…I just sat here and watched my husband toss a handful of cereal on? our kitchen floor? for his dog.? And his dog is a notoriously picky eater.? In fact,? Pig often prefers to roll in food vs. eat it.

And he wonders why we have ants.? (My husband, not the Pig—although, based on the behavior above, I see where the confusion comes in).

Sigh.

My son recently recovered from the flu.? Call me crazy, but I was sort of expecting things to get back to normal.? Do you suppose that normal bears any resemblance to what’s been going on in our household the last few days?? Yeah, not so much.

Okay, so I expected a little residual coughing.? Maybe some left-over crankiness.? What didn’t I expect?? ? Why, a? new side-effect of the flu that robs 4 yr olds of their ability to perform a variety of basic daily functions, that’s what.?

For example, did you know that apparently this new? post-flu symptom? zapped the? urine wiping ability right from my son’s hand?? Yup, it’s true.? Because every single time that little stinker hits the potty, he’s hollering for one of us to come and “wipe my wee wee!”? (that includes the middle of the night, oh joy, oh joy–just the thing to wake up to at 3:00 in the morning).? This, from a child who’s been potty trained since just after he turned two.?

Not only that—it has also robbed him of knowing how to remove his own shoes, find his shirt drawer, fix his own covers, and eat anything other than bread and butter.? You think I exaggerate?? If you only knew.

You know, I’ve had the flu several times, and I just can’t remember these side-effects.?

Of course, if I’m hollering for someone to come wipe me? every time? I tinkle, I guess we’ve got a lot of bigger problems around here than a cranky post-flu 4 yr old.

Here’s a little something you might not know about me—there’s? a? 5 foot tall Buzz Lightyear pinata in my closet.? You see, one day, I was getting ready to hang up some clothes for the first time since my son was born (he’s the four-year old, by the way).? I walked (waded would actually be the more correct term here) into my closet, looked to the right, and presto!? There he was, the Toy Story hero in the flesh, er, plaster of paris.

Now, I grant you, my closet is a tad messy.? Yes, wiseass, that is an understatement.? So, if a sock puppet, a small rodent, or possibly even JFK had been found in there, I wouldn’t have been too surprised.? But a 5 foot tall Buzz Lightyear pinata?? That’s pushing the boundaries of randomness, even for me.

My assumption is when most folks pass a dude in a muscle t hawking Buzz Lightyear pinatas on the side of the road, they just drive on by.? And I think this assumption is correct—unless you’re my husband.? Apparently, he just had to have it—because you never know when a 5 foot tall Buzz Lightyear pinata might come in handy.?

Good ole? Mr. Lightyear? has? taken up permanent residence inside my closet.? ? Poor fellow is? now sans a hand–my son performed emergency surgery with a hanger, but alas, it couldn’t be saved.? ?

Come on Buzz,? my closet’s not? that scary.? Is it?

Okay, so maybe I was a bit hasty with the self-congratulatory kudos in the procrastination department.? ? Granted, it was a huge step for us to deposit (read toss) our? Christmas tree? on? the curb on time.? Unfortunately, that’s the only Christmas item that’s made a timely exit from our home or surrounding area.

For example, take a gander at our fireplace mantel (photo taken yesterday).? Perhaps I can start a new decorating theme of year-round Christmas (because that would be so appropriate in San Diego, where it’s? typically scorchin’ balls, even? in December).?

I especially like how the rotting Poinsettia and decaying dirty diaper add to the overall ambiance of our family room.

Next, take a stroll up the walkway to our house, and what will you find?? Why, it’s our handy-dandy Christmas tree stand, still in the exact same spot where it landed after we flung our tree out into? the street.? We are literally? forced to step? over it multiple times on a daily basis, yet on our walkway it continues to reside.? Personally, I think it makes an interesting conversation piece.?

And finally, the piece de resistance.? Yes, our holiday reindeer and our fifteen foot? inflatable polar bear (because it just wouldn’t be Christmas without one of those), not to mention our lights, are all still? partying it up? together on our front lawn.? You know the neighbors dig that stuff.

