Mr. Man, the Accountant

After two years of struggling to look like I knew what I was doing with a computerized bookkeeping program, my accountant finally said, "You know, I think it's time you let me take over." I breathed a sigh of relief, glad for the excuse to stop.

"Well, I could do it," I hear. Mr. Man has stepped in again.

"Knock yourself out, "I said, but I still planned on handing everything over to Mr. Accountant in March.

So one weekend, Mr. got out the IBM and surrounded himself with my Adidas shoebox full of receipts, and the endless stacks of papers I had thrown on and around my desk.  This was going to take a while.

After a few questions about the program and where everything was in my "tracking system" of cake orders, he started inputting my income.

"Where are the customer receipts?"
"Um, well, I kind of stopped doing that since nobody wanted one."
"Well, how do you know what you sold?"
"It's on the calendar...see here I've written the cake title and who it was for."
"But where's the price?"
"Oh..maybe it's on an email...er, no, they contacted me through facebook...  Let me look."

And for the next half an hour I showed him the insides of my head: I had filed away every order in my photographic memory instead of writing it down.  Some came from email (I have three accounts), some from Facebook (I have two accounts), some from phone (written in a book, a  notepad, and a few illegible sticky notes (written while the oven timer was going off), and then there were the online sales on a totally different website...

And that was just the income.

It was all coming to light: the reason I had trouble preparing for tax season.  Okay, but I found each and every customer! For the next day and a half, there was a lot of sighing, muttering, and Mr.'s hands waving in the air, shaking an invisible head. He had to wake me up a few times that night to ask me where a certain invoice was.  Invoice? What's that?

Mom stopped by for a visit while this was all going on.  She looked at the steaming redhead on the couch, with his head in the computer screen, and his arms waving, out of the corner of her eye.  She raised her eyebrows.

I smiled at her. "This is what keeps our marriage alive, mom." I said, a little loudly, "I mess things up, and he rescues me!"

All I can hear is some growling, and muttering about "constant" and "crazy" coming from the other room.

Now everything is labelled, I have strict instructions and have to stick to them.  I think he's saved Mr. Accountant a lot of trouble (and a big pay check).  But, despite all this, Mr. is impressed with how well the cake business does ;)

Happy 12th Anniversary, to my super, Mr. Man.  May I continue to bring spice to your life, and craziness to your day - and may you continue to rescue me from myself, and never get bored!

Erin

Little Miss and the Medical Tests

When I look back on the beginning of this "Crackerjacks and Nutters" blog, it was meant as an outlet for me to find humour amidst a life of frustrating allergies, other illnesses and self-inflicted sleeplessness.

It is easy for me to find laughter with such a delightful family and my uncanny ability to bring drama upon myself. Sawing up dressers seems to be the one instance most people are talking about.

The year 2013 has certainly brought on more medical appointments, rushes to the hospital, and, as a dear friend stated, a good use of OHIP.  But lately, it has to do with Little Miss.

I've tried to keep my chin up, but frankly, I don't do well with faking it. I've never been able to keep a straight face, or hide my dislike about something. The one thing that kept me going was the pure delight in her eyes each time she was going to try something new at the doctor's office or hospital.

"I want a picture of my brain to take to show and tell," she'd say, and of course, she would be so interested in every detail of every test.  We watched youtube videos over and over of EEG's and MRI's and we explained the "caterpillar" marks on her arm she'd get during the allergy test.  She explained in detail to my mom how they took her blood with a prick and a poke and got three bottles, covering it with a bandaid from left to right...

She was sad she didn't ask for a copy of the x-ray like Franklin the Turtle did in "Franklin Goes to the Hospital."

She told the EEG technician how to do his job, correcting his placement of the stickers and lying so still to prove she could do it.

And oh, the questions.

"How do spell MRI, mommy?" and her brother would snort with laughter.

"Do they show movies in the MRI?"

"What do my brains look like?"

And then, frustration set in.  Everything was going wrong. It was all a waste of time.  Friends were praying for answers, and there were none. There weren't any conclusive pictures at all.

Five minutes in the MRI machine, and they pulled her out, saying the pictures were too blurry.  In fact, they weren't prepared for a child at all.  They had expected a 40-year-old woman.  You've got to kidding.

The second MRI involved proper care with a paediatrician, two sedation nurses and enough sedative to knock out a horse (if you ask me).

But as I posted that afternoon on Facebook:

Apparently sedative can either knock you out to sleep through your MRI or it can make you completely manic, shaking, climbing the walls, seeing things and trying to escape from the hospital room.  Guess which one is Little Miss?

She even tried to pour apple juice in her eyes to clear out the blurriness.

So no MRI. Instead, she wolfed down a cheeseburger, passed out on the couch, and then threw up.

Funny at first, but now, not so much.  Seeing your daughter with eyes so dilated, and in such fear, is not funny.  And I can't get it out of my head.

The doctor's office called and wanted to try again in Kingston with anaesthetic. I said no.  With our luck she'd be allergic.

And finally this week, after waiting for months, Mr. Man took her to her allergy test.  Perhaps it was the gory pictures I sent of the horrible rash she'd had for nine days, or the long list of health problems and allergies in her mother's medical history, but in any case, they didn't want to test her.

Sigh.

Mr. says it's a sign from God that she is fine and we don't need to put her through all of these tests.

I tend to think there is something He is protecting her from.  A wild monster lurking in the MRI machine, or some evil doctor has infected the allergy lab samples and she was about to be poisoned.

But that's just me.  Instead of holding my chin up I make gigantic "what if?" statements and fill my crackerjacks blog with another dose of crazy.

We don't know what happened back in April.  We don't know if it will ever happen again.

And that sucks.

But she is still smiling, still bossing her brother, still bossing the world, (and I don't think the sedative ever totally wore off) and I am thankful for that.  Thanks to everyone who has been with us through this.  Let's hope this blog continues to be filled with fun and crazy, and not anything so forelorn.

Just wait to see what I've done to the bathroom...

*****

Twice I have asked people to pray for NO DRAMA: once was just before the allergy test (obviously it worked), but the only other time was when I was pregnant with Little Miss.  After an ambulance ride with our son, and the need to get quite a distance to the hospital, I really needed NO DRAMA.

So there I was, as big as a house, 11 days overdue, on the phone to my friend calling off the prayer.  "I can't take it anymore!! No more praying - it's working TOO WELL!"  And then, soon after, my firey red-head was born with an over-dramatic, four-minute KA-BANG!

Sigh. Prayer works.  Even when you don't really want it to.