Waiting for the Call

It's been a tough week. Aerie had foot surgery last Thursday, and she isn't happy as a mobility-impaired patient on medical leave from her job. Her boss keeps telling her she hasn't been released to light duty yet, and then giving her more projects to work on from home. You know, in the "You shouldn't be working, but there's this, that, and the other thing still to do" vein. She doesn't like being reliant on anyone, but taking care of herself while rolling around on a knee scooter and putting no weight on her foot makes everything a huge undertaking. She doesn't like taking the pain pills because she doesn't want to sleep all day. It's going to be a fun several weeks for all three of us.

Thumper and I dropped Aerie off for surgery on her other foot this morning (even more fun!), and we've been waiting for the call to come pick her up. We went to the park and played. We wandered the neighborhood examining fire hydrants. Now he's sitting in a pile of Lincoln Logs while I blog, wearing nothing but a diaper. I mean him. He's wearing nothing but a diaper. I'm fully clothed.

Sometimes this week has been difficult. Thumper's independence is expanding, which can be trying. It's manifesting as a lot of yelling and whining, by both of us. He has three recent obsessions. Well, four. The first is fire hydrants. I don't know why. When we drive, he chimes in from the back seat: "Hydrant! See it? I see it! 'Nother one? There it is! Red! 'Nother one? See it? There it is!"

The second is his penis. 'Nough said. Well, almost enough said. When I put a diaper on him, he says, "Bye, penis! Fun penis." Which is pretty entertaining, but I probably shouldn't tell you these things.

The third is removing his clothing. He doesn't want to wear clothes anymore, which is why he's sitting in a pile of Lincoln Logs in a diaper. When it's time to go pick up Aerie he will have a fit when I torture him by putting a shirt and pants on him. Shoes are OK, as long as there the new shoes.

And the fourth is Mama. Since she's been home all day every day, he's become constantly concerned with her location. "Are you coming, Mama?" is his mantra. When I take him into his room to change his diaper: "Are you coming, Mama?" To the bath: "Are you coming, Mama?" To the playground, to the store, to bed. And if the answer isn't, "I'm coming," he expresses his displeasure.

So it's a houseful of cranky folks. Yay! Want to come over?