DRYMYXX

Isn't that a cool word? It came up as a "type in the box" for the Anti-Comment Spam thing.

A vomiting DH, a vomiting MOT and two sicky-sick toddlers. Isn't that yucky? Well, it's life chez nous right now. Last Sunday the DH threw up, then on the Monday Baby B got sick, with Baby A following suit a few hours later. Then, on Wednesday, around 4PM the MOT got the heaves, and I was still at it the next day.

Over the weekend I recovered a bit, but Baby A, who is on a course of Amoxicillin for a double ear infection, upchucked on Saturday night, on Sunday night and twice tonight as well. We took him off his meds late on Sunday, and the vet checked him out today. She said he's on the mend, but I think his little system is still in an uproar, hence the lack of appetite and the hurling this evening.

I am mighty glad I listened to my heart, and not to my DH, and insisted on rolling up my Oriental carpets after Saturday's projectile debacle. Last night he hit the bedroom floor, the hallway and the bathroom sink, wall and floor, and his Pingvin. Tonight he just got the bed, some clean laundry, the floor and his Pingvin.

(Good thing I have those 5 back-ups eh? We are on King Pingvin the III at this time. Old King Pingvin the I is in the wash and Young King P the II is on the line, drip-drying to preserve his fluffiness.)

After the second time, I tried to get him to upchuck into an empty wastepaper bin, but he thrashed around too much. The DH gave me a Look when I carried him into the bathroom last night and held him as he got the wall/floor/sink. He asked later, “Why not use the bin?” I couldn’t think of why I didn’t try harder to keep it neat; I was guess I was too busy with my arms full of screaming, puking, thrashing baby. Tonight, as the DH was folding laundry, Baby A woke up from his nap. I was in the shower at the time. The baby was fussy and unhappy, so the DH sat him on the bed and kept on with the laundry, chatting with him to keep him comforted. Therefore, when the heave-ho began, Baby A was in a prime position to hit the laundry on the bed, then the floor on his way to the bathroom.

Once everyone was changed and the wash was re-washing, I asked, “Why didn’t you use your bin.” He just said, “Yes, now I know what you mean.” Hmph.

I am worried about him; he only weighs about 25 pounds, and he lost almost a whole pound since his pedi visit last week. If he throws up again tomorrow, it was not the Amoxicillin, and I will officially Really Worried. I’ll take him right back to the vet for a more thorough check-up. (After seven days on meds his ears are clearing, so there’s no more need for antibiotics. I know, I know you are supposed to finish the course, but if he’s puking it up, he’s not getting the meds anyway!) I hope it was just a reaction; I know the suspension of the meds was too concentrated, because we ran out before the ten days were up. That is why I think the vomiting is a reaction, but get this:

I spoke to an irritating doc, who was covering for my usual lovely pedi, a few times over the weekend. I called the first time to let him know I had run out of Amoxicillin, and needed a refill. He said the baby needed to be seen before we could get another course of drugs and rang off. I had to call the service, have him paged and get another call back. Then I was able to explain the story - the pharmacy made the suspension to thick, therefore there was not enough volume in the bottle to last ten days, BID. He said okay, okay and called in a small bottle; we only needed enough for Saturday night, Sunday and Monday morning. Then, when Baby A had retched out the Saturday night dose and similarly the Sunday dose, I called again, and asked if I should take him in to the ER for hydration. I said, “My son is having a reaction to the Amoxicillin.” The doc said, “Oh, he’s been on it for about a week already! He can’t be having a reaction, you would notice a rash, or a reaction within the first few hours, blah blah blah.” I asked if I were allowed to speak, and when he shut up I told him about the Monday night vomiting, the loss of appetite, the listlessness and the violent vomiting the past two nights. Then he said, “Well, YOU were the one who wanted him on this drug!” As-IF! He then told me to fast him, and then give him one ounce of Gatorade every four hours for the night, then only give him one ounce at a time every hour for the next day, to see if he could keep it down. I said, “Oh, thank you for your advice!” I hung up and gave him three ounces of water, settled him to sleep, and when he woke up he had a cup of milk and some oatmeal. I am not going to fast a 25 pound (and losing) baby.

I know him, and I know what he needs. He doesn't need to fast, he needs to get well.

The Pingvin are in the building…

Just yesterday a large box from Scotland arrived at our house. I had a strong feeling as to what was inside, and upon opening the box and seeing two shipping boxes from Ikea, I had to say, “Whoop! Whoop!”

