10:40 SEOP at the high school (registering my girl for Junior year and gathering scholarship info,)
11:30 IV therapy at hospital (just down the road from said high school)
12:45 Olive Garden (celebrating my friend's birthday with breadsticks)
After: Wal-Mart, IKEA, Taipan (pick up decorations/favors for upcoming party)
The night before this well-planned day, however, I arrived home past the kids' bedtimes and when I tiptoed into kiss them goodnight my 4th grader told me she had to build a wickiup . . . for tomorrow. A wickiup? Really? What is that anyway?
But I cared less about what exactly a wickiup is . . . than I cared about WHY it wasn't built with daddy while I was gone for the last 3 hours (not to mention why it wasn't mentioned to me at all in the last two days). "Because he doesn't know how to use a glue gun" she shrugged. I contemplated, for just a split second, giving her a run down on her daddy's life work right then. Artillery. Warfare. He can name, load, and fire dozens of weapons, from the hand-held kind, to the ones that hit targets 16 miles away. He is trained in hand-to-hand combat. (I'll skip the details here). He's been to war. For heaven's sake girl, he can use a glue gun! (But I must admit, he'd be glad to know that she doesn't consider him "crafty," although he can braid and curl her hair!!) But I knew that my lesson would have been in raised tones, so I sighed instead and told her she'd have to get up extra early in the morning.
Turns out that a wickiup is not a hogan, nor a cliff-dwelling, nor even a teepee. Google couldn't even find a "goshute wickiup" but turned up a "wigwam" and "Paiute wickiup" instead. Hmm, are those acceptable? A search through the Wolf Den book revealed a wickiup, but the 4th grader assured me that's NOT like the wickiup her teacher showed. So, we decided to go custom. Plans and pictures are overrated anyhow.
Luckily my Little Man knew the spot to find the perfect sticks at 7:00 in the morning, and we got to work. Paper plate for the prairie (did they live on the prairie?), cardboard for the wickiup base, and sticks to surround it. Oh, and a hot glue gun. Oh, and a pocket knife to cut the sticks. (Actually only one of the three of us - mom, 4th grade girl, and Little Man thought this was necessary. Guess which one.)
7:15 a.m. Left thumb (and nail) nearly sliced through. Thowing off robe and pulling on jeans and hubby's sweatshirt. Brushing my teeth with water (I think - maybe I skipped that part all together?) LOTS of blood*.
7:40 a.m. Holding down quivering, screaming, sweating, deathly-pale Little Man as the digital blocker is inserted, via very long needle for a very long time, into the gash. My head resting on the pillow beside his. LOTS of blood*.
stroking his head
holding the vomit bucket (but unnecessarily it turns out)
stroking his head
watching the nurses scurry to find a tourniquet for his finger so the stitching can be done, as the mass amount of blood* is impeding the doctor's view.
talking about rocks and dogs and I-don't-remember-what-else into his ear as distraction while the doctor tries to pry off the nail (turns out that didn't work), repairs the tendon, and stitches the skin.
9:30 still resting my head while the nurse cleans and wraps up the ugliness, and the other nurse heads for the pharmacy to retrieve the antibiotic in suspension form, please, rather than the capsules, thank you.
10:15 home. Brush teeth for real. Call the hospital to cancel my IV therapy appointment. Apply minimal makeup, brush through my ridiculous hair, take the Little Man with me to the high school.
10:40 wandering the halls to find #807. Notice that it is mostly boys who aren't in class during class time. Find the room and sit to hear about science, English, and math requirements. Leave to take Little Man to the bathroom. I refuse to let him use the boy's room without me, he refuses to use the girl's room, so we return to #807 unrelieved.
12:15 stop at Wendy's for a kid's meal (a rarity in our family). drop Little Man off at school, wondering if I should.
12: 30 home again. retrieve my Little One from my neighbor (who helped to complete the wickiup while I was otherwise detained at the hospital). Look in the mirror and wonder what I should change before the birthday lunch. Decide I need to change everything, but have time to change nothing.
The rest of the day evolves about the same . . . run from one place to the next. And that night I remember we need 12 rocks in a box for school the next morning. Luckily pocket knives are not needed.
My something today? Stroking a sweaty head and kissing a distressed face. It wasn't on the list, but was definitely more important than everything that was.
*blood is not my thing. I do not do well with blood. I have many, many stories to back this up, but it would make me queasy to tell them, so I'll skip it.
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