Tuesday: A Day of Jack

Took a sobbing Charlie to PT with Jack. Sobbing in part because we turned right onto Clairemont Drive (meaning SCHOOL) and in part because Jack, his sometimes-idiot brother, told him that he could see "Shannon" the beloved, which was patently false.

Then took the on-the-verge of Sobfest 2 Charlie to school. On-the-verge until the bell was rung and then went straight into crying. Hopefully, that was short-lived. Jack and I didn't hang around to find out.

For we had places to go...

First stop: Naval Medical Center pharmacy. Fittingly, I was dictating OTC products that would be required for Jamie to Aunt Patty Cake as we pulled onto the base. I navigated the vehicle toward "Stork Parking" for, though in need of exercise, I saw no need to obtain it by walking from a cruddy parking spot. Jack said, "What are you doing? We can't park here in stork parking." To which I exclaimed, "I, Jack, am now a full-fledged STORK with a real stork pass!" Aunt Patty Cake snorted and said, "toodles". (No doubt this response was to rejoice in her non-stork status without being perceived as rude by her lazy and ever-expanding sister).

Into the pharmacy...aka, Moira-hour sink-hole. Go round n' round with the tech about whether we did or did not have enough pills remaining before I could anticipate delivery of Tim's refill. Apparently, there I went being obviously unimpressed with her effort to write a USPS tracking number on a slip of paper as evidence that it would arrive before the pills ran out. She repeated THREE times that I could just go pick it up at the post office by showing them this number. I expressed some skepticism as usually refills appear in my mailbox when they are mailed to us. She said, "They're just at the post office, waiting to be delivered." To which I, ever walking into a battle of logic where none will be found, asked whether they were running the mail-order pharmacy program out of the Pacific Beach post office. "What an unusual set-up," observed I, in a dry and perhaps snooty tone. "No, ma'am, it's out of the V.A." "I see, so NOT out of the PB post office where you seem to think I could just waltz into and fetch my very much needed refill today." The heavens opened and she went ahead and refilled the prescription so I'm now about to be swimming in the affectionately-named Flip n' Twitch (i.e., anticonvulsant) meds for one son.

Alas, all the pointed commentary in the planet could not help me retrieve a med that I'd called in that had not been entered into the system. So, leaving Jack to watch for Sand Crab's last-4 digits of his social security number, I traipsed over to Pediatric Pulmonology to encourage the Rx to be entered in person. This required significant walking -- glad I'd conserved my exercise quota for the day in Storkville -- and naturally, I needed to point out that I'd left multiple "T-cons" (telephone consult requests). The clerk looked it up and said they didn't enter it because they didn't know what pharmacy I'd wanted to which, Mrs. Crabby Smart Ass said, "What does the T-con say?" To which the clerk read aloud, "5-mg. Singulaire for main pharmacy....oh." Stride back to the pharmacy and repeat previous process -- sans the parts involving PB Post Office and tracking numbers. Jack was reading the Annals of Naval Institute article on sexual misconduct military trials in his self-initiated, continuing education effort from "Family Life".

Second stop: Navy Federal Credit Union. No line. Presented my general Power of Attorney, in part because I had it with me (see 4th stop). On my best behavior and quickly on my way again, having deposited checks for the Sand Crab like a dutiful Mrs. Crab.

Third stop: Old Navy. T-score! (No, not statistics...longhand: Tim scored 2 new t-shirts, $3.99 each). Back-to-back positive customer service interactions...hooray for the Stork!

Fourth stop: First Command (our financial planner). 12-minutes start to finish to execute whole-life insurance increases for the adult Crabs. Presented my general POA because I had to.

Fifth stop: Jack had rejected my suggestion that we try Fuddruckers for lunch so we meandered to the Cheesecake Factory. Just as we were pulling into the Fashion Valley mall lot, Financial Planner Guy called to report that they didn't get a usable copy of that POA after all, could I come back? Having by this point, located a PRIMO! spot, I told him that my son and I would have our lunch and come back after.

Tip: 11:15 on Tuesday is an Excellent Time to Dine there. No lines, although we were seated right next to the kitchen, having passed rows and rows of empty tables. Reverting to my First Stop Behavior, I stared into the eyes of the seating-hostess twit and remarked, "Apparently, when one dines with a child, one is expected to sit next to the din of the kitchen?" She giggled. I did not.

Jack mowed through a baguette, a Sprite and half of a regulation-size pizza. I nibbled through a baguette of my own with mushroom soup (tasty!) and a few bites of salad (tasty). Proceeded to wait while EVERY employee walked back and forth excepting our waitress. 20 minutes later, offered cheesecake for the road (Why not, the Chocolate Mousse one did sound quite edible!).