So I say, bah humbug to eliminating procrastination.? It’s kind of nice to still have Christmas? in our home—even if it is a? slightly less fragrant one.

All right, ‘fess up—who watched American Idol last night?? I know, it’s kind of embarrassing to admit—I mean, you may as well have “I’m a reality TV junkie” stamped on your head to listen for two consecutive hours to some of the most acoustically-challenged folks on the planet.? ?

And yet that’s exactly what I did.? I’d like to blame it on the flu, but I’m pretty sure that doesn’t explain away the previous few years of Idol debauchery occurring at my home.

What is it about Idol that is so darn addicting?? Is it that cute as a button Ryan Seacrest (I think not—I like my men to look like men)?? The subversive anticipation of seeing if Simon can outdo even himself with his lack of human kindness (although you have to admit, he’s right on the mark most of the time)?? Or are we all just watching to see if Paula? gets hopped up? on? the happy pills again?

Whatever the reason, it’s obvious that American Idol, in all of its manifestations, is completely and repulsively addictive.

Now, on to the good stuff.? Did you see the guy who collected his fingernail clippings in a ziploc bag?? And how did you react—with repulsion, disgust, horror, or something to that effect??

Not me.? I bet I was one of a select few, out of millions of viewers, thinking, “Wow, what a great way to store your finger and toenail particles,? instead of? leaving them in every corner of the house to decay and then jump out and surprise you? at the most inconvenient of moments.”? Like when your in-laws are visiting and you open the pull-out, only to find the toenails of days gone by, up front and center.?

Okay, I concede—I was undoubtedly the only one thinking that.?

At any rate, welcome to the? non-fingernail-free? zone that we like to refer to as home.? Wanna come visit and watch some Idol?? I promise, we don’t have to open the couch.

If you’ve been watching even one iota of news lately (Me?? I get to watch thousands of iotas daily, thanks to my nurse-aholic baby.? And I don’t even like the news), you’ve heard about kids and the cough medicine recall.? Not to quote Tim Gunn (Yep, I? am a? Project Runway junkie) but—this disturbs me.

What? bothers me the most?? Well, if you answered “the? FDA’s grossly negligent acceptance for years? of a product that has a lower rate of efficacy than? spitting does to control raging forest fires”, then you’re missing the bigger picture.? Oh, your basic premise is correct—the stuff don’t work.? (And actually, it goes beyond that—cough and cold medicines? can be dangerous to children under the age of two).

But? the woeful inadequacy of the FDA? isn’t what slays me about? this whole debacle.? What does? ? It’s simple.? What’s? by far more terrifying to me, in a Stepford Wives kind of way,? is the fact that millions of folks have? downed this stuff for years, and somehow nobody ever noticed? it doesn’t actually produce an uncough.

Creeped out yet?? I should hope? so.? Because the mind-boggling question we have to ask ourselves is this–are Americans really so brainwashed by the drug companies that we didn’t notice we were still expectorating??

Please, somebody tell me the thought process here.? Is it something to the effect of, “Hmmm, I know I’m still coughing, but my doctor and those commercials? assure me this stuff works.? I must be hearing things—I wonder which pill I can take for that?”? I mean, how many times have YOU purchased an over-the-counter cough remedy?? If the answer is more than once, then you too, my friend, have been sucked into that swirling vortex? known as? pharmaceutical propaganda.? Some serious soul searching is in order? (not to be confused with Soul Coughing, the now defunct band whose lead singer collaborated with BT on the? super-cool club hit “Never Gonna Come Back Down”) to get your health care? back on track.

And what gives with this? everlasting faith we bestow upon? the medical and drug communities, anyway?? Is it those commercials that advertise the new drug of choice?? You know the ones—where? shiny, happy? people are skipping around performing all? kinds of? sports they never knew how to play just moments before.? Ads that subliminally say, “take this drug, and you, too, can become a champion sky-diver, even with debilitating arthritis at the age of 90″.? Then at the end, faster than a (‘roided up) baseball pitch, they list the side effects.? And I’m sorry, folks, but I’m not giving the public an easy out? here.? Even at warp speed, I think the human ear picks up phrases like “kidney failure” and “horribly violent seizures” and “long and excruciatingly painful? death”.

