Fat Biscuit

Harry Potter Disease

Finally, my neurotic scrutiny of my child's health has payed off! I took Owen to the pediatrician today because I was concerned about these skin bumps he's had for months now, and I was rewarded with an officially REAL illness: a viral skin infection called Molluscum contagiosum. This vindication wasn't as thrilling as I thought it'd be. Although molluscum contagiosum (or "the nubbins" as Taylor and I like to call them) is not a serious disease, it can last for up to two years! Meaning, two years of nubbins! 

The nubbins are contagious and are usually contracted in children by indirect contact, such as sharing towels (who does that?) or from swimming pools. Sometimes the bumps can be treated--in a way similar to the removal of warts--but in children this unpleasant procedure is avoided unless the bumps are large and disgusting (my phrasing not the doctor's). So, we basically wait it out, leave the bumps alone, and throw a swim shirt on Owen before he gets in the pool. I asked the Doc about swimming specifically because Owen is set to start another round of swimming lessons tomorrow after school. The Doc told me not to worry about it. As if that's possible. 

Once we were home, and Owen was on the sofa enjoying the library-provided Stuart Little DVD, I was interrupted during my joyous dishwashing by a policeman at the door. (You can continue reading; that is not the beginning of a pornographic fantasy.) 

Cop: "Let me ask you a question. Have you seen anyone wandering around those trees across the street?"

Me: "No."

Cop: "Yeah, well someone reported they saw a black guy with a gun and a knife hiding in those trees over there. I just wanted to check."

Me: "Oh. Ok."

What I wanted to say was, "Really? A gun and a knife? And someone saw both of those weapons? Did he have one in each hand?" The cop left, looking pretty skeptical about the tip-off. I assumed it was a hoax, but later I learned from a neighbour that one of the local children had reportedly seen this man with a gun, and that child's mother had phoned the cops. I hate to automatically doubt the legitimacy of a third-grader's account, but it just seems so unlikely. 

Remote Office

Taylor is working at home today, so I've been kicked out to the remote office (read: dining room table), while he gets to remain in the plush executive suite (read: cozy study with new desk and iMac). It's tough being a SAHM, sometimes. I know my job is less important (less money, no health insurance to share with my family). And I know my contribution in terms of child care and quality time with Owen is much more important. Sometimes, though, I wish I didn't feel insecure. I wish I didn't assume that all the non-SAHM mothers I meet think that I'm a big, fat LOSER.

This morning I gained more insight into the ever-maturing mind of my son. It's a chilly day and windy, too, and Owen was excited as he pulled on his puffy black winter coat with the faux-fur trim around the hood (Timberland, I might add). We left the house to walk to the bus stop, and as soon as he caught sight of the other kids already out there, he slowed down. He continued to walk slowly. I could see him looking at their coats, looking at his coat; I watched the "gears" turning. None of the other kids had on winter coats, though they were all huddled up, looking cold as hell. Owen turned to me: "Actually, Mommy, I don't think I like this coat." At five years old, he is afraid of standing out, of what the other kids will think of his clothing. I wasn't sure what to say. We just kept walking; my heart started sinking. 

When we reached the other kids, one of the older girls came up to say hello. Then her brother came over. The older boys continued to talk about these weird little robot toys they all collect, and nobody noticed anyone's coat. When the bus was pulling away, with Owen on it, I spotted him looking out the window. I swear he looked a little forlorn, but Taylor assures me I'm imagining it.

Stick Garlic In It

At last I'm using the new computer and desk setup to do some editing. Taylor did a great job choosing a desktop from Ikea and then staining it an attractive rich colour. Tay added a couple of signature touches as well: a pyramidical stack of river rocks, a large vase containing dried Japanese Irises. If I lived alone, the desk would be bare. 

Had a nice chat with LB this morning. After our discussion regarding CSA foods and how to prepare them, I opened up my copy of Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone to the section marked "Eggplant." We were given a generous portion of CSA goods by Alex and Kelley during our visit to Richmond last weekend, but I'm not much of a cook. So, after checking this reference, I'm going to make roasted eggplant with garlic. Sounds easy. Just make eight or more small incisions and fill each with a sliver of garlic. Set on a sheet pan and roast at 400 F until tender and "collapsed," 20 to 40 minutes depending on the size. Now let's see if Taylor will eat this. 

Good Bye, Professor Jazz

Frieda the Cat died last week after 18 years of putting up with Taylor. She had stopped eating and drinking two days before and then set up camp under Taylor's favourite chair. She didn't move, could barely stand, and refused to lick water from my finger. We knew she was not going to eat again, so I went to Target and bought some puppy pads to put under her in case things got messy. She died hours later, within minutes of Taylor getting home from work. Thankfully, Owen didn't see her strained breathing or the little kicks her hind legs made as she started to die. 

Owen and Taylor dug a hole in the back yard and buried her. Owen picked out two large flat stones to put atop the site so, "We will remember where she is." Owen doesn't seem to miss our cat at all. This is not surprising, as she pretty much avoided him for the first four years of his life, creeping out of her solitude only in the last year to walk gingerly over his Legos or steal a cheese puff from his bowl. Maybe Owen will never ask for a pet, but that won't matter, because I'm determined to have cats again, possibly kittens.

My attention this week has been on Owen's bloody behaviour chart: He had two weeks of solid purple (read: "great") and now is alternating between purple and green (merely "good"). I also found out from a spy I planted in his classroom, that Owen got in trouble one afternoon--losing five minutes of recess--for spitting in the hallway. What the hell? Owen NEVER spits.  Tay and I had a little talk with the boy and warned him that should his behaviour slip into Code Yellow, he will lose computer and TV privileges. Are we being too harsh? 

Tay and I are worried about our retirement funds. They've been severely hit, and now we are thinking again about growing our own food, or at least buying a rifle so we can start stealing it. All this anxiety, however, did not stop me from purchasing a pair of Danskos. Nor did it stop Taylor from ordering us an iMac, which will definitely make our working at home more pleasant. Staring at the screen of a tiny MacBook is tiring. In summary, we are weak, pathetic consumers who revel in the smell of new leather and plastic.