I'll admit that, even in one of my recent posts, I've been a little snarky about swine flu.
I mean, it's a flu. People get the flu all the time. My household even had a collective bout of flu last month.
But the news today that a Littlestown kindergartner died because of complications from swine flu scared the bejesus out of me.
Sam's got a little cold, with a sore throat and a slightly stuffy nose and an occasional headache.
On Monday, she tried to pull the "Mo-om, I don't feel good. I don't think I can go to school" act. I didn't buy it, especially when I said, "How about if we give you some medicine before you go so your throat doesn't hurt today?" and she said, "Nah, I don't feel bad enough to take medicine."
But, we agreed, I'd send the Triaminic along to school so that if she felt worse, she could go to the nurse's office and take a dose.
Who knew an ordeal would follow?
I recently had a disagreement with a psychologist about whether Sam, at age 6, should still be crawling into my bed every night.
I tried using the biggest, most-professional-sounding words I could:
I'm a proponent of co-sleeping, I said. I find the belief that children need to learn to sleep alone in a bed in a room separate from their parents to be an unrealistic American idea that is not practiced elsewhere in the world. As my child grows, she will naturally require more independence, and she will make the decision when the time is right about sleeping solo.
He replied, in a nutshell, that I'm full of crap.
On Monday, amid nerves and fake coughs and gleeful romping with friends, Sam started first grade.
Here's a pic of her before she ran off to the bus stop:
And oh, what a fun ride it's been so far.
Sam was swimming in our blow-up pool in the yard this weekend when she swam toward me.
"Mom," she said, "what happens if four-leaf burglars get wet?"
"Four-leaf whats?" I said.
"Four-leaf burglars," she replied. "Like this." And she held out a tiny leaf that looked a bit like a clover.
"Oh, you mean four-leaf clovers," I said.
"Yeah, sure," she said. "So what happens to 'em? Does it take the good luck out of them?"
"No, I don't think so. I think they just get wet," I said between laughs.
There was screaming in my house two nights ago.
Wails, cries, pleas to stop it, pleas not to do it again, pleas to "hold me, Mommy, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease just hold me" and enough tears to sink some bathtub toys.
And it was all over a splinter. About a quarter of an inch long.
The other day, one of my friends put up a status update on Facebook asking us what crazy things we've said since we became parents -- things you totally would have no reason to say unless you had a kid.
I contributed the following:
"DON'T PUT YOGURT ON THE DOG!"
"Samantha, you do not have a penis."
and
"You can't lay on the cat's head because he can't breathe when you do that."
I've got a new one to add.
Here's a joke to make you smile -- or, perhaps, baffle you. It's Sam's latest:
Q: What do you call a chicken that's not a chicken?
A: A monster truck!
Sam had a kajillion and four questions yesterday during Great-Grammy's viewing, funeral and burial service. (In case you missed it, my grandmother -- my mom's mom -- died last week. Here's the post about that.)
Here's a sampling of what she asked:
I found out Wednesday morning that my Grammy died. She was my mom's mom, and she was 96.
Sam and Noah and I went to visit her during the winter, but she didn't recognize any of us. She enjoyed watching Noah toddle around, but later she asked my mom, "That was a cute baby. Is he some relation to you?"
Sam asked a lot of questions during and after that visit. How old is Great-Grammy? How did she get that old? What did she look like before she looked like this? Will she die soon? When will she die? What will happen to her when she dies?
