It was a good plan...

So after all my high-minded words about 'spending some quality time with my kids' and 'keeping the family connected', Matt left this afternoon and I proceeded to leave the kids with my Dad and go out for dinner for my friend Janet's birthday this evening. Did I cook something wholesome and homemade for the kids before I left? I did not. I got them McDonald's. They seem distinctly untraumatized. But who knows if I've doomed some unspecified future liquor store to knocking over?

In honour of my friend Janet, who I love not IN SPITE OF but BECAUSE she pronounces words and names in a delightfully quirky manner, I will tell a story she told my husband and me ABOUT HERSELF (another reason to love her) fairly soon after we had all met:

In the story, she was going out for dinner with her boyfriend (now her husband) Dave and some of his friends who she was meeting for the first time. They went to a Thai restaurant. Janet ordered the pad thai. After the waitress went away, while they were engaging in small talk, one of Dave's friends asked Janet what she had ordered.

Janet: "uh...what's it called... oh yeah - I ordered the poon tang."

Dead silence at the table.

Janet: "What's wrong? Don't you guys LIKE poon tang?"

See? See? Lovable.

One man's trivia is another man's...uh, trivia.

So it turns out Eve does have pneumonia after all. That's right -- I sent my plague-ridden daughter to another woman's house while I was out carousing. Mother of the year, right here. In my defense, no one could believe it, including the people she's staying with. And my doctor had said to call her if Eve got worse, which she hadn't, so I guess I won't bitch about it taking two and a half days to call me after the x-ray. And she did call me on a Saturday morning, which my sister the health-care professional assures me is quite impressive. So, the icky pink medicine has been dispensed, she is still happily ensconced at her best friend's house, and we'll all just have to live with the medical mystery. Apple a day my ass -- I think she may have proved that being a chronic wiseass actually strengthens the immune system.

World Trivia Night was an unmitigated success -- not 'success' in the sense of 'winning' or 'placing' or even 'proving that I'm not a total moron', but, you know, 'success' in the sense of 'ate a lot of crap', 'laughed like, well, a moron who doesn't know her daughter has pneumonia', and 'answered three questions no one else knew, two of which involved television or movies, thereby revealing to all assembled that I watch The Mentalist (only sometimes. When I'm too lazy to pick up the remote and change the channel. I know. The shame). The Divine Miss M.L. made her first in-person appearance at our table and in my life, which was awesome. Lynn made us Cheez Whizard costumes (capes and starry pencil-wands and wizard hats with tinsel and pictures of cheese, which was kind of a relief since I was kind of expecting actual string cheese) which got us into the short list for the Best Costume category. And the dudes who actually won Best Costume (Angus McCrock -- kilts, berets, blue faces and a massive wall of beer cans) were very gracious when I asked to take a picture of them for my son (whose name, we all agreed, was awesome). And I got to see Julie again, and transferred some of our vast accumulated Spiderman wealth to her, so yay. (And I still think she's really smart. A lot of people might think, on first glance, that 'star' is a five-letter word.)

At the end of the night we were all happily exhausted, all smarter by a few prime ministers, planets and countries (Dominica -- who knew?), hopped up on sugar and white-lipped from the massive salt infusion sucking all the moisture out of our bodies, and really glad to know our daughters didn't have pneumonia. Well, most of us. Sigh.

The post I'm too tired to think of a title for

Thanks to everyone for the kind words. I want to assure everyone who might have gotten the impression that my doctor is mean and that I am not assertive enough that I did get confirmation that if the x-ray showed pneumonia she would CALL in a prescription rather than requiring the honour of our presence again -- NOT doing that little forced march twice in two days. The night was less than stellar -- despite the puffer Eve coughed forcefully and pitiably from bedtime until midnight or so until I gave up on both of us trying to sleep, got her up and propped her up in my chair to watch TV and gave her a full dose of Benadryl. Around two a.m. we both dozed off and the rest of the night was better, although I think I dreamed a couple of additional episodes of Naturally Sadie.

This morning we dropped Angus off at school and headed to the X-Ray clinic where my doctor had assured me we wouldn't need an appointment. This was true; however, the receptionist said she would have to ask the radiologist if they would do Eve since she was so young, and at least one of their radiologists refused to read children at all, so we might have to go to CHEO. I debated quickly between cash bribes and crying, and decided on standing there like a moron until we got the word that the radiologist would read her films, whereupon I debated quickly between flowers and chocolate and decided on sitting in a chair staring into space while Eve read Junie B. Jones. (I love Junie B. Jones. She has poor impulse control and is not afraid to call dumb, stupid things dumb and stupid and she brought a fish stick to school for a pet).

As we pulled into the parking lot for the clinic, Eve mused "this part of my life is quite doctorish". As we sat in the waiting room she whispered to me "I kind of like that they don't call your name, they call my name." In the x-ray room she made the technician laugh when she looked down at herself and said totally deadpan, "I'm wearing a paper shirt". The technician made her laugh when she assured her that, despite the apron that covered her butt, they did x-ray butts on a regular basis.

There's something sort of comforting about the day after you're up in the night with a sick child (when you don't work outside the house). Nobody really expects anything of you except recovery. You can tell people that your doctor is going to call in a recipe instead of a prescription and they get it. People tell you to take a nap. When you look up from your computer for the thirteenth time thinking there's a red car in the driveway and finally realize that it's just the red bowl on the edge of the counter blending in your peripheral vision with the window beside the front door you don't worry that you're completely losing your grip on reality. Quite as much.

I've read the paper and looked at the internet today enough to feel very grateful that things aren't worse. I could, for instance, be like Alanis Morrissette -- married to a guy named Souleye. Imagine the conversations: "Dammit, Souleye, how many times do I have to tell you to put the lid back down?!" "Souleye, honey, mind grabbing me an organic iced tea?" Also, I've never tried to rob a convenience store and fallen on my own knife while trying to escape (instant karma! Plus, hugely enjoyable visual). And... oh! I don't have to x-ray people's butts on a regular basis.

Life is good.