I discovered a phrase today that I never want to hear again as long as I live:

“Maaaaaaama, I have poopies on my fingers.”

And she was so not kidding. In fact, that was an understatement. She had poopies on both hands, all the way up her back, on the carpet, on her shoe, and (very quickly) on my clothes.

Exploding Diaper of Doom: 1
Mama: 0

The other day, Little Button looked at the small crater on my nose that has replaced the mole I’ve had there for my entire life.“That’s a mole.”

“No honey, there’s no mole there anymore. It used to be, but now it’s gone.”

“God took it off.”

“No, the doctor took it off.”

And that would be the part of me that’s stubborn enough to deny, to my 2-year-old, that God deserves any credit for the removal of the mole.

Mostly because I’m pretty sure that if God had volunteered to “take it off” for me, it would have been a heck of a lot cheaper and the insurance company wouldn’t be hassling me with letters about “preexisting conditions.”

Spent some quality time this evening cleaning up puke.

Not mine. Button’s.

I would rather it had been mine, not only because it breaks my heart when she’s sick, but also because I have the ability to direct vomit into the sink or the toilet or a bowl or some single location other than all over the new couch, her clothes, my clothes, the blanket, the living room carpet and the hallway.

I suspected we were possibly in for an illness because a) this was the first week of her new “Tuesday School” and “Wednesday School” programs, and exposure to other kids always means contagious ickiness,  b) she has not had an appetite for the last day and a half, and c) she told me she was sick today.

But she very rarely gets pukey, so that kind of caught me by surprise. After she refused most of her dinner, I was able to get her to eat a stick of string cheese. In hindsight, that was not my best move.  Cheese chunks do not willingly go down the bathtub drain.  And picking up pieces of regurgitated food is not my idea of a party.

I know, I’m hard to please.

I bathed her, washed our clothes, cleaned up the carpet and furniture, and washed my hands, but I cannot get rid of the “phantom puke smell.”  I hate that.

Poor kid.  It scared her.  I tried to simultaneously soothe her while whisking her into the bath tub and stripping off all the clothes and diaper.  The warm water seemed to help, and soon she was obviously feeling better.  Toward the end of the bath, however, she started complaining that her tummy hurt again.  I prepared myself for Round 2.  Fortunately, that never came.  She fell asleep in my arms.

I’ve been trying desperately to find a babysitter for Saturday.  We have tickets to a matinée that we didn’t know about until yesterday, and I’ve completely struck out in finding someone to look after her on such short notice.  Now it’s looking like that won’t be much of an issue anymore.

Tonight I had some bad sushi. It tasted good. But it didn’t agree with my insides and for a while I wasn’t sure whether it was the sushi, or my insides, that were about to exit my body in a rather unfriendly fashion.

Consequently, I spent a good portion of the evening alternating between the couch and the toilet.

J is gone on a business trip tonight so it was just me and Little Button for the evening. It is surprisingly difficult to spend an evening sick on the pot with a curious and concerned toddler investigating, questioning, and playing doctor.

“Are you ok Mama?”

(between winces, and with my head in my hands) “Not really. Mama’s a little sick right now.”

“You’re SICK. Are you ok Mama?”

“I will be ok soon. Mama just needs to go potty. Can you go watch TV for a few minutes?”

“Do you have an owie? Does your eyes hurt? Do you have an owie on your arm?”

“Mama’s tummy hurts.”

“Mama has an owie on her tummy. Does it need a kiss?”

“No thank you. But thanks for offering.”

(Removing a strip of toilet paper to wrap around an old scratch on Mama’s arm) “Mama has an owie RIGHT THERE. Put this on it because it makes it feel all better for you.”

“Thank you sweetie.”

(Grabbing my arm at attempting to pull me off the toilet) “Puuuuuuuuuulllllll! Puuuuuuullllll! Go out there. Go into the living room, Mama.”

“I can’t right now, baby. Go ahead and I’ll come in a few minutes.”

“I need some toilet paper!”

“No you don’t. Don’t take any more toilet paper. Leave it alone.”

“I love you Mama! Hold you?”

“I love you too, but I can’t hold you right now. I’m going potty.”

(Attempting embrace) “HUUUUUG!”

She then found a small flashlight and proceeded to spotlight and name Every. Single. Item. in the bathroom.

“Shine the light and then you can see it. This is a scarecrow! How about the scarecrow’s basket? How about the toilet paper? How about the door! How about the shoe! How about Mama’s knee? How about Mama’s other knee! How about Mama’s cheek! How about Mama’s arm! How about Mama’s tummy! How about Mama’s boob!”

“Button, can you please go watch TV for a few minutes.”

“Are you ok, Mama? Mama has an owie.” (Runs down the hall) “Your SICK!”

A couple of weeks ago, I had this mole removed, as well as a rather obvious one I’ve had on my nose since childhood.  I promised Jane I would have this done, like, a year ago.  But I wasn’t insured a year ago, and then I was lazy, and then we were moving, and then I was still lazy.  I have a dedication to Lazy, it seems.  So I’m just now getting around to it.

My dermatologist, who I hadn’t seen before, is also a Lyposculpturist.  Apparently.  Imagine my surprise when I received the appointment reminder and the caller ID read “Lyposculpture & Laser Center” - I was afraid I’d made an appointment with the wrong doctor.  But I kept the appointment anyway, because if I accidentally ended up in an appointment that led to the removal of my stupid stubborn tummy bulge, then … well, accidents happen.

As it turns out, I was in the right office and the moles were removed without incident.  He did not try to sell me on lyposuction, but did inform me that apparently I have mild adult acne.  I didn’t realize that 1 or 2 stress blemishes qualified as acne, but I suppose I’m at an age where I’m supposed to be past that.  Fortunately, he really likes to give me samples so I came home with cremes and washes and a prescription just in case I like the products and want to use them.

Today I went back for my followup appointment and was told that both biopsies came back benign.  My wounds are healing pretty nicely though they’re a little red and not completely even.  He gave me more samples of cremes to take the redness away and prevent scarring.

All in all, for an experience I’ve been dreading for a year, it wasn’t so bad.