t happy with that arrangement for some strange reason, and kept on asking to see someone, anyone, who might be able to tell me what was going on.
After the physio took a look, to no avail, my surgeon did his post-op visit, and the neurologist was called. He immediately diagnosed ‘foot drop’ at the very least and suspected a nerve had been pinched in my spine in the time I was under anaesthetic.
As the condition can be permanent and bring about other problems, and in order to see if more surgery was on the cards for me, the neurologist thought an MRI was in order. Easier said than done.
Since the very reason the imaging was ordered was due to my lack of mobility, the logistics of getting me to the MRI machine were pretty involved.
After going through the motions of my morning shower (which for the best for all concerned I won’t go into here) I had to manoeuvre myself out of bed into a wheelchair for my friendly transport driver to, well, transport me. Down the lift, clutching a vomit bag as my newly-discovered motion sickness kicked in, and into the ambulance where he loaded and locked me into the back, then left me shivering for a few minutes with all doors open while he went back in for more VBags…just in case. (Just quietly, I love these things- best thing since sliced bread- I buy them in bulk for my son’s adverse reaction to a certain medication, children’s travel sickness, the list is endless!)
Things got a whole lot more interesting once we got to the medical centre. Due to their regulations the wheelchair I was in could not go into the actual imaging room- I had to use one of theirs- so I was wheeled off to a changing cubicle with just a threadbare curtain separating me from the technicians in the room and informed I needed to take off everything except my knickers and put on yet another inglorious paper gown.
In the process, I had to transfer myself from the wheelchair to a little bench seat, get changed, somehow doing up the gown at the back, then pull another (OH&S-approved) wheelchair into the cubicle and wriggle into that. Of course I did the age-old female trick of whipping the bra off out my sleeves at the last minute as I really didn’t trust the curtain and quite frankly have bared enough of my bod in recent days.
When I got my breath back the tech wheeled me into the waiting MRI machine where I then had to get up onto the teeny tiny table. Lifting myself up with a muttered “Stupid right leg” the assistant asked me “Is that the medical terminology for your condition?” “No, it’s the layperson’s term,” I replied, “usually accompanied by an expletive or two.” Still laughing he left me lying on a table that definitely made my butt look big.
Once done, I had to repeat the performance and end up back in my original clothes in my original chair so that the original transport driver could transport me back to hospital.
To give you some idea of what was required, imagine if you will a sick and twisted version of the itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini song:
♫ From the bed to the wheelchair, from the wheelchair to the floor, from the floor to the table…I guess there isn’t any more. ♪
At least, there better not be today anyway.
Jx
©2010 & 2011
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