This week has been both the same and busier. It’s an interesting paradox that even I don’t quite understand. I’ve apparently been busy enough to look back and think, “Whew! What a crazy week!” but as hard as I try, I can’t remember many abnormal events that came up to make it any busier than usual.
The dog’s busted again, and Clayton’s right butt cheek is starting to chafe from how frequently he’s having to pull out the wallet for our vet visits. It’s turning into another case of trouble comes in the thousands, thanks to bloodwork and little abnormalities and ear infections and medications for ear infections and butt-output tests and treatment for the hookworms Nell apparently picked up… We’d heard from two different people, once-upon-a-time, that our vet was one of the more expensive ones in the area, which kinda irritated me since we’d left another awesome vet office b/c it was a half-hour away to come to a more-expensive one with good vets who’re only a two-minute walk away.
But it really’s been festering at the back of Clayton’s mind, to the point that during a quick chat with the vet yesterday, he lost it after hearing the vet make the comment that, “You can’t ever really say your pet’s [internal] parasite-free until after 3 negative fecals in a row.” In the car five min. later, the conversation turned to this:
Him: “That’s complete crap. That doesn’t fly with anything I’ve ever learned about Measurements and Analysis. How good’s the test if you’re only guaranteed an accuracy over the course of three different testings!”
Me: “No, it makes perfect sense, because it eliminates the possibility of both a false neg. and a false positive.”
Him: “That’s ridiculous. Why use a test that has such a high percentage of error?”
Me: “It’s not ridiculous! Statistically, you could come up with an instance where you conduct two tests, and the first generates a false positive and the second generates a false negative. The third test is a tie-breaker. It doesn’t mean the test is inaccurate.”
Him: “I’m telling you that doesn’t make any sense.”
Me: “And I’m telling YOU that I’ve heard that same triple-test line from just about every vet I’ve ever spoken to. Quit trying to revamp the entire field of Veterinary Science.”
Him: “Well, if the test is SO accurate, why did she want to treat after only one positive worm test? Following her logic, you should take three tests and, if they ALL came back positive for worms, treat the dog then. It’s hypocritical!”
Me: “Because it’s cheaper to treat for the worms than to conduct another few rounds of tests.”
Him: “Cheaper? Wait, how much did we spend at that visit just now?! We didn’t even have the dogs with us! No…wait…I don’t want to know. It’ll just make me mad.”
Me: “You mean madder?”
Him: “I’M NOT MAD!”
And yes, you read that right: we had an argument over our dog’s fecal worms. In all honesty, this is one of the reasons I love this man—he doesn’t have a single problem doing what the dog needs. He has a problem with doing it cheaply. He never questions the fact that if the pets are broken, we must fix them. I’ll happily argue about fecal worms any day with him asking, “How much?” vs. someone else who asks, “Is it REALLY necessary?”
And, on the baby front, we had our second ultrasound yesterday, which confirmed that I’m 15 weeks along. Everything looks good so far, and we were able to verify, via the ultrasound pictures, that the baby is halfway to being physically normal—we got a clear shot of the right hand and left foot, both of which have the requisite number of digits per extremity. I was disappointed that it didn’t at least give us a thumbs-up. We figure, by the law of averages, the other limbs are most likely normal, too. Clayton was hoping for a shot of the other limbs, but while watching the screen as the ultrasound tech moved the thingy across my belly, we didn’t see anything that was much more detailed than a Rorschach test. I was like, “We’re having…a bird? A T-rex? The bunny from Donnie Darko? Two bears in tutus unicycling around a cupcake? I don’t get it.” As has become a habit with our ultrasound techs, she kept giving Clayton pitying looks after everything I said. Looks that clearly said, “You poor man…to have to go home with someone this socially inept…”
Against Clayton’s firm, conservative will, I have decided to refer to our fetus as “Hippie Baby.” “Baby Davis” has gotten a little weary, as nicknames go, and I’m kinda tired of it. Also, it’s more socially acceptable and YOU KNOW WE CAN’T HAVE THAT. Not with me driving the Baby Momma bus. Also, this afternoon I found a CD of Beatles songs that were made into lullabies, that I immediately began lusting for. Add to that a simple tour of Amazon.com, wherein more lullaby CDs cropped up for most of the bands in my considerable classic rock collection at home—The Who, Journey, Black Sabbath, Metallica. I was transported back to Saturday mornings when Mom would decree the day a Cleaning Day and the windows would be opened, letting summer breezes sweep through the house, and the neighbors would lodge noise complaints over how loud she’d crank up Queen or The Rolling Stones on her booming, concert-sized floor speakers. Put all that together, and BAM: the baby gets a new nickname.
I’ve also started working on a couple of tiny writing projects (no pun intended) for Hippie Baby. I figure it’ll be a no-stress audience because I know that babies fresh out of the oven don’t really react to much external stimulus (so that smile may be b/c you walked into the room or b/c it took a poo) and only have about 4 modes: intake, output, alarm, and sleep. Ergo, a captive audience! The only way to say the kid doesn’t like the story is for it to do something abnormal, which babies really aren’t allowed to do thanks to the 4-mode programming. Did the baby cry when you read the story? Baby likes it! Baby always cries! Did baby puke on the book? Baby likes it! Baby always pukes! Did the baby….wait, baby flipped you the finger when you read it? Bummer.
So, baby literature? Check. Done.