Trying To Be Everywhere At Once And Not Hit Too Many People With My Butt

single mom's brain on any given day

Here's a little math word problem for you. Part A:  If you are at work a half an hour away and Lexi has to be to work at 3:00, Brooklyn has a doctor's appointment at 3:15, and Clay needs to be picked up from his friend's house by 3:00 and then dropped off at the school, you need to pick up a prescription, and you need to mail a book ordered on your Etsy site before the post office closes, how long will it take you to have a nervous breakdown? Part B:  How many glasses of wine will it take to de-stress at the end of the evening?

Here's another one. If Lexi has to be to work at 6:00 and Brooklyn has to be to cheer at 6:00 and Clay has to be to marching band at 6:00, how long will it be until you invent a cloning machine or teleportation device?

With the school year starting next week, the fun of juggling my kids' activities has commenced. Because I'm a single mom, it can be daunting. But because I'm a single mom, I got this! Because that's what single parents do. We're nothing if not master jugglers.

So I'm at a parent meeting for marching band and I'm looking at my watch. I don't actually wear a watch. I have a watch. I have a couple watches. I'm not sure when I stopped wearing them though. I probably stopped wearing a watch when I first got a smart phone. Truly, without my phone, I'd never have a clue what time it is. I also wouldn't ever be able to call anyone. I remember my phone number from when I was a kid. I remember my  high school best friend's parent's phone number. I have no idea what my kids' or parents' phone numbers are now. None. 

I actually looked at my phone to see the time. I don't know why I didn't just write that in the first place. Or use the handy backspace button to change it. Especially when all of this has absolutely nothing to do with my story. I'm beginning to understand why mom used to tell me I had "diarrhea of the mouth" when I was younger.

Anyhoo. So I looked at my phone and realized this was running longer than I'd expected. Both Brooklyn and Lexi would need to be picked up soon. Lexi could hang out at work until I could get there. But Brooklyn's coaches couldn't leave the football field until I'd gotten her and I didn't want to be "that mom." You know, the one who thinks having their kid in a sport equals free babysitting. 

The parent meeting ended and the band assembled in the gym because it was raining. Because it's Florida. And it rains every. single. day. As the front ensemble played what they'd learned in band camp, I frantically texted other parents on Brooklyn's team. Until I realized she didn't have her key and no one was home so even if someone could drop her off, she'd be standing out in the rain until I got home.

The front ensemble concluded their performance and the color guard started. I watched the girls twirl their flags while surreptitiously glancing at the time ticking away on my phone. A running dialogue marched through my brain. Twirl faster. I might be able to make it in time. I'm not going to make it in time. Twirl faster. 

The girls finally finished and the teacher introduced the battery who began to perform. As the drums pounded out a rhythm, I looked at my phone again. Maybe if they're really fast, I can still make it. As long as no one has to wait too long for me to get there . . . Maybe . . . Play faster!

They wrapped up and the winds began to play. I considered finding a metronome app and playing it as loudly as I could at a faster time to speed things along, but A: they were already playing at 160 beats a minute and I didn't want anyone to pass out from playing any faster. And B: no one would've even heard my metronome app over the one the band teacher was playing. And C: that's crazy-person behavior and I really try to downplay the crazy when in public.

I texted Austin and begged him to get the girls so I didn't have to try to maneuver my way out of the packed bleachers in the middle of their performance because crab-walking along the bleachers while smacking people in the face with my big butt didn't sound like fun. And driving in the rain to pick up the girls only to have to turn right around and get Clay and drive back again also didn't sound like fun, partly because I need a new exhaust and you can hear my van from approximately 6 1/2 miles away. I mean, it's super-classy and not at all embarrassing, but still. Then I texted the girls to inform them that I was stuck at the school and Austin was going to pick them up.

When the event ended and Clay and I got into the car, he asked me if I'd recorded it. 

"I'm sorry, Clay. I didn't. I was busy looking for a metronome app."

"What?"

"I said - I was busy texting people, trying to find someone to pick up the girls since this band thing ran longer than I thought it would. I was listening and you guys sounded really awesome! I can't wait to see the whole show put together out on the field where you can march too! But yeah, I was doing some rapid-fire texting, trying to coordinate rides for everyone. Sorry. I did get this mediocre picture of you and your girlfriend though."

Thus is the single mom's life. Running from place to place, trying not to hit people with her butt, and saying, "Sorry" because no matter how hard she tries, she never quite hits the mark. But she tries, and I say that's what counts.

