The Life and Times of Poopwa Foley

Archive for February 2013

Attention all Poets!
In Print is holding several writing contests this year!!  From now until February 28th, we are taking poetry submissions.
Sharpen those pencils, grab your ballpoint pens and a clean tablet of paper and find a quiet place to write.
Are there prizes, you ask?  Of course there are!  Good question!  The prizes are as follows:  $75 for first place, $50 for second place, and $25 for third place.   In cold, hard cash.  Not only that, you will get recognition at the In Print meetings, on our website, and in our newsletters. 
Winners of the poetry contest will be announced at our April 13th meeting, where local poet Christine Swanberg will be our special guest.
If you are a member of the wonderful writing group In Print, there is a $20 per fee piece, which includes judges’ feedback on your musings.
If you are not a member of In Print, the fee is still $20 per piece, but no judges’ feedback…unless, of course, you decide that In Print is a splendid writing group to join.  You would be write.  Er, right.  When you join you not only get judges’ feedback but all the valuable benefits In Print offers. 
We are holding two other writing contests this year.  One is the non-fiction writing contest.  Submissions for that are accepted May 1 through June 30 with winners announced on August 10, and the fiction contest accepts submissions from September 1 through October 31, with winners announced at the December 14th meeting.
In Print has a panel of 5 qualified judges to read and critique submissions, and of course declare first, second, and third place.
For more complete instructions on how to enter check out the In Print website and to submit poetry, just use the In Print submission form by either clicking on this link.
Would you rather: 
a)  Slam your hand repeatedly in a door?
b)  Poke your eye with a sharp stick?
c)  Cover yourself with honey and lay on a fire ant hill or
d)  Take care of your husband/boyfriend when they’re sick.  
e)  a, b, AND c.  Or virtually anything to avoid the petulant, mewling infant masquerading as your husband/boyfriend.
“You have never been this sick.”
Recently, my husband underwent surgery to correct a deviated septum.  For months, he has been unable to breathe at night through his nose, and instead resorts to a cacophony of puh’s and rhythmic, sinus-y, repeated “noooooood” sounds. 
Sorry, ladies, he’s taken.  Guys like this are snatched up like *that.
I invested in earplugs, and have gotten to be somewhat of an earplug expert, as I am able to put them in while still sleeping, when my beloved begins his discordant nightly lullaby.
Thursday, Day One.  Surgery Day.
The surgery went very well, and we were told prior to the surgery that he would have nasal splints.  Yes, splints in his nose.  What we weren’t told is that once we got him home, our house would resemble the inside of a slaughterhouse.  Bloody tissues, bloody washrags, bloody nose, fingers, nasal spray, and face.  Joe’s in a constant haze of Vicodin, saline spray and antibiotics. 
The first night, Thursday night post surgery, went fine.  I was kind.  I was solicitious.  I was loving.  I play an excellent nursemaid to my poor, poor honeybear, for my true love has stitches and giant plastic splints in his poor schnoz.  “Is there anything I can get/do for you” become a mantra.  I fetch, carry, soothe and kiss.  After all, this is why I am off for two days from work; my boo-boo bear has a sore nosey-poo and I’m needed at home to help him!  He doesn’t have much of an appetite, poor dear.  I feel bad going to sleep because I know he’s going to be uncomfortable on his recliner.  I hope he sleeps ok.  ***
here’s the Poor Dear.
Friday, Day Two.



