I rode my bike into the CVS

Prologue: 

A few weeks ago, I switched OBGyns and went to my new dude. He wrote me a prescription for birth control because I take hormonal birth control in pill form because I'm a woman who doesn't want any more children and who doesn't want an IUD and this is how society solves that problem.

Anyway.

A couple days later, I get a call from my pharmacy. A life-saving call.

"Hi, we noticed your doctor prescribed Ortho tri cyclen lo for you. Is that correct?"

... ... ...

"Oh my GOD, NO. Change it, CHANGE IT. That is how I got twins the last time. They switched me to lo."

They laugh. Everyone loves the twin joke that is actually not a joke at all but truth-to-life facts what happened for real.

We hang up.

I live my life. I had two weeks left before EMERGENCY FILL YOUR PRESCRIPTION time, which is when I like to fill it. I'm deadline oriented, guys, okay?


Present Day:

Okay, so today it was definitely EMERGENCY FILL YOUR PRESCRIPTION time. I called the pharmacy to make sure they still have my order.

They've never heard of the prescription. No record of it. No idea what I was talking about at all. Even though they called me about it literally two weeks ago.

I called the doctor's office. I got a great woman on the other end of the line who was incensed for me even though I wasn't even mad yet.

"We FILLED that through ESCRIPT on APRIL 26th at TWELVE FIFTY NINE PEE EM" she half shouted at me. "YOU TELL THEM THAT."

I called the pharmacy back. I told them. I really did!

They still had never heard of this. Couldn't find it in their system. I told them about the previous mistake, low to regular, and they checked their mistake order files. Nothing.

I call the doctor's back. I get the same woman. She has the people who resend orders resend the order.

By this time, I'd wasted nearly an hour going back and forth and explaining my situation to each new person and the twin not-a-joke joke was getting really old to me.

I decided to kill two birds with one stone and cycle to the pharmacy which is three miles away. I threw my credit card in my pocket and put my phone in the holder with Runkeeper on cycle mode.

I had forgotten one thing. The bike belongs to my husband and it's one of those new-fangled electric bikes. I didn't have a bike lock, and I'd have just left it if it was mine, but it was not mine. And if it got stolen, I would not only not have a way home other than walking (and the girls would be getting out of school soon), but I'd have to explain to my husband that I rode his bike to the pharmacy and left it outside while I argued with the pharmacist tech for an hour and let it get stolen. No thanks.

So, what was I going to do?

I decided to try to go through the drive thru pharmacy window. But I wasn't sure about it. Can a bicycle go through the drive thru? I didn't think it could. But then again, why not? I was on wheels. Wasn't that the requirement? I didn't know, but I got in line behind a very old woman who took about 20 minutes to fill her scrip and sign.

Finally, I walk my bike up.

"I'm sorry ma'am but for your own safety, you have to be in a vehicle to use this lane."

Now, I have dealt with this tech before, and he's nice and I like him, and I wasn't mad that I couldn't use the drive thru because, honestly, I was pretty sure I couldn't use the drive thru. I was pretty irritated that he'd let me chill behind that lady for 20 minutes without giving me a heads up. I mean, for my own safety is fine, except what about my safety for the 20 minutes I was sitting between that pristine 1975 Lincoln and the Dodge Ram just behind me. Plus, I was back to my problem of not being able to leave the bike.

"I'll have to ride the bike in!"

The dude didn't make as if to stop me, so I rode my bike in. I probably should have walked it in, but, like I said, I was pretty irritated.

You would hope it would be all badass, like you cruise in gracefully, stop right at the right desk and order your refill, but, alas, I live in real life, and I maybe almost fell, and definitely somehow upended the pile of hand baskets for people who get a billion things in the pharmacy and then pay for them with coupons and change. After that, I threw down the kickstand and asked the same guy who had just seen me at the window for my birth control now that we were both inside.

And

The pharmacy still had no record of this prescription. I talked to the pharmacist tech. It was noon, so the pharmacist was on lunch break. Which meant no answers were coming.

But then

I remembered I had my phone, a phone that actually makes calls when it's not being used as a fitness tracker. I called the doctor's again, had the woman repeat the scrip to me, then I put her on my phone with the pharmacist tech who was really doing a phenomenal job putting up with my shit. He really is a perfectly sweet guy. Hell, maybe he even was concerned with my safety, I don't know.

He listened to them, and I heard him repeat, Low in the bc name. I mouthed NOOOOOOOO at the cool tech, and he thumbs-upped me. He knew what was going on.

He hung up the phone and said, "hey, I remember this now. You're the woman who had twins on Low, and we called them to have them change the prescription, but they never did."

So, he straightened it all out and they're going to text me when it's ready, hopefully before Sunday, and, bonus, there were apparently some unfilled mail-order birth control pills and the tech said he could get those for me too.

"I don't think I can get them before Sunday though," he said.

"I don't mind that, I just need the one before Sunday. I want the rest just as soon as we can get it, since Trump is our president, and who knows how long we'll have access to this stuff."

He laughed.

And now I have a new joke that is actually not a joke at all but truth-to-life facts what happened for real.


FIN.

Fish Bottoms and Four Year Olds -- Guest Post

Today, fellow twin mom, Donnelle, gives us a glimpse into the wild world of a family with twins...AND another kid. Phew. Check her out at Neverending Laundry.

...


Life with four-year-old boy/girl twins and their older brother has been exhausting for years, a never-ending battle of interrupted sleep, laundry and self-replicating messes. It's only in the last six months that it's started to become enjoyable. Their developing sense of humour is particularly fun, when it's not endless "Knock Knock Mr Potato-head" jokes.