? And what about the antibiotic debacle?? How do you think super-bugs like MRSA came to take up residence amongst our communities?? Was it from sound drug practices?? I think not.? Most of the sources I’ve read point the finger at the gross over-prescription of antibiotics that occurs on a daily basis in our country.? I mean, let’s face it—these days, physicians hand out antibiotics for everything from the common cold (here’s a clue–they don’t work) and the flu (it’s still a virus, folks) to hiccups and wrinkles (can you prove its never happened?? Color me skeptical.).?

And before you ask—no, my family members are not complete teetotalers in the pharmacopia of life.? We’ve been known to get hopped up on an ibuprofen here and there.? I also give my son more holistic type remedies. For his cough, he gets horehound (not as? gross as it sounds), elderberry (seriously, can you even say that without? smirking and reciting, “your mother was a hamster and your father smelled of elderberries?”)? and honey? (a spoonful of sugar, all right, but hold the side of medicine).? Heck, I’d go so far as to say I’d take antibiotics if I had an infection—of the flesh-eating variety.? But do we really need to run to the pharmacy for the slightest ache or pain?

For example, take the ibuprofen I just mentioned.? Did you ever consider the reason it makes you feel better is because it interferes with our body’s natural infection-fighting process?? What’s that mean in a nutshell?? It’s simple—ibuprofen delays healing.? And don’t get me wrong—sometimes, taking an Advil is a more viable option than sitting around feeling like a day-old dung heap.? But where is the FDA’s truth in labeling there?? I mean, you can’t buy a simple? box of garlic tablets? without reading a whole plethora of alerts from the FDA (hello, the bucketfulls of Italians who ingest? the stuff? hourly from birth seem to be doing just fine, thank you), but yet the drug companies seem to get immunity.? Something’s fishy in your local sushi restaurant, folks, and it ain’t the day old sashimi (yes, there is such a beast–my husband used to eat it in Chicago.? Hey, it was way cheaper–imagine that.)

So, to make a longish story shortish—I’m not saying? never use drugs.? I’m saying educate yourself.? Because the kind of education the drug companies are giving us ain’t the kind we need.? And? we’re still coughing to prove it.

Well, it finally happened.? I officially have the flu.?

I mean, it wasn’t like I had a shot in hell of circumventing it, what with my son tossing his snot rags to and fro throughout the house, and my husband? “borrowing” my toothbrush (isn’t it a universally known fact that a toothbrush is the one item you don’t share, even in a marriage?? I mean, really, it goes beyond the laws of all common decency).? Of? course, since histoothbrush was mangled beyond repair by the Ferger Berger, I guess his options were limited.?

Given that our house? at this point is probably one? enormous petri dish of flu virus, I probably stood less chance of getting sick than? if I’d mainlined the stuff.

By now, you’re probably asking–is there a point to this pathetic tail?? ? In fact, there is.? The point is that? this situation leads me to decry yet another indignity foisted upon the stay-at-home mom.? ? What I want to know is, where are? our sick days??

I mean, come on.? Every one else I know gets to call in sick.? The butcher.? The baker.? The candle-stick maker.? Heck, even the candle-stick maker’s dog walker can call in sick.? My husband just? took two sick days himself.? Of course, now that I’m on the down and out, he’s back at work, leaving me with two kids and three dogs, when my head feels like it just exploded and was sewn back together with fishing line.? Without anesthesia? (Been there, done that, during my homebirth—except it wasn’t exactly my head getting sewn together drug-free.)

The fact is, there is no calling in sick when you’re a stay-at-home mom.? And I think we should protest.? Unite as one.? Rock the vote, or something to that effect.? At the very least, we need to fire our human resources specialist.? Because, let’s face it–some of our perks (or lack thereof) suck.