Joe did not get much sleep.  I thought that might happen, and gosh, I feel so bad.  I bet he’ll sleep today, take lots of naps.  And since I’m off work, I might get some writing done.  This might be a good thing.  It will be like caring for a newborn; he will sleep, eat, poop.  Sleep, eat, poop.  I prepare a wonderful lunch.  After one bite he pushes it away.  Poor baby.  I guess the Vicodin is making his tummy hurt.  I take the uneaten lunch back in the kitchen and begin a never ending, cycle of providing tissues, squirting him with nasal spray, cleaning out his nostrils with q tips (only gagging once) fetching antibiotics and Vicodin, and taking pictures.  I feel needed.  I don’t get much writing done and resort to playing games on my phone, most of which I can’t finish because he needs one thing or another, but that’s ok.  He sleeps on the recliner again.  I “go” to bed but don’t “stay” in bed, because he urgently needs me for one thing or another and wakes me up approximately 32 times.  I’m tired but I love my pookie pants so I get up mostly to offer him moral support.
Happier times.  In the chair.
Saturday, Day Three.
It comes back to me how exactly a newborn sleeps.  I am crabby from lack of sleep and both pinch myself and swill coffee regularly to stay awake.  It’s not hard because the second I start something (including resting my head on a pillow) Joe’s Superpowers of Interruption kick in.  I have given up trying to write.  I have given up trying to read.  I have given up playing games on my phone, even Ruzzle, which is a two minute game. It is for the best because my eyes are watery and red.  I make a really good dinner which goes uneaten (by Joe, because he has no appetite and by me, because I’m full already—of resentment).  I endure another day of nostril cleaning, Vicodin fetching, and making meals that Joe won’t eat.  I hide in the bathroom with a can of Pringles and a Snickers bar but he finds me.    
…and Saturday Night.
The worst night of all.  Like, nightmare bad.  Due to clotting in the bad nostril, Joe is completely unable to breathe through his nose at all.  I don’t understand why this is a problem and tell him so.  I must have had a tone because he looks wounded.  I don’t even try to go in the bedroom tonight but rather bring a pillow to the couch out in the living room near Sniffle Snifflepants.  He struggles to breath.  I tell him, “breathe through your mouth, honey” except “honey” somehow came out as “stupid.”  I tuck the blankets around him, ensure he’s got tissues/nasal spray/headphones, turn the TV onto Soundscapes and lay down.  I think now he’s going to be able to rest because after all, he’s gotten about one hour of sleep in the past three days.  He lies there for approximately thirty seconds before he throws the covers back, sighing, and tells me, “I’m confused about how I should be breathing.”  I stare at him in utter disbelief and wonder if I should use the pillow from the bedroom to smother him or just use one from the couch.
…and even later Saturday night.
He gives up on the recliner and lays on the sectional at a right angle to me.  No sleep for either of us.  He’s convinced the splints have come out and he will choke on them in his sleep.  He might be right about the choke part but it won’t be the splints doing it.
Sunday morning.
I have given up on all pretense of kindness.  I am surly.  I am unkempt.  “What can I get/do for you” has died a mucous-y bloody death.  I am suffering withdrawal from Facebook, Twitter, Words with Friends, and Ruzzle.  I know now why I stopped after three children; I can’t do anything for more than two minutes without Snuffolupagus racing after me with nasal spray and/or Q tips and I can no longer stand the serene notes of Soundscapes without wanting to weep.  Crankypants is hungry but won’t eat.  Any patience I had is gone.  I make him a sandwich he is not going to eat and it makes me feel better when I poke a hole in it with my finger on my way into the living room with the plate.  He’s a manchild.
Sunday afternoon.
I’m not going to name names but it appears someone has been dicking around with the Q tips without me and has caused a torrential flood of a nosebleed.  I am instructed to call my EMT brother in law and find out what the best way is to stop the nosebleed because even though I have had first aid training and the aforementioned three children and have stopped enough bloody noses to last me the rest of my life, it’s not enough.  I grit my teeth and call and I’m given the magic instructions…pinch bridge of nose, put a small roll of gauze in between frenem and top lip and ice the forehead.   The nosebleed stops but the whining does not. 
Sunday night.
I am a broken woman.  I wish I’d never heard the term “deviated septum.”

Present day.
Pookie Pants Honeybear is now two weeks post-op.  He’s doing great.  He’s slept more in the past three nights than he has in a very long time.  
We both have. 
***most of this is not true.



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  • Mary Fran Says: Thank you for contributing to Sweeps Week! We make a great team. Maybe we'll collaborate in our next lives? SISTERS! lol :)
  • Mary Fran Says: What's better than a Baby Shower aka Early Baby Birthday Party? Baby's FIRST Birthday Party! (Although it's hard to call them "baby" by one! They grow
  • Ann Jones: I'll have to check it out, thanks for the heads up!

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