The One In Which I Sweat, Bleed, And Waste Paramedics' Time

I'm on these two diabolical antibiotics for my recent bout of diverticulitis. They make me feel like garbage. I'm dizzy, nauseated, and it perpetually tastes like I've been sucking on a handful of change that's been rolling around in the back of my van. Plus I'm on Coumadin (blood thinners) for life because of my clotting disorder and history of blood clots. And the thing about Coumadin is that everything, everything affects it - medicines you take, food you eat or drink, being sick, everything.

So at school today I got a nosebleed out of nowhere. That indicates to me that my blood may be too thin. It doesn't stop bleeding for some time so I walk to the front office, holding a bloody tissue to my face. The health assistant, the registrar, and the bookkeeper see me, freak out a little, tell me I look like crap, and threaten to call an ambulance. Despite my protests that you don't call an ambulance for a nosebleed, and that antibiotics are the reason I look and feel awful, they continue to beg my permission to call an ambulance so they can ogle the cute paramedics express concern for my well-being. Finally, thinking that maybe the paramedics could check my PT/INR (blood test to check how thin my blood is from the Coumadin), I relent. Well, that and the fact that I was sweating and dizzy and feeling pretty horrible.

So the paramedics arrive, and much to the delight of my co-workers, they're both attractive guys. Fabulous. I explain that I was in the hospital last week and that the antibiotics I'm on are the reason I feel like a shriveled sausage casing filled with the muck that clogs your shower drain.

The one medic agrees that yes, Flagyl is of the devil and will make you feel awful. The other guy gets to work checking my blood sugar, strapping a blood pressure cuff around my arm, and applying stickers to my legs, arms, stomach, chest, face, scalp, and big toe. I'm mortified as he's sticking these leads to my skin because I'm sweating like crazy. My back is stuck to the chair with sweat. Through my shirt. Super classy.


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In the end, it was determined that I was sweaty and disgusting, but I'd live. I started heading back to my classroom as the health assistant came to the determination that she must play matchmaker. 

"What's your number, Dawn? I'm going to give it to that paramedic."
"No."
"Come on. I'm going out there," she said as she grabbed a sticky note and a pen.
"Um still no."
"I'm giving him your number," she trailed off as she headed toward the door.
"What is wrong with you?! No!"

I like to think she's a good-hearted person who just suffers from mental illness.

She actually walked out the door toward the ambulance, so I turned on my heel and headed to my class, confident that she didn't actually have my number. I was wrong. So there's a random paramedic in Orlando who probably thinks that the old, fat, sweaty woman who can't handle antibiotics actually asked the health assistant to give him her number.

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I thought about throat-punching her, but my school has this thing where they frown upon physical violence in the workplace. Plus, if I crushed her trachea, they'd probably call the ambulance back and well, I think I suffered enough embarrassment for one day.

Riding Down A River Of Questions

My phone has been acting all wonky lately and I figure it's only a matter of time until it completely dies so tonight I downloaded over 4000 pictures to my computer. As I was going through and deleting some of them, I ran across the screen shots I took of this conversation between my kids right before spring break. 

[Handy information:  Savannah worked at a water park called Volcano Bay at the time. Austin works at Publix (a grocery store.) Jackson works at a BBQ place. The hand emoji is Austin raising his hand to ask a stupid question. And lastly, they're all insane.]

In the end, we all did get to go to Volcano Bay and Austin did not, in fact wear a Speedo.

The One With The Pain, The Stupid Doctor, And The Beans

Tuesday night I went to bed with some pain in my abdomen, thinking it was just a little gas. Every time I began to doze, the pain awakened me. By the time my alarm went off in the morning, I was wide awake, in horrible pain, running a fever, and fully aware that I was suffering from another bout of diverticulitis. My sixth bout of diverticulitis.

Still, I like to live in complete denial of medical issues so I waited a few hours, convinced that, through sheer willpower, I could stave off an infection. My rising temperature and my inability to stand up straight said otherwise, so around 1:00, I headed to the hospital. Because I believe the medical care down here will kill you is subpar like I wrote in my blog post HERE, I debated where to go. There's only one hospital in Central Florida that I've visited and have not hated with a burning passion, so one would think that I would go to that hospital. But I did not.

