They're totally gonna take away my Mother of the Year award...

If I had one, that is. Which I don't. But if I did have one, this would totally be grounds for revocation.

On Saturday morning, I noticed Mark's ADD prescription was running low--only six pills left. I called the doctor's office first thing today, only to find the doctor is on vacation this week, and will refill the prescription next Monday. As in SEVEN DAYS from now. That sound you just heard? That was me weeping.

Just to add more fun, Mark has state testing at school this week--four more days of tests, three more days of pills. I'm no good at math, but even I can tell this doesn't add up correctly. I just had my first panic attack ever.

Then I realized something even worse--there's also a weekend between now and next Monday. Which means not only will Mark pretty much blow a whole day of testing, he'll then spend an entire weekend unmedicated and driving me insane. 

I just had my second panic attack ever.

As soon as I had that thought, I had a third thought that both shamed and calmed me simultaneously. I realized if I skip two of Mark's school day meds, I can cover the weekend, and maybe keep hold of that last bit of sanity I have left.

This is the conversation that ran through my head upon that realization:

Rational Heather: You're totally going to hell for that thought. Of course you'll use the pills on the testing days!

Crazed Heather: He's only in 6th grade--how much do those tests really count anyway?

Rational Heather: They COUNT!
 

Crazed Heather: The tests only last 90 minutes a day. The weekend is 48 hours. In a row. OF INSANITY!
 

Rational Heather: The tests are important.
 

Crazed Heather: So is my sanity.
 

Rational Heather: You're not making a good case for being sane!
 

Crazed Heather: EXACTLY. Can you imagine how much worse I'll be after a whole weekend of this?

Rational Heather: I give up.
 

Crazed Heather: Welcome to the club!

Even after reading that exchange, on paper, in black and white, I still side with the crazed part of my brain. I'm guessing that doesn't bode well for Mark's test scores...

But it does provide a good argument in my upcoming discussion with the pediatrician. I will I beg, plead and maybe cry to get Mark's prescription upped to 90 days, instead of 30.

And if that proves unsuccessful, I'll simply ask for an additional 30-day prescription. But this one is not for Mark, or ADD. It's for anti-depressants--for ME!

 

But panicking is my forté

Somethin' Shiny isn't just the name of this blog--it's a way of life for me. Case in point...

I recently had an optometry appointment. While in the restroom, I noticed something hilarious--a giant pair of glasses. The little angel on my shoulder gently told me not to touch, but the little devil on my other shoulder poked me with a pitchfork and screamed, "PHOTO OP!"

You can clearly see who won.

While I was giggling and taking pics, someone knocked on the door. My smile immediately disappeared, and I realized I must've been in there for awhile if people were knocking.

I ripped off the glasses and placed them precariously back in their giant case. Then I grabbed the bathroom door handle and pushed down on it.

Which immediately sent me into a panic, because...nothing happened. Well, I mean, something happened--the handle jiggled, but didn't open. I'd locked myself in the bathroom!

"OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod," I muttered furiously. "You're such an idiot!!" I could just picture my mom standing beside the little angel on my shoulder. They were both shaking their heads like, "We told you NOT to mess around in here!"

Maybe I was just freaking out. "Don't panic," I whispered to myself. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and tried the handle again, slowly.

Still locked.

I could hear someone on the other side of the door, but couldn't make out the words. Maybe they were talking to someone else outside the bathroom.

They weren't. There was a gentle knock, as I tried once again, as quietly as I could, to free myself.

I heard the muffled voice say something else. Suddenly, I heard a click! and the door cautiously swung open. There was the equally embarrassed optometrist, key in hand, apologizing profusely. Apparently, the door has issues, because she showed me a little trick, popping the handle up and then jiggling it just so to unlock it.

Whatever. I silently cursed the big, shiny glasses on the storage cabinet, and my own ADD, which couldn't resist such a silly prop. And then I turned to the optometrist, nodding, and said, "Ooooh!" like I'd been messing with the handle for a long time, and not really playing with the silly giant glasses.

Whatever. All I know is next time I have an optometry appointment, I'm going to the bathroom before I get to my appointment.

And I'll only wear my own glasses...
           

Paging Heather...

Last night, Mark and I were watching a very funny show about attention deficit disorder. (No, really!)

Mark didn't want to watch at first, especially when they discussed ADD in kids. But he perked up a bit when they started describing ADD in adults.

"Yeah, Mom," he sneered. "Let's talk about adults--like YOU!"

"I don't have ADD," I answered confidently.

"Adults with ADD have learned to cope with it," the narrator started. I was really interested in this, so I grabbed my leopard-print Snuggie to wrap up in and listen.

"When you deal with adults, usually they don't lose things anymore. They lose time looking for their things," the narrator explained. I turned a bit red when they used a constantly lost wallet as an example.

"I don't even look for his lost wallet anymore," one woman said, echoing what my friend Vic always says about my own wallet. "I know eventually it will turn up."

I realized my arms were cold, so I turned my Snuggie around, but I couldn't find the sleeves. I turned it over and over again with no luck.

"Hyperactive talking," the T.V. said. "They interrupt frequently or--"

"Where are the dang sleeves?" I shouted, still turning my stupid Snuggie around.

"People with ADD are working their hearts out just to get through the day," said the T.V. "They do the same thing over and over again, and they just keep trying, and trying, and trying."

"Why can't I find the--Hey, I found the sleeves!" I yelled triumphantly. I smiled proudly, then realized Mark was looking at me intently and cracking up.

"What are you laughing about?" I asked. Mark pointed at the T.V., where the narrator had just finished talking about how ADD adults keep trying, and trying and trying. Pretty much exactly what I'd just been doing at that very same moment.

"OK, fine," I admitted. "Maybe I have ADD...but just a little bit."

Yes, and maybe you can be just a little bit pregnant.