Recently we sat down to a mid-week-exhaustion dinner of crumbed fish fillets and oven chips. “What kind of fish is this?” our eldest asked. “Hoki,” I said, at the same moment that hubby said “Fartfish.” This is what passes for humour around here. The kids laughed and laughed. 

Vieve said “Fartfish? Do fish fart?” 

Straight-faced, her big brother replied “All fish fart. It’s how they communicate.”* 

As Finn and Vieve laughed, I quietly high-fived him. 

“Do fishes have bottoms?” Vieve asked. 

“Of course they do.” 

“No, they don’t! They don’t have a straight line and two funny cheeks!” 

“Our bottoms only look like that because that’s where our legs join on. Fish just have a sort of a hole.” 

“What does a fish bottom look like?” At this point I had to tell Finn to sit down, as he was enthusiastically trying to demonstrate what our bottoms look like. 

Hubby whipped out his phone and started a verbal Google search. “Find me pictures of a fish anus.” 

“NO!” I shouted. 

“Wha- oh. No, we probably don’t want to do that.” He thought for a moment. “Find me pictures of a fish’s bottom.” He was rewarded with pictures of the back of Wedgwood and Spode plates. He sighed and tried again. “Find me pictures of the bottom of a fish.” At least it was fishes this time, not dishes, but it wasn’t really what we were after. 

I snaffled the phone off him and typed in “fish cloaca”. That got us what we needed to know. The kids duly admired and discussed the picture of a fish’s cloaca. 

“Do fish pee?” Vieve asked. And this is why I will never take my family out to eat in public.

*So it turns out some fish actually do communicate by farting. I thought he was mimicking his father's trollish sense of humour, but no.

 

Kindergarten Kids - Storytime

Problem:

It's bedtime and instead of reading a princess book the kids have already heard a million times before, you start to mix it up. You get all JK Rowlings. You make up a story, and not only that, but you make it a serial story, so that you tell another part each night.

But you're not JK Rowlings. So whyyyy did you do this to yourself?

If you're already knee-deep in it (like me), here are some suggestions to help you out of the never-ending story hole.

Solution: 

1) Do not, under any circumstances, make the main characters your kids.

It seems like a great idea at the time. In fact, your kids may even request it. And why not allow them to even further relate to the crappy characters you're making up on the fly? Two reasons: 1) they shouldn't need it. They'll be able to relate to the characters whether they share physical features and names or not. 2) If you make them your kids, and then you give them, say, magical floating powers when they wanted, oh, let's just use this random example, hugging to make people feel better powers...now you've got a tantrum or a sulk on your hands, and it's like, yo, who is even telling this story, and how are you upset about floating powers anyway, they are obviously awesome.

2) Avoid anything that could be scary, even a little scary.

This is hard because any sort of conflict or suspense scene or anything at all where motives could be questioned, where good guys may not even always be good, all these things can lead to the dreaded, "mama, I'm too scared to go to sleep." So be prepared for your story to be nothing but parties and singing and specialness. They will really suck, but I'm saying my kids couldn't even handle being thrown in a dark room for two seconds before the purple fairy rescued them with a vine. That was too scary for them. Great. Surprise parties and pretty dresses it is. (Just kidding, though. Tomorrow, I'm venturing into ogre and guard dog territory as the girls climb a mountain to get the gold coins to pay the person keeping the princess fairy locked up. I DON'T CARE ANYMORE. AFTER A WEEK OF FRILLY NONSENSE, I AM TELLING THE STORY.

Sweet dreams, kids.



 

The Witch Is Coming!

Last week, my babies went to bed for the first time in what must be a year without making me go back in there to resettle them.  A magical secret of happiness and sugar plums as they drift off to sleep?  Hardly.  Actually, I scared the pants off of them. But it was an accident, I swear!

They love stories, especially during potty time. On this particular night, they'd requested stories about a witch. So I made one a prince, the other a princess, and the bad guy was a witch. (Okay, okay, I'm no JK Rowlings, I get it.) Anyway, after the story, we continued playing a game about the witch. She was coming. The prince and princess had to get away! It was time for bed, and if there's one thing the babies hate, it's getting into their jammies. So, I had the brilliant idea to make them magical jammies that would protect them from the witch overnight. To get them into bed, I told them the witch was coming, and we had to go hide under our covers to be safe.  I was just trying to get them into the room for the bedtime routine. But on this night, there was no bedtime routine. In its place, I had two cowering babies, eyes full of fear, clinging to me as I said goodnight to them.

They allowed me to leave without protest, and I heard not a peep from that room for the rest of the evening. Why? Because I'd told them (in play) that if they were very quiet and stayed still, the witch wouldn't see them.

I felt horrible. My husband and I had explained to them over and over again before we left the room that the witch wasn't real, that we were only playing a game.  No dice.  Had I terrified my children? Had I scarred them for life?

I was sure of it. I was ready to pick up my worst mom of the year award.

Thankfully, my mother-guilt had underestimated my babies. They made it through the night in tact. The morning came and they were bright and bushy-tailed, ready to take on the day.  And that night?  They asked for the witch game again.
They have requested the witch game every night since, and every night now, instead of a long drawn-out bedtime routine, they hop under their covers quickly and quietly, accept a kiss and go to sleep.  The fear has left their eyes, and they're simply caught up in the game before bed.

This might be the best development ever.  What a lucky accident.


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