Earful of Trouble

If my life for the last two days were to have a soundtrack, I think it would be Simon & Garfunkel’s Sound of Silence. Hello darkness my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again. Or maybe The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Are you getting the picture? Through the perfect vision of hindsight, the last 48 hours have been a comedy of errors, but while I was in the midst of the chaos, it was a maelstrom. And like a swimmer stuck in a rip current, the more I fought to keep my head above the water, the worse it got. In retrospect, I know what caused me to spiral incredibly close to out of control: worry – plain and simple worry. But, in a testament to my passive aggressive nature, I refused to meet my worry head-on. Instead, I managed to lose my composure completely over a pair of tiny pink tennis shoes.

, sobbing pitifully, her eyes imploring us to do something to help her).

She’s pretty much resolved herself to going to see the doctor at least twice a month. When we take her into the exam room now, she sighs and settles herself down into the crinkly white paper on the table, a sandal-wearing pony-tailed Eeyore, gloomily accepting her fate. It kills me to see her hurting and it kills me that she’s so used to taking antibiotics that when we euphemistically ask her if she’s ready to take her “big girl meds”, she opens her mouth like a little baby bird waiting for a worm. I’ve secretly started to wonder if we pureed vegetables and put them in her medicine dispenser if we could convince my vegetable-phobic child to consume something green. We’ve tried dietary changes and preventative antibiotics and still the infections return. So, here we are, ready to head into a strange new world. We have an appointment to see an ENT – an Ear Nose and Throat Specialist. Just the word specialist is enough to send me into a tailspin. Taking my baby to the doctor is scary enough – but to a specialist? It must be scary – why else would my insurance co-pay be twice what it is to see her primary care doctor? So, we left the comfortable, now-familiar world of our pediatrician and are heading into the vast unknown, the world of a person who specializes in ears, noses, and throats. Gracie’s appointment with the ENT was Wednesday morning. In true ostrich form, I managed to put it completely out of my head until Tuesday.

on Wednesday morning. Steve wasn’t able to go with us because it was the first day of summer classes.

So, I took the morning off from work and planned to spend a little time with Gracie before we left for the appointment. On Tuesday night, I realized that I couldn’t find her insurance card. No big deal, really; I can print a temporary card off of our insurance provider’s website. Do I do it Tuesday night? Nope. Why, you ask? Well, I’m a graduate of that school of procrastination that says why do today what you can put off until next century. So, I get up Wednesday morning early and tried to print the card. Of course, the printer doesn’t work. Two hours later I have accomplished something – destroying the computer. Now, not only does the printer not work, the computer itself is dead in the water. I cut my losses and decide to just show the specialist my insurance card and hope they can get whatever numbers they need off of it. By now it’s

and we need to leave in thirty minutes. I get Gracie dressed in a pretty little white dress and sandals (remember this – it will be important later), thinking that if she looks really cute, that will deter the ENT from wanting to perform surgery on her really cute little ears. As I walk back in the living room, I smell something burning. I immediately think it must be the computer. I have rebooted the thing 670 times in two hours and an electrical problem would explain why I couldn’t fix it. Surely, its problems couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing… I lean down to sniff the computer – no burning smell coming from it. Must be olfactory hallucinations… I walk back over to Gracie to put a ribbon in her hair (definitely milking the cute quotient here) and I smell the burning again, stronger this time. I put Gracie in her playpen and walk into the kitchen. The toaster oven is on fire – not just leftover crumbs burning up, but flames shooting out the back of it. Aha – you’re thinking – the dunce left the toaster on…. Nope – we didn’t use it at all that morning. It is a mysterious case of spontaneous toaster combustion. I quickly unplug it and the flames go out. Miraculously, I don’t completely dissolve into either a puddle of tears or erupt into a volcano of anger, both of which appear to be integral components of my character these days. Gracie & I are dressed, loaded up into the car, and pulling out of the driveway at

, just six minutes behind schedule.

to work. But, of course, there’s a dilemma. Remember the cute white dress and sandals I dressed her in? Well, sandals aren’t acceptable footwear at her daycare. And the solid white dress is probably not a good idea on Spaghetti Day either. So, we stop at Wal-mart to find her something cheap to cover her body and her feet. I quickly find a pair of overalls that will solve the clothing problem. Her feet – not so easy. Who knew that size 5 tennis shoes would be as hard to find as a good bra? Finally, I spy a pair of pink shoes. Unfortunately, they are tucked in a bin that is completely blocked by boxes of men’s shoes. Gracie is getting antsy by this time and instead of sitting docilely in the cart, she is squirming all over me like a monkey on speed. So, I set her down on the box of men’s shoes so I can reach the pink tennies. Of course, the boxes aren’t really sturdy and she starts to fall through the shoebox tower. I scoop her up and she is fine. I’m not. This is my breaking point. I have finally had enough! I start throwing the men’s shoeboxes out of the way - not gently, but actually hurling them like a baseball pitcher. All of my pent up anger and frustration and worry is vented on the tower of men’s sandals and pleather dress slip-ons. Nothing is going to keep me from getting those perfect pink tennis shoes for my baby. Finally, victory! The shoes are mine! (or Gracie’s). I’m sure that people were walking by, wondering at this insane woman, holding her child, randomly tossing boxes in the aisle of Wal-mart, and frankly, I’m surprised an associate didn’t come and gently escort me out the door.