Yes in deedy – we now have four amazingly clean Klappar Pingvin chez nous. They arrived just in time too; King Pingvin the First was in desperate need of a wash. Since Little Baby A has a nasty cold, and is feeling fragile, he refuses to let go of it for too long. Germ-o-phobe that I can be, I was not happy about the sticky, dirty, slobbered on stuffed toy in bed with me. Can you say "Cooties?" So we put Ver. 1.0 in the wash while the boys were enjoying a bubble bath/getting the entire bathroom drenched. The DH stealthily took out 2.0, removed his tags, and had King Pingvin II ready to be handed over right after bath-time.

The nice Scottish student who made this all possible sent me the sales slip with the parcel. Each bird was 6 British pounds and 99 pence, and the shipping boxes were two for 1.19. The shipping cost $19, or thereabouts, so with the current exchange rate, we paid $15.50 per Pingvin. That was a mark up of about $5.50 per bird, since Ver 1.0 cost me $9.99, plus 60 cents tax. I feel that was a completely reasonable price to pay for peace of mind and peace from screeching.

Dani, who wound up with three red plush lobsters, would agree, I am sure. I was having an IM conversation with my pal, Library Lil, just as the Pingvins arrived. I wrote I now had four back ups, and maybe I should set up a shrine? She suggested I use one of them as a Voodoo Pingvin; and keep it handy in case any flightless water fowl piss me off in the future. Clever lady...

My sister said, “Watch, you’ll go through all this trouble, and then he’ll lose interest.” Golly, I hope not!

But what if he does lose the love he now feels? What if in three months from now he doesn’t even want to see a Pingvin, let alone carry one everywhere he goes? Well, I for one can guess what y’all’s kids are gettin’ for Christmas.

What happened on Saturday

Just so you know, the lunch on Saturday was fine. I didn’t have a fabulous time, but I never really do have a good time at my parent’s house.

However, this time I was mentally prepared to be “good” and I was not looking for, nor expecting, fun and games. Therefore, all went well. I decided that I was not going to be annoyed, stressed or bored whilst there, so - I wasn’t. I made up my mind not to let any comments bother me, so - they didn't. I also knew not to feel as if I should try to help tidy up, do any cooking, or keep the boys away from the birds, plants and antiques, so - I didn’t. I also determined to leave when I saw/knew/sensed-with-my-mother-radar that my boys needed/wanted to go, and so – we did. That certainly was a good move. Screaming toddlers just make everyone annoyed and stressed, including me.

We arrived around 11, the boys napped, I set the table, the boys woke up, we had lunch, watched half of the Wizard of Oz and by 3:00, in time for the boys to take another nap on the way home. I psyched myself up to tune out any irritants, and it really worked. Of course my mother made a few of her usual comments, but I just ignored them. This is my father apologizing for not calling me about my Great Aunt:

“I was on the phone for years to England and to my brother and you lot (my sister, brother and I) just weren’t on my mind. I am so sorry, but I simply forgot.” I knew that was just his way and was the best apology I was going to get, so I said, “It’s okay, I’m over it.” If I look into my heart I see, yes, honestly, I am.

Besides his apology, he also gave me two glossy cooking magazines with Post-It notes on about forty items from different stores and websites to get for him. This is also his usual way. He genuinely thinks I have a lot of time, and he does not realize that any time I get on line is spent blogging, or emailing or maybe shopping or looking for a Pingvin. Either that, or he knows I have this bizarre desire to make other people happy, so I am willing to go on line for him to all these different websites, and look for the Estonian birch wood serving bowl with mother of pearl trim he feels he really, really needs. The DH saw the magazines, saw the list I made of the websites, and said, “That’s going to take you about three hours.”

Yeah, I know, but I am being the “good” daughter now. I shouldn’t complain too much, he got my sister to find about a million books for him on line, and this was as she was preparing for her new semester's classes, editing her dissertation for publication and taking care of her two kiddies while her DH was overseas for work.

Our parents just do not see that we are adults in our own right, with lives to attend to and things to do and our own crises to cope with. I don’t think they ever will. This whole Great Auntie debacle taught me that if my relationship with them is going to improve it is entirely up to me to make that improvement. They are too wooden, too selfish and too "old" to make any changes or concessions. It’s up to me.

It’s so true that old is a state of mind. I have a friend who is 60, just a few years younger than The ‘Rents. She and I can talk about, and relate to each other on, a whole world of subjects. We are both still searching for the right career, the right state of mind and the right way to be. She is not "old" at all, but that’s because she keeps searching and learning and changing. She’s also a little unhappy, but that is what spurs her search. I wonder if my parents are really happy? Ya know, they probably really are…and they probably think, in complete honesty, that I am the only one in our relationship with problems. Humph.

