The Post In Which I Negate The Previous Post

My son hasn't been able to walk for a few weeks now. His heel bone has been killing him, which is only funny because I didn't know your heel bone was capable of killing you. I imagined it was much like your brain; you could fillet it and scoop it out and grill it while fully conscious and you'd never know, because for some reason god decided to make The Most Important organ in your body without any nerves at all. Also, delicious, or so I'm told. Intelligent Design, my fat white ass.

Anyway, the kid has been gimping around here with a pouty face rivaled only by 17 year old anorexic porn start wanna-bes and that's funny because he's also breaking out in epic proportions and so totally not eating anything. This from the kid that will eat anything that is incapable of eating him back. Either he's watching his figure and bored already with his newly-acquired vegan lifestyle, or he's going through a massive growth spurt.

Two weeks before school starts. Exactly when all the super good sales are going on. He hates me; he really does.

His knees have been aching, his bones are burning, his hips are making him cry. So yeah, he's going to be taller than me in 3.6 hours. Either that or he's caught the Black Death, which he'll catch anyway if I have to buy that kid another shoe wardrobe this year. Seriously, he was a size 4 junior in January. His new Crocs? Men's 6. Six. MEN'S. I don't even want to talk about the store I had to go school shirt shopping at for him, sufficed to say that I picked myself up a few tank tops while I was there and I can handle sharing Clearasil with him and I can even handle the whole "wash your own damn sheets" conversation, but this shopping at the same store as my firstborn? It's just too much reality for one girl to handle.

Yesterday, we went to visit my neighbor who just moved out a few weeks ago and over tea and, yes, one entire carrot cake later *burp*, she told me about her friend's son who is currently in hospital because he keeps having seizures which are abruptly followed with, you guessed it, aching heels, burning femurs and throbbing hips. It's moved into his arms now, and his legs are collapsing in on each other. This is not information I wanted, especially since I keep sending my son to golf camp every day, and golf camp typically involves the slightest bit of walking for fucking ever.

I came home last night fully intent on taking him to the doctor's office first thing this morning, after golf camp of course, but talked myself out of it when I sent my kids to bed. Because I've done the whole, "Dude, your kid has a mosquito bite, not the measles" thing and I've gotten the, "Seriously, three kids later and you still don't know the croup when you see it?" lecture, which comes at the lowlow price of $3,000 and I just don't have any interest in sitting in a doctor's office, scarring the fuck out of my kid, and getting told to have him drink more milk and shall we up your happy pill medication, Captain Münchhausen?

When the first scream came, it sounded like anger. Whatever; they'll work it out. The second scream sounded like pain. They better get their fucking asses in bed, I cautioned the ceiling. The third scream sounded exactly like the sound you have nightmares about your children making. The kind of scream that makes your uterus wince. I ran, 2of3 ran, hell...3of3 dropped what she was doing and ran to the hallway, where we found 1of3 drowning in tears, with a purple face and a sewing needle sticking straight up from his toenail.

Not since he was a toddler have I heard that sound come out of his mouth. I am not prone to freaking out, but I Freaked. The. Fuck. Out. He freaked out. 2of3 freaked out. 3of3 said, "Yay! I get band-aids!" She's kind of dead inside, I think, or disturbingly obsessed with band-aids. Once we ripped the needle out of the toenail and the blood did its squirt-squirt thing all over the floor and he started breathing again, we limped him downstairs and iced his toe with frozen strawberries. Because I suck at Prepared Mom, that's why.  Dad defied every posted speed limit in North America and battled a crack whore doing her week's grocery shopping at the 7-11 to procure one bag of ice for us, and we all watched Family Guy until 11 while my son's toe numbed enough that he could get to sleep for golf camp in the morning.

I paid a lot of money for golf camp. And will again for therapy, just later.

And karma once again sunk her yellow pointy teeth into my ass by making damn good and sure my kid did get to the doctor's after all, and since I am so lousy at the mom thing that I won't even take my kid to the doctor when he's got alien armies harvesting his leg bone marrow to keep their hair shiny, now I get to take him for a tetanus shot, which is awesome only because, yeah, he's totally not afraid of needles now or anything.