Things Seem Like It, Then They Aren't

It turns out Nolie wasn't just sad, but sick.  She had 10 days of antibiotics for that impetigo, and then a gnarly virus came and took her down, too.  As always, it's hard to tell when she's sick because it just seems like she's getting grumpier and grumpier and then finally her head spins around and she spits blood at you and you figure out, "Oh!  She's not just being cranky!  She's sick!"  In this case, she was just exhausted and had no appetite and she kept moaning around the house that we were the "woost pawents evah" because we wouldn't let her jump off the tree, or eat flames, or whatever ridiculous thing she was requesting at the moment in her delirium. So it was a virus that turned our normally sweet, loving five-year-old into a shrieking, hateful Maury Povitch guest.  This made it a little hard to access my empathic response.

Then, Friday night, she pretty much refused to go to bed altogether, even though she was burning up (despite the fact that I couldn't get the thermometer to catch a fever) and clearly dead-tired and completely wench-like.  By 3am neither E. nor myself were exactly our best selves, and some yelling may have happened.  Some unhappy memories were formed, primarily for me and E., since Nolie seems to have mostly forgotten the whole thing.  I am still tired from the whole ordeal and wondering who absconded with my sweet baby child.  I am also a little afraid of her.  She is incredibly strong and stubborn.  I'm grateful she's not sick very often.  I'm also grateful she's not my size because she could whip my ass, no question.  I'm especially grateful that she started to get better today, because otherwise I was going to send her back to Russia.

We stupidly thought on Sunday afternoon that it would be fun to get out of the house and make our virgin pilgrimage to Denver's newish Ikea.  This was E's idea, actually.  Which I'm still scratching my head over, because if there is one thing that man hates, it is shopping.  If there is one thing I hate, it is shopping with him. Throw in the kids, one of who is grumpy-ass sick, and it's my least favorite way to spend any time, ever.  I have largely kicked my shopping addiction, but I still view it as enjoyable me-time when I do it, and these people do nothing but defile the practice.

I won't bore you with the details, but let's just say that by the time we got back I was in a deep funk, dissatisfied with my life and my husband and my children, and pissed that we had to leave the store in such a huff that I couldn't buy three of these:

The ones I wanted were white with gold light and on stands and would have looked lovely in my house for Christmas.  I'd show you a picture of the ones I actually wanted except I don't have them because of the awful people I live with.

It's best, after all, that we didn't bring more crap in the house.  I realize that now.  But at the time, I was pissed.  Also, I was pissed about being in the car with E., which is where he does his quiet-time thinking/brooding, and I sit there bored out of my wits looking out the window.  It was a long drive to that Ikea, and even longer home.  So enjoyable.

All in all, I'd say the trip to Ikea was not that fun.

But I'll be going back by myself one of these days, friends, so you'll all be getting Ikea-themed Christmas gifts this year.  And you better freaking appreciate them.