So, I’d better get off this blog and get to the Web.

First stop – americancraftmuseum dot com, for the Indonesian hand-carved kamagong-wood salad servers. Here they are! Yes, I need to set up a new account, let's make up a user name, a password and key question. Now, here is my shipping address, billing address, credit card, security code, and mother’s maiden name…

Deep sigh.

Only thirty-nine sites left to go.

A bit about the 'Rents

I know I should not get all worked up over my parents' failings, just as they should know not to get all in a tizzy over my failings! It's just that with Great Auntie's death I felt an enormous regret at my not taking the trouble to go to England to see her before she died. I feel guilty, just like a good Catholic girl should be!

Great Aunt R was my link to an era, my link to my Grandmother (her twin) and a link to a more romantic time. She had such stories to tell! About living in The Sudan and in Egypt, about working for the French Embassy in Montreal, about dating an Arab sheik, riding camels in the Sahara Desert and going with her sister to visit their own personal tiger in the zoo. When I lived with my Aunts and Uncle and cousin in London I would go with Great Auntie on her shopping trips and carry her bags and listen to her stories and I thought it was just great. I'm angry because I'll miss her and I'm angry because I should have taken more time to be with her. Having twin babies was a bit of a challenge in planning a trip, but I should have risen to that challenge. I feel hurt and I feel regret. I'm sure death brings up those feeling for a lot of people.

About my parents - I just had a conversation w/ my Dear Seester, who pointed out all of what just happened should come as no surprise to me. Our parents have always been like this. She also pointed out that I could be reeeeeeely selfish too. Now, that I already knew! I try not to be, but it's a big challenge for me. My poor friends tell me I just rattle on and on about me, me me a bit more than necessary, and I'm sorry about that, girls!

My sister also reminded me that, in her experience, with having a six year old, my parents get better with the grandchildren as the grandchildren get older and more fun to be with. Now that I can easily understand. A screaming baby isn't exactly a picnic for anyone, and it's especially unappealing to non-baby loving types like my folks. Heck, I am not a generic baby lover myself - I wonder if that is a hereditary trait?

I am not making excuses for them not telling me about my dear Great Aunt, but I am explaining that this is very normal, and very typical behavior, and The DS is right - I should not let it bother me. All these tears are being shed on barren soil. And a foul result of me weeping for days and getting all hysterical is that I burst a lot of blood vessels under my eyes and now I look like I have been punched. And I am all puffy and gross on top of it; from the face rubbing that goes with boo-hooing excessively. I look atrocious and have been forced into wearing sunglasses inside. Gag.

By getting all stressed about them and getting all upset about behavior I really could predict, I am not doing anyone a favor, least of all myself. They think I hate them and they think that I feel they cannot do anything right. As a result, they get all nervous and behave idiotically, and as a result, they don't do anything right, they say idiotic things to annoy me and I get all mad. Yes, I am admitting my part of the problem. I don't hate them, I just hate being judged and ridiculed and criticized and that is what I feel they do. But they are my PARENTS!! They can't possibly intend to ridicule and torture me, can they? Gosh, I am very sensitive, more so since the babies exploded into my life, I know. Perhaps this admission of guilt is Step One of Twelve?

SO - this weekend I am going to have lunch with The Seester, the BIL, the children, the DH and The 'Rents. I swear, as God is my witness, that I will be open and stress-free and will laugh at my mother’s lame, oft-repeated jokes. I will also refrain from hovering over my twins too much, and if they get into mischief, I will repeat to myself - It's not my fault. They are just two. It's not my fault. I need not stress. What I hope to accomplish is two things. One - I hope to show my parents that I am not so cold and unforgiving as I might be, and that I understand having a child very like yourself is tough! Two - I hope to make our relationship easier. I hope to ease the pressure of mutual fault finding by not contributing my share of the poison. A bad relationship is hardly ever the nasty one and the innocent one. It is always give and take; two nasties getting nasty and two innocents getting burned.

Of course, if either of them says anything really horrible, or if my mother calls my children trolls, I'll be sooooo tempted to get horrible right back, but Golly, I am going to count to ten and think before I speak. Maybe I am too damn touchy. Maybe I am too damn selfish...or maybe I am just still too damn tired of the terrible twos.

Gee, MOT, self-analyze much? Well, that what a blog/journal is all about, right? Let's see what lunch on Saturday brings; let's see if they really are as afraid of me as the DS says. Meanwhile, to prepare for the being a kinder, gentler and more Lovable MOT, I'll be praying for the strength to keep my flipping trap shut and my evil mind open.