I know, I know—look who’s whining now?

Another one bites the dust, thanks to the Fergniator.? ? And you thought I was joking about the toothbrush, didn’t you?

So, tell me, would you want to brush your teeth with this?

? Current count—Fergie 10, Husband 0–and that’s last week alone.? I guess this gives us an unequivocal answer to the question, “Who is smarter, the husband or the hound?”?

I just put a sign up on the door.? Maybe it will help.? I doubt it.? But at least I tried.

Argh—they’re tag teaming me today!? Must invest in earplugs.

And ever notice how whining is a vicious cycle?? They whine to me, then I whine to you,? and so on.? ? ? Just call me the joy-spreader.? Um, which surely has a few connotations that I never remotely intended.? Yikes.

I think now’s a good time to go stuff? myself in? Finley’s crib and do a little Squawking of my own.

Somebody stole? our baby.? ? Or more accurately, swapped her in the middle of the night with a baby clone.? I mean, the baby in our crib looks the same, feels the same, even has that same sweet baby spit-up smell.? But that’s not our baby.

You see, our baby coos.? In fact, she makes the sweetest, most wonderful sounding? coos? I’ve ever heard in my life, coos that would melt even the most jaded of hearts.

Not this baby impostor.?

But let’s retrace my steps.? Last night, all was copacetic (I’ve wanted to use that word since that song by Local H gained popularity–you know the one—”And you just don’t get it, you keep it copacetic and you learn to expect it, you know you’re so pathetic.”) ((One thing about me you might not know yet—my brain is a toxic dumping ground for a vast number of? utterly useless and? random 80′s and 90′s songs, much to the awe and annoyance of my friends).

But I digress.? Back to our story—all was well, so I nursed our little girl, swaddled her, and held her per our nightly ritual.? As usual,? our? precious little angel? cooed up at me with big eyes and a big smile as I? tenderly cradled her in my arms? and laid her gently in? the crib.? I continued to listen to her on the monitor as she? peacefully lulled? herself to sleep with those lovely coos.?

And that’s it.? That’s all I remember.? Until this morning. This morning, when I heard the most disturbing of sounds.? There I was, in my nice, cozy bed, anticipating the first of the morning coos on the baby monitor, when—”SQUAWK!”? I almost peed my pants (which isn’t an especially novel concept around here, but still).? Not knowing what to think, I grabbed the closest sturdy object I could find? (it happened to be part of a sprinkler–have I mentioned my son’s fascination with everything landscaping?) and charged her room.? I’m not sure what I was expecting—maybe that a? ginormous parrot had? taken up roosting on her changing table? ? (because that’s such? a common occurrence in San Diego) or perhaps a velociraptor was occupying her closet (okay, so I never said I operated? on? a full brain? in the mornings).?

? I cautiously peered around her room.? Seeing nothing amiss (well, except for another decapitated toothbrush in the corner–dang it, Fergie!)? I then? peered into the crib.? There was my sweet princess, smiling as usual.? Nothing seemed peculiar.

Nothing, that is, until my daughter looked up? at me with her big,? adoring eyes, flashed? me a smile, and then opened her little rosebud mouth and said “SQUAWK!”

I jumped so high I nearly decapitated myself on her ceiling fan.

What the….?? Squawk?? SQUAWK?? My baby doesn’t “SQUAWK!”?

That’s when? it dawned on me—somebody had switched my baby.? It was just like a really horrible soap opera plot, only sans the part about the evil step-sister’s step-mother with amnesia who was separated at birth? from her twin and ended up cheating on him with her best friend’s? husband (who we all know in actuality is gay).? Somebody had stolen my? dove and replaced her with this toucan-wanna-be.

And I want my cooer back.

All kidding aside, we are growing to cherish the “squawk” as another adorable baby stage.? This tale of bird noises actually served as a lesson? for us, a wake-up call that the old adage of enjoying every minute with your children, because they grow in the blink of an eye, is probably so cliched because it’s true.? So, we will? treasure every wonderful stage as it occurs.

But I still miss my coos.