Please don’t call child services…

Do you ever have one of those moments as a parent when you realize that you have ROYALLY screwed something up? Not like you threw Billy up in the air one too many times and he puked on you, more like you threw Billy into the air and he hit his head on the ceiling fan and now he leans a little when he walks?

O fell asleep on the way home from a long day of playing with the cousins. NBD. A carried him up the 2 flights of stairs to our apartment, because he’s just a bit too heavy for me to safely and comfortably carry that far. O wasn’t sleeping very deeply, so I just left him in the bed in his clothes, hoping to sneak in later and change him or at the very least wrestle a pull up onto him. At about 10:30, he woke up, calling for me. I went in and decided that since he was half-awake now was as good a time as any to get that pull-up on him. First went the pants, then I started to pull his underwear off. I heard a quiet *snap* and then O started screaming. Huh? What the hell just happened??

Since he was crying the “I’m hurt” cry, I picked him up immediately. And then I saw it- a 2 inch long strip of elastic laying in the bed. It must have been sticking out of his underwear and got caught under his butt when I pulled them off. The snap was it breaking! -and popping him in God-only-knows-where o_O

So…. here I sit. Wondering if I have scarred my child for life. What if he develops a kinky fetish? Or worse? What if he develops a phobia? What if he ends up being that weird guy that never lets a girl take his pants off?

Oh my word, what have I done???

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Next I’ll be dancing naked by a fire in the forest

Warning: this post will contain references to my right breast (or the mole that used to live under it). Any family members out there that read my blog who might be uncomfortable with that, please just wait for my next post (it’ll be about Paris and have nice pictures, promise). To all my friends- well, it ain’t any worse than what you’ve heard come out of my mouth before.

It all started with a little mole that I noticed after taking a shower one day. It was dark, it was fairly new and it wasn’t all nice and even. But it was small and I didn’t have insurance, so I figured it could sit there for a while. I’m certain it grew a little over time, but it wasn’t as big as a pencil eraser.

Fast forward 2 years (yes, I know, too long to wait). Armin scheduled a dual appointment with his dermatologist. Because, you know, like most people in places like Germany where people have easy access to good affordable healthcare, he goes in regular intervals to the dermatologist. I show the ugly bugger to the doctor, who decides that although it doesn’t look to be too bad, it should go. Why? Because it is in an awkward spot and he already has to cut a good portion around it, but if it were to grow much bigger, then it would be much more complicated because he’d have to cut into my boob or something. At least, I think that’s what he said. He was speaking in German. And not just plain old German, He’s Schwabish- a totally different dialect that is insanely difficult to understand because they all kind of mumble and talk fast (imagine a non-English speaker trying to understand Ebonics).

So last week we go for our appointment. Did I mention I’m a terrible patient? I can’t deal with the sight of my own blood. I want to vomit or pass out. I also have incredible anxiety when I have any sort of procedure done. To the point where my Ob/gyn sedated me once. So there I am, praying to God that I don’t puke on myself, literally grabbing the table that I’m laying on. Shaking like a leaf- not because I’m cold- although that would be possible as I’m just laying there topless (it’s a whole different immodest world over here, y’all). I watch the doctor come in and he goes to the sink. And he uses some sort of hand sanitizing liquid. No, he did not WASH his hands. Just rubbed the mystery solution all over them. When I say I was horrified, I mean, I was FROZEN in fear. My God, was this man going to touch me with one of those dirty hands covered in mostly dead germs????? He treats patients with Herpes for f***’s sake!! I wasn’t sure what I could do about it. If I said something would he get angry? Leave me with some garish scar? I mean, he was cutting under my boob- did he know how make it hang a little more lop-sided? Then I saw him open the package of surgical gloves. To my relief, he at least put those on correctly. I think I would have died if had messed up that process. I mean really. I would have had to say something, or just leave. Just leave and find another doctor.

The actual procedure was only as bad as I assumed it would be. I felt minimal pain thanks to a local anesthetic. But I could feel the knife against my skin, and then him tugging my skin with the stitches. I could also hear them talking, and then something with the last stitch wasn’t right and he had to cut it and do it again. I just wanted to die. I mean seriously y’all, I know it’s all in my head, but it was just horrible.

Of course, the horror and humiliation live on. Because of the location of the stitches, I can not wear a bra. I do NOT have small boobies (they just look small in comparison to the size of my big ass). The last time I was out in public without a bra I think was 7 or 8 years ago. Some things just aren’t meant to co-exist: my boobs and a bra-less lifestyle are in that category! All movements= jiggling. Jiggling skin that is attached to the stitches- maybe you can guess how good that felt. So the next day, I send the Hubs to the pharmacy to get an ACE bandage so I can at least control the girls, if they can’t get the support they are used to. The pharmacist who is a bit of a douche, refused to sell it to him. He stated that it wouldn’t work and I didn’t need it and I should wear a sports bra. If I could wear a sports bra, don’t you think I would be doing that by now, ya big idiot?!? I eventually made it to a different pharmacy, was waited on by a woman and got what I needed.

IMG_1936

This one inch incision has been driving me bonkers for exactly one week!

Anyway, that’s my story about how after only a year in Germany, I’m becoming some sort of bra-less hippy. Darn.