Whatta you think, George?

The Pingvin is on the move...

The upshot of all my calls and all my hunting for a soul who would help is this – I called the Ikea store in Edinburgh, and asked this nice person there to set aside a Pingvin or two for me, under my uncle C’s name. You see, when I called my mother after Christmas and asked her to call Uncle C. to help and she refused, she also refused to give me his phone number. She said she was simply too busy to look it up, being at the office and up to her eyebrows in mail and all. When I spoke to my Aunt L, and found out about my Great-Aunt R’s death, my Aunt L. said me she had spoken with Uncle C. several times in the past few days, that he was doing fairly well, and did I want his number?

I called him and asked him to go on a Pingvin Quest for me; he said he would do his best, but he was going into the hospital to have a stent put in, so he was not sure exactly when he’d get around to it. Well, that I can understand. It’s not quite as bad as having a mountain of mail to deal with, but it’s still pretty time consuming. But I hoped anyway, and called the Ikea in Edinburgh and reserved the Pingvins in his name.

Naturally, because I like to quadruple check things, and make it as easy as possible for people doing me a favor, I called the next day and left Uncle C. a message letting him know the address of the store, the location of the Self-Service desk, the name of the helpful person who had the Pingvins, and that I would be ever so grateful to see the birds sometime soon. I have not heard back, but I’ll call him when the time change is right to check up on him and his heart, and I’ll find out what he says.

I rather think he has NOT sent someone to shop for him, because when I called again on Wednesday, the 4th, the Ikea person said, in this thick Scots accent, “Och, no, the Pingvins are still here in a bag with your name on it.” As I flapped and fussed, the Ikea person said, “I know you really need these toys. Unfortunately, the only way you’ll get it is if someone comes in and buys it for you. If your uncle doesn’t come in by Saturday, I will buy them and send them to you.”

I was appropriately grateful for his kind offer.

On Saturday I called again, and spoke to the Self-Serve person yet again. He told me the birds were still in the bag, but now the bag bore his name, not mine, and that he was going to buy them at the end of the day and would get them to me, would I take down his email address and send him my shipping information? He is a college student, and he may actually be as busy as my parents (with all their mail to open) but he said he’d get the parcel in the post ASAP. We arranged to make the financial end of the transaction happen via Pay Pal. He said, “This will be my good deed for the year, you know, with Hogmany an’ all.” I said, “Now you have a valid excuse to drink and carouse instead of doing your studies.” Pleasant chuckles were exchanged and I let him go back to work.

Now it is Tuesday. I got the email to him and received my reply. It only remains nor for me to be patient, and trust a Scottish college student to do what it seems no one else can manage. I am mighty glad I finally spoke to a person with a heart!

My dear sister, who is jet lagged and fuzzy with a sinus infection said she didn’t quite see why I was so upset by our parents forgetting to tell us all about Great Auntie’s demise. My brother is practically apoplectic, so I know he feels what I do. I mentioned before that my parent’s excuse for not letting us know about the death was “I forgot.” A few reasons why come to mind.

One - they really didn’t care that much about Great Auntie, so her death was not really a big deal. Two – they really don’t care that much about anyone at all, so unless it directly involves someone they live with or work with, it’s forgettable. You see, if someone actually living in the house died, that might be hard to overlook, unless the housekeep was super quick in tidying it up. If someone in the office keeled over, well! that would be a disaster! Who would do the mail? And Three – since they only speak to their progeny when we call them, the death of a favorite Auntie of a venerable age is no reason to break the pattern. Therefore, they forgot.

What I feel is ignored, overlook, unimportant and hurt. I am upset by her death, and wounded by the callous behavior of my parents. It's salt on the wound. Yes, this is childish and yes, I feel rather juvenile, but in our youth obsessed culture, can ya blame me? It’s difficult to explain, but I feel as if by not being told about Auntie, I am being shown that I don’t matter.

When my grandmother died, my mother’s mother, it was 1997 and I was living in Atlanta, and not really doing much. Oh, I had two jobs and a boyfriend and a cat and all, but I had no real commitments, like I do now. I also had my parent’s AmEx card. They gave one to each child and said, “This is for emergencies. You know, if something happened to Grandmama and you needed to get on a plane or something.” Well, something did happen to Grandama, and when my mother called me and told me that she had died and that she was going to England for the funeral, I asked, “When and where? I’ll leave right away.” My mother said, “No, don’t come. We only want a small service and it’s going to be far away from London, so it won’t be easy to get there and I’d rather you didn’t, no don’t come.”