Sixth stop (return to the 4th stop): Jack overcomes his phobia of elevators and 12th-floors to run the POA in, wait for the receptionist to copy it again, and exit the building. I didn't trust myself to not say something terribly condescending to the copying-challenged receptionist! Total elapsed time = < 5 minutes (or 100% faster than sending Jack into a Blockbuster store).

Picked up a Very Sandy Charlie from school. Home for a quick bath before heading to his last Preschool Language Group. Ben called, but not an official "Morale Call". Instead, a "calling card call". He'd received his care package from us and had decorated his cubicle accordingly. From the sound of it, he's spending way more time in his cubicle than his MTV Man-Cave Crib.

Jack, left home alone to practice his French horn, greets me upon my return from dropping Charlie with a "I had a great session of practice, Mom!" Reverting to the unfortunate persona usually reserved for pharmacy technicians, I consulted the cell phone with Ben's call-timer illuminated and informed Jack that he'd practiced a maximum of 17 minutes, 37 seconds. Now get back in there and practice! So Jack skedaddles inside only for me to hear the unmistakable sound of a -- our -- hopelessly-out-of-tune piano. Causing me to bellow, "That is most assuredly NOT a French Horn, Jack. I do know the difference between a piano and a French horn, even if both are played poorly." Somehow, I think that interaction may have cost me a "Love & Candy Card for the Best Day Ever of '08" from Jack.

Back to fetch Charlie. Home to start his home program and locate suitcases. As any blog-follower could guess, entering our garage is right up there on my list of All-Time Favorite Activities between, say, smearing hydrocortisone cream on the epidermis of Jamie and looking for a lost Troop 506 sweatshirt.

Re-enter the house, having identified a couple possibilities. Overhear Charlie's tutor tell Charlie "time for underwear" and Charlie tell her "NO! No underwear!" like the little miscreant he is. Suddenly, Charlie undergoes a radical change of personality and charges top-speed from his room into the bathroom with underpants in hand. Recognizing that he is absolutely a little sh*t, I know this is not without purpose and will not end as the tutor intended. Sure enough, I hear the trailing (shame on her) tutor exclaim, "That is NOT okay, Charlie. Underwear does NOT go into the potty." I go back to the garage to hide my smirking and because it looks like less effort than dealing with my punk-son. (He is a clever little devil sometimes).

2:15 p.m. No 2 p.m. sitter. Make the unenviable call where I try to not sound like the bratty customer from the pharmacy but a firm, but reasonable employer. 2:22 p.m. sitter shows. Crisis averted.

Tim's home. In a bad mood.

Loll for a half-hour, with a couple of unpleasant "mild-moderate-severe behavior" conversations with my eldest, while I finish "Curse of the Spellmans" book. LOVED it (the book, not the unpleasant conversations) and am saddened to realize I have to wait for the next installment to be published.

As I start casually packing some clothes, I realize that Jack's black leather belt appears to be on the lam. Instruct owner of said high-quality accessory to "turn to and find it." Smart ass starts looking in random spots, returning to me and making the zero sign while giggling. Apparently, he thinks I'm amused by the belt's absence. (Actually, I thought Jack was rather witty, but that feeling would quickly fade).

Decide to do the right thing/take on the day/be my kid's mom and take Tim to Von's. He is fairly compliant although New Cute Hire, Nicole, looked a bit unnerved at check-out as Tim stared at her chest-nametag. Kudos to Tim for NOT ask-informing her "What's your name? Nicole!" Probably because she was under age 25 and cute.

Home again only to be reminded that Jack has lost his black leather belt. For reasons unknown, this throws me into a complete melodramatic frenzy. Point one, he is wearing black slacks to a change-of-command tomorrow morning. Point two, it is part of his orchestra-dress outfit, required for band. Point three, he has misplaced it on at least 2 occasions previously -- with much the same maternal reaction. Point four, I'm just not that fond of bending at the waist to search for lost items. Fast-forward through the diatribe of his slothfulness, his disorganization, my put-upon-ness, etc. Still no belt.

After a quick dinner, load up for Jack's French horn lesson. The at-first humorous belt fiasco, which had transitioned into a source of grumpiness for me, required a decisive action. That action was to call my parents and inform them in no uncertain terms that the ONLY acceptable birthday gift for my loser (literally) son this August would be a black leather belt. During the conversation, held entirely within Jack's earshot, it occurred to me that I could have this same conversation with other relatives so I relaxed the color requirement and allowed that a brown leather belt could be substituted...or even multiple belts of different shades, grains, buckles, etc. (Jack, seeing me typing this, has just pronounced, that I'm "ruining my [his] publicity)."

French horn lesson went apparently well. I can attest that, yes, Jack's horn-playing bears a striking resemblance to a laboring elephant both when heard indoors with the visual effect and when located across the street in one's vehicle with the window down and wearing dark sunglasses to pretend the source of the cacophony is not one's relation. The boy can really belt it out!