Now, I have a reason for this! A perfectly good reason! And that reason makes total sense! Hear me out! I didn't go to the not-horrible good hospital because the emergency department in Winter Garden doesn't have any rooms; it's just an emergency facility. So I came up with the brilliant plan of going there because I knew they couldn't admit me; they'd have to send me on my merry way with a couple prescriptions for antibiotics! That idea was foolproof! Only I didn't take into account the possibility that they'd transfer me to another Florida Hospital.


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A white cell count over 20,000, a fever, and a CT scan showing extensive inflammation earned me a fun little ambulance ride to a larger hospital. The paramedics who transported me were all nice and friendly, but none of them looked like this:

When the hospital sends me a survey about my experience, I have some things to say about that.

A surgeon was called in for consultation. His assessment is that I will continue to have attacks and if I do nothing, it's just a game of Russian roulette until my intestines explode and I need emergency surgery. Although they could have done the surgery while I was in the hospital, the surgeon said I'd be better off waiting 4 to 6 weeks until the infection and inflammation were under control. By waiting, according the surgeon, there's less of a chance of needing a colostomy. I thought that was a great suggestion because it combines two things I love: procrastinating and not pooping in a bag.

I will say that everyone, from the ladies who registered me to the nurses and the CT tech, in the Florida Hospital in Winter Garden was nice. They were concerned with keeping my pain and nausea controlled, and making sure I was comfortable. The doctor was friendly, compassionate, had a sense of humor, and checked on me more than once while I waited.  And I will say that the Florida Hospital in Apopka where I was transferred was nice. My room was big and clean. But seriously, with all the advances in hospitals, you'd think they would've realized the beds suck! You'd think that maybe they could've come up with something a little more comfortable. Like a slab of concrete. Or a bed of nails. But the nurses who cared for me were nice and compassionate. They always asked if there was anything they could do for me.

However . . .

Late Wednesday night they took me for an MRI. I asked why they needed it since the CT scan had shown them what they needed to know. I was told, "Just to get a better look." Okay. As it turns out, I learned the next day, they wanted a better look at a mass they'd seen on my liver in the CT. If anyone had bothered to tell me this, I could've let them know that I was already aware of the mass and had already had an MRI like a year ago, and already knew it was a benign hemangioma. But thanks for bumping up my bill, guys. Appreciate it.

On Thursday evening, I was allowed some clear liquids. The surgeon takes a look at the clear liquid diet sitting mostly untouched on my tray and says that I shouldn't be eating or drinking anything at all for another couple days. Okay. TMI alert - Infection in your colon + strong antibiotics = massive diarrhea. Or well, I guess not massive exactly if you haven't eaten for 2 days, but still. In the middle of the night I had a little um, accident. (It takes a while to get out of bed when you're hooked up to a heart monitor and an IV!) I cleaned up and was changing into a new pair of underwear when a male tech walked in. Yeah. I have super-lucky timing that way. He was concerned my heart monitor had come off, so in the dark, before I had even finished pulling up my undies with one hand because my other hand had a death grip on my IV pole so I didn't fall over from overwhelming dizziness, he grabbed my hospital gown, pulling it out from my neck as he messed around with the leads on my chest. Awkward. He didn't even buy me dinner. 

On Friday, the PA from surgery told me I could try a liquid diet. About 2 seconds after she left my room, someone came in with a tray of spaghetti and meatballs, grapes, and milk. I told her I couldn't eat that because I was on clear liquids. She argued with me that no, I'm on a regular diet. Ummm no. I literally just talked to the doctor! She didn't believe me, but agreed to bring me a new tray with vegetable broth and tea anyway. No sooner did she bring me a new tray than the nurse came in telling me I'm on a regular diet and I'm ready to be discharged.


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Then a person, who I can only surmise was Frank Abagnale Jr. impersonating a doctor, came in and told me I couldn't leave until I could eat a regular diet. When I asked him, "Why?" he didn't have an answer. Since he had apparently never encountered someone with diverticulitis, even though it's a very common problem, I enlightened him a bit. "Listen buddy! I have had this SIX times. And EVERY time, I have been discharged from the hospital on a clear liquid or perhaps a bland brat diet. I will not be able to eat SPAGHETTI AND MEATBALLS for some time!" (There is much debate on what kind of diet can prevent diverticular disease and/or flare-ups of diverticulitis, but everyone agrees that when you're healing from an infection, you need a bland, low-fiber diet for a couple weeks.)