I wonder what she was trying to say?

When my father’s mother died in 1992, I was living in London. I not only attended the funeral, I also cooked for the forty odd people who attended it with me. I cried and talked with my Aunt L, her only daughter, and saw the grave and felt useful and close to everyone and felt closure. Neither my brother or sister, who were free wheeling students at the time, came over. It's not because they didn't care, I'm am sure it was a financial issue. I also think our parents gave them the same, “It’ll just be a small thing, don’t bother to come” line they gave me with Grandmama.

Now I have the resources, but not the freedom, and I could have gone to the funeral service, had I know more than two days ahead of time. I know how to get to the house (I lived there too for a while) I know where the cemetery is, and I know how to get to the church. I also know that Great Auntie was loved and respected and that Aunt L. is loved and respected, so any talk of "just a little service" is a load of hooey. I am sure they had a suitable party to celebrate Great-Auntie's life, to pay tribute and show respect. When I confronted my mother on this she said, “Oh, I am sorry I forgot, but it wouldn’t have made any difference as to whether you had gone over or not. L. told me she didn’t want your father and me to be there.”

Well Mummy, when I spoke to her she said she would love me to be there, with my organizational nature and cooking skills. I guess she just didn’t want you.

The March of the Pingvin

There is a sweet little soft toy at Ikea, called the Klappar Pingvin. My Baby A, who turns up his nose at the trains and trucks that delight his brother, has decided that the sun rises as sets on his flipping Pingvin. The reason for the mild expletive is that there was a nerve-shattering day a few weeks ago when the Pingvin was missing for a full day. We thought it was at Stop and Shop and combed the parking lot for several hours before giving up. We found it at home much, much later. The Pingvin has been rolled up inside a tent, which was inside a toy box.

Deep sigh.

As a result of this experience, which happened at the same time as Dani had her experience losing her child’s precious squishy red stuffed toy lobster, see The Yellow wallpaper, December 21, 2005, I felt very worried about the lack of back-up Pingvins in my home. So the next day I hustled down to Ikea on my way to a book club meeting, and tried to buy another one.

Tried is the word. They were all sold out at that store. I asked the nice lady at the desk in Self-Service to look in her magic computer and see who had the required beastie. The on-line source kept freezing, so I collected the phone numbers for the four closest Ikea shops to me and called them all on the way to, as I was arriving, and during the beginning of my book club meeting, much to the amusement of my book club members. I was horrified to discover, after speaking to some very nice people in various states, that the Pingvin were all gone. The worst part is that this was a limited edition, and no one will get any more. Once the store runs out, they are Pingvin free from then on.

Well, that just won’t do for me. When it comes to Baby A, or Baby B, or the DH, or myself, for that matter, and something that is important to my little family’s quality of life, I will not let Hell bar the way. Nor will I let Ikea bar the way, when it comes to it.

So began my phone-calling career. Since December 20th, the day of the Great Pingvin Scare, I have called Ikea in New York, New Jersey, Georgia, California, Illinois, Massachusetts and one store in Canada. I hoped I might run across a Canadian with a heart who would be willing to help me. Did ya know, I was born there, eh?

I quickly realized that A, the stores that listed 5 to 10 or 20 Pingvin on line really only had one or two or none in stock, and that B, when it comes to the “No, we don’t ship our in store only merchandise out” policy, not a single Ikea employee would bend the rules. I asked, and so nicely too, that someone just buy some Pingvins and then sell them to me at a later date. I said, “You know, just like eBay; that’s not against the rules, is it?” The employee I spoke with sounded all stuffy and offended as if I was trying to buy a vial of controlled substances or something.

Besides calling my friends in New York, Atlanta and Chicago to enlist their aid, I also sent an email to my Aunt L. in London, England, and left a message for my mother to call her brother, my Uncle C. My friends all called back and/or said they’d go to Ikea to shop for me, but to a one, nobody could find any flightless Antarctic waterfowl at any Ikea around. Yes, the USA, as of December 31, 2005, is Klappar Pingvin free.

BUT – there are still Pingvin a plenty in two of the London stores, and over 200 in Edinburgh. The customer service rep I spoke with for Ikea UK said two of the three London Ikea shops have 100 and 120 each and Edinburgh just got their shipment before Christmas. My Dear Sister, who was in Italy over the Christmas and New Year holidays, was unable to help. Yes, there is an Ikea in Florence, but as I called her to enlist her capable assistance just as a freak snowstorm hit Florence, blanketing the city in a crippling 4 inches of snow (hey, yes it was crippling for Italy - it was the first snowfall in Firenze