Thursday, the day that never ended.
I woke up at 5:30 to drive Freedom to work. (5:30. Me. Haha!) Then, I got home, showered, made this blog and this vlog, worked on my own stuff for a while, got ready to hunt down a new phone for The Husband and find a place that will duplicate a key for Freedom, and prepared for The Twitches’ annual visit to the ophthalmologist, which brought me to the new waiting room at a DC Children’s Hospital clinic.
It was in that waiting room that I almost lost my mind.
This appointment had been an exercise in eXtreme patience, from the original appointment-making experience, to the realization that their referrals were expired and subsequent grumbling (from me) about people not doing their job (me) and reading dates on pieces of paper (because I’ve been up to my eyeballs in my own papers, yo). We get the new referral, the new appointment, and they proceed to call me every three days in the three weeks prior to the appointment, to make sure I’m going to be there. (JEEBUS, I WILL BE THERE AT 6AM IF YOU STOP CALLING ME!)
Then, I get a call about how they cannot seem to find the referrals. I reassure the receptionist-cyborg that I have the referrals in hand, AND the new address. While I appreciate a friendly reminder or 12, this was insulting.
Or, maybe they’ve been talking to my kids’ teachers. (When is that field trip money due?)
With the arrival of Freedom, I was all excited that I didn’t have to nag remind The Husband about coming home early (like the clinic was reminding me, ad nauseum) so Enigma had an adult at home after school while I was at this cursed appointment, and that having an extra adult around was really awesome. Yeah. Uh huh. Freedom started his new job yesterday. The Husband, of course, forgot the appointment. I still had to pull Enigma out of school early so the girls could get their eyes checked. Grumble. Both men expressed their sorrow at their lack of “being-there-ness,” so all was well, eventually. LeSigh.
Please stop whining.
I’m not whining, I’m blogging. Its what I do. Yo.
Once at the clinic, we wait. We get the initial eye exams over and they say, “its been a year since they’ve had the dilated eye exam, are you ready?”
Have I mentioned that eyeballs make me squicky? Those of you who can do that thing where one eye goes one way while the other stares at me can just move to another blog. You have something IN your eye? Go to Urgent Care. Eyeballs are gross.
They drop the drops, The Twitches/Enigma are mostly fabulous, and we are sent to wait in a waiting room that may or may not have been a maze for giant rats. I’m almost sure there were observation windows somewhere to see what happens when they stick parents in a small space with dividing walls AND their children with eyes just like they once had while on LSD. Not that I’d know what that looks like. Evah.
(I’m a horrible liar.)
Their dilated eyes were the same eyes I’d seen on the myriad of people with whom I had taken that silly, silly drug. In that waiting room, I was officially in “this could all be a flashback hell,” because there are times when your reality and prior drug history crash into each other and you do question what the fuck is happening. Or, I do.
Maybe its really me that has the dilated eyes.
Why do they insist on getting up in my face?
Their eyes are the size of saucers…flying saucers.
Please stop looking at me.
If I take photos with my phone, there will be proof of who ate me.
How many other kids are going to attack me?
Why is this room so small?
Why aren’t there any other parents in here?
There are parents, they’re huddled in the corner.
I They need a drink.
Drinks… If I send them to the water fountain, I can make my break.
Jeebus, their eyes are scary.
It kind of kept going on like that for at least six days. Or, maybe 40 minutes, but I wasn’t counting. I was patiently waiting to die and be eaten by my own children and the other aliens in the waiting room. I can only imagine what is written on my permanent record now by the “scientists” who were observing my behavior as I sat there frozen with fear. I’m pretty sure they were all reading my thoughts. Even that baby in the stroller. He was a little too quiet.
Three hours later, I’m finally home, preparing to make ravioli for dinner, pick up Freedom, go to my ATS class and figure out everything else for the rest of the night. Talker gets home from school and I tell him to take out the dogs…Only, the dogs are gone.
Screw the ravioli. Screw the dishes. Run around the neighborhood (ok, I ran to the back of my house, but I’m practicing my drama here) and then realize that if the dogs have been gone for over an hour, they’re probably not eating poo next door at Stephanie the chihuahua’s house as I originally thought. They’re gone, off somewhere following their beagle noses into the abyss that smells of cheese. I’mma have to hunt them down and convince them that I won’t lock them in their rooms with no food or water for a week, all in the next 45 minutes before I have to begin phase III of my day. GAAH!
Fortunately, in some strange twist of fate, both dogs actually came home without me having to stop people on the road. Lily met The Husband at the mailbox (“its really hot out here, and I’m tired, can you drive me home?”) and Carra was just bobbling around the cul-de-sac, happy to come home so she could eat more poo later.
I have nothing else to say.
Aliens. They’re everywhere.