He left and I burst into tears because that's what I do. I missed Clay's band concert on Thursday night and I was stuck there missing his 8th grade dance. I felt awful that my Littles had been left to their own devices for what felt like a week and a half. I felt sorry for myself because being a single mom when you're sick sucks. No one to take care of me. No one to take care of my kids. But I've got to say that Lexi is the awesomest! She took care of Clay and Brooklyn. She bought them dinner and made them go to bed before 2:00AM. She brought me clothes and toiletries and came to visit me every day. I'm so grateful for her help!

Anyway, while I was bawling, the nurse supervisor person came in and talked to me. I expressed my frustration that no one seemed to be on the same page, and I just want to go home. I shouldn't be expected to eat a regular diet in order to leave. I asked why on earth would they bring me spaghetti and meatballs. Why not just plain noodles or mashed potatoes or white rice or a piece of bread? She was sympathetic and said she'd do her best to get me discharged that night. She came back in with some mashed potatoes and said if I tolerated my dinner I could go home. Those were the best mashed potatoes ever!

Want to know what they brought me for dinner?

Corn. And black beans. Because everyone knows how easy it is to digest corn and beans. The perfect food for a person healing from a vicious intestinal infection.


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I didn't eat it, of course. I left anyway. (Thank you Austin and Codi for picking me up!) I'm home and the pain is much, much better, however the nausea and dizziness from the evil antibiotics is in full force. And I guess I'll be scheduling surgery for this summer which is good timing since I won't have to take time off from the school at least. But I'm still not looking forward to it for oh, so many reasons, not the least of which is the colonoscopy-like prep.

I Made Healthline's 2018 List of Best Single Mom Blogs!

I got this email yesterday while I was in the hospital. It definitely brought a little cheer to me!


Hi Dawn, 

Healthline would like to congratulate you on making our list of Best Single Mom Blogs for 2018!  

We carefully selected each blog based on the quality of content, the frequency of posts, and a connection to their community. We feel Because I Said So! And other tales (Mom2My6Pack) specifically earned this accolade by using your wit and humor to build not only a fantastic and authentic parenting resource but a hilarious read as well. 

We’re excited to showcase Because I Said So! And other tales (Mom2My6Pack) on Healthline and help empower users with Single Mom. Keep up your amazing work! 

In health, 
Lauren

Check out the whole list here!

Awkwardness Level: Expert

So we have a new teacher here at work. He's cute. Now, I haven't actually met him. I haven't talked to him for reasons forthcoming. He could have the personality of toast, he could chew with his mouth open, or he could be a Sox fan. I have no way of knowing. He's likely many (read as twenty) years younger than me. I'm not infatuated with him. I don't know him. And even if I did, I realistically would probably not actually be interested in him. But he's cute. Therefore I cannot talk to him like a sensible, relatively sane adult. I don't know why this is a thing, but trust me - it most definitely is.

The first time I saw him, I ignored him. As I write this I realize that is psychotic behavior. At the time, it seemed like a perfectly sensible thing to do. Instead of simply saying hi and introducing myself, welcoming him to the school, or even just offering a friendly smile, I ignored him. That might have been okay. I mean, if I had just left it at that, he probably would've assumed that I'm an introvert. Or a jerk. Which would be fine. But nooo. Nope, I did not indeed leave it at that. Instead of leaving it like that, I spewed a nonsensical stream of mouth diarrhea to another coworker standing nearby. I stuttered on about paramedics in a story that was neither relevant, nor comprehensible. As I was babbling, my brain was begging me to shut up. "Stop talking! Stop talking! Oh for love of all that is holy, STOP TALKING!" But my mouth wasn't getting the message. When I'd finally exhausted my seemingly endless supply of words, I was met with awkward silence and looks that clearly indicated the general consensus from everyone within hearing range was that I'm mentally unstable.

I ran into the new guy again yesterday. Instead of saying hello like a normal person, or even putting my head down and walking quickly away, I tried to make conversation. Because I don't learn from past mistakes.

While having what could only be described as the lamest conversation in the history of the spoken word, I walked into a door. I literally walked. Into. A. Door.

Don't worry. The whole smashing my face against the window of the door was actually a good thing. It ended the painful conversation that went like this -

"It's hot out today." (I'm excellent at stating the obvious)
"I was at the beach yesterday and it was nice. But it's hot today." (RE-stating the obvious just in case he didn't fully grasp my level of awkwardness the first time.)
"But my sister sent me a picture of snow. I mean, it snowed in Chicago and my sister sent me a picture of it because she lives there in Chicago where it snowed in April today."

You'd walk into a door to escape that too.