And again

It appears my respite from the medical establishment was short-lived. I had been having some wrist pain for about a month, and decided to bring it up at a routine doctor’s appointment. My doctor referred me to an occupational therapist and I was diagnosed with De Quervain’s tenosynovitis. It’s such an exotic name, donchathink? Anywho, the diagnosis basically means that I have inflamed tendons in my wrist, that I have to attend occupational therapy appointments twice a week, and that I have to wear a silly brace. Whenever someone asks what happened I tell them “Baby Lifting 101″. Because interestingly enough, De Quervian’s is also known as “mother’s wrist”. And apparently I am the classic case; the repetitive motion of picking Max up and carrying him triggered the inflammation.

It’s starting to get kind of comical, all this medical stuff. My body has proved to be VERY stubborn about the business of baby-making. First I couldn’t get pregnant, then once I did I had to have a c-section, and then I had the c-section complications, and now this. In the grand scheme of things that COULD go wrong, not a big deal. But now that I’ve been going to constant appointments for THREE AND 1/2 YEARS in an effort to have ONE BABY, I’m starting to wonder why my body feels the need to be such a temperamental brat.

Every time I the doctor I get a letter from my insurance company that is an “explanation of benefits”. Thanks to the pregnancy, birth, subsequent complications, and now this little diversion, I am the proud owner of a stack of letters oh . . . about 4 inches high. And that’s just from the last 6 months! Not only am I falling apart, I’m slowly killing the forest!

But whatever, I’m just glad it’s me and not Max, who is doing swimmingly. He’s developed into such a happy, calm baby. A far cry from his colicky days, to be sure. He’s slowly losing his rockin’ anchorman hairdo, but he’s still an awfully handsome little man.

The Boys

As I’ve mentioned before, I am vastly outnumbered in my household; there are more boys than I know what to do with. Since Max’s arrival we’ve been referring to him as the “smallest of all boys,” but as of last week this particular nickname is no longer accurate. The current rankings are shown below, from lightest to heaviest. It’s odd to think that by the end of the year he will be second only to Jim.

Yes, our cat is huge. 15 lbs, to be exact. And speaking of The Beast, it was time for his summer haircut last week (a yearly ritual that affords us a luxuriously hairball-free season) and Jim decided to get creative. Behold:

The kitty groomer was delighted by the suggestion of a punk rock ‘do. Apparently it’s a first. Imagine that! Beast looks absolutely ridiculous, but seems much happier. Lighter, friskier. I’m just pleased I’m at less risk of stepping in a pile of gooey cat puke early in the morning.