Barely promoted

Various frustrations

Eventually, my flight got cancelled. Hint: it's a bad sign when the listing disappears entirely from the TV screens. But no announcement was made for another 20 minutes.

Since there are no nonstops from Rust City to Weatherwood on Saturdays, they wanted to send me on Sunday. They wouldn't let me change my return ticket, which was for Monday. But, if I cancelled out the trip, I got my frequent flyer miles back.

I cancelled, oh boy, and Miss T. and I lounged around the airport for another two hours until Beaker could come pick us up. Called up Nanna at the hospital and heard what she thought of the books I'd gotten her for Christmas. Watched the poor bird abatement truck futilely fighting the sunset starling attack with cap guns. Tried to exercise my legal right to feed Miss T. anywhere I damn please—but it had damn well better please her too, and sometimes she'd rather smile at strangers. Or light fixtures.

Current plan is to go in about 10 days, at the same time as Beaker heads to California for work. Minimize the number of days for which it's just me, just me supporting all baby needs.

Marina reports that they may move Nanna to a nursing home (yes, one of the ones my mother was in, but she was in pretty much every one in that part of the county for a bit during her last year) for rehabilitation as soon as Monday. They had her stand briefly today, and take three or four tiny steps. I'd be amazed, except that I know she did stop whining and work with the physical therapists after she broke something in her shoulder about 10 years ago.

(P.S. Of course we never left my home airport, but for that part of the trip stroller-free was totally the way to go. I love my Ergo. And its new daypack. Oh yeah.)

In other news: Marina told me (as a bitter Ricky shouted from the background) that the hospital wants to investigate their household for elder abuse. Gee: a terribly underweight elderly woman shows up at the emergency room witha broken pelvis, sprained wrist, and badly bruised head, talking about how much she wants to die. Her only apparent relatives are a dumb thuggish taxi driver son and his wife, whom you mistook for a home health care aide 'cause well, she's Caribbean and 'cause she is one. Except she really is the daughter-in-law. Would you investigate?

I would too, but I'm going to call the doctor and the social worker to vouch for them. Geeezus.

Sometime I need to tell the blog about how bad it really was when my mother started cracking up for good. Back in 1997, just before Thanksgiving, the year I was doing my job search. I'd just learned to drive, and I was going back and forth to Weatherwood every other week or so. At one point, Beaker and I took her to urgent care with major head contusions—her dog had pulled her down three days before and no one had even tried to clean the blood out of her eye socket until we got there. She, and we, got asked about abuse. In separate rooms.

And in yet other news: you know in your heart that Moxie's always right, but here's more proof. On the way home from the airport we stopped at Babies'R'Us—which was really a pretty happening scene; when else can couples go to register together, if not on Friday evening?—and got a Nuby. Today Miss T. drank two ounces from it on the first try, and drained three greedily on the second. Messy as hell, but a lot of the milk actually went into her. I hope she still likes it tomorrow... 'cause she hasn't taken more than half an ounce from anything else in weeks, and the clock is ticking down to when we need to go to full-time day care.

We all knew it was coming

Nanna fell. On her way to turn off her alarm clock on Wednesday morning. Her pelvis broke—which, as far as I can tell from Dr. Google, is much less bad than a hip breaking. She also hurt her hand and banged her head. Marina was still at the apartment, so appropriate forces were deployed. At the hospital she started having palpitations, so she's on a cardiac ward. The pain medication is making her nauseated.

It's the same hospital as thought my mother might have Creutzfeld-Jacob, nearly two years ago. I hope the rest of their doctors are better than their psych ward.

Ricky didn't call me until late Wednesday evening; Marina doesn't have my number on her cellphone, and Ricky doesn't have a cell phone. He is, I have to say, remarkably together. I'd really been expecting him to undergo total meltdown, given how he reacted back when mean Emmy was forcing Nanna to go to the doctor, but he's calm and listening to the doctors and not blaming himself any more than he blames everyone else, including me. The rugs in the apartment, see. Nanna didn't want them taken out, and we didn't force the issue.

I'm flying out to Weatherwood this afternoon, just until Monday this time. Of course with Tabby (how can I type that so casually? Her first plane trip! Will the car rental place really provide a seat? Am I strong enough to go stroller-free? Will she be willing to sleep without her—her!—bassinet? Do I really want her to spend hours and hours at a hospital?) Beaker will be going on a business trip later in the month, and I may try to go then as well.

Of course this will wreak havoc on our careful adjusting-to-day-care process, which was going decently until Tabby got her 4-month shots on Tuesday—now she hates the bottle more than ever. More than ever. But she doesn't hate the teachers or the location any more, and is spending about 3 hours there with no more tears than she'd have at home, if someone were trying to stuff a bottle in her mouth.

I talked with Nanna this morning. She sounded remarkably chipper, given the circumstances and her underlying depression. She asked about Miss T. and Beaker's family. Ricky hasn't passed on much from the doctors, but she's looking at a lot of time in the hospital. A lot. And I know they've brought up the attendant risks. She's 90 and underweight. This isn't the first bone she's broken.

I need to go pack. And eat up the remains of all the rolls of Tums I can find. Work? Whaddaya mean, work?

My God, what it all might have been like if Annajane were still alive.

Sins

For Christmas I bought my nephews toy cars; my niece, fuchsia fleece clothing.

Sometimes I use pillows to prop up Miss T.'s head as she nurses, so I can use both hands. To knit.

I honestly believe that Miss T. is cuter than other babies (especially her three-days-younger cousin). I also honestly believe that she, unlike all the other little whiners at her day care, always has good reasons for crying.

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Three deadly sins no one in my department could recall, after the concept of the seven was alluded to during a meeting: greed, envy, and anger. (We got started with pride, and then I contributed lust, sloth, and gluttony.)

I wonder if these collective memory lapses help explain our, um, low profile, in and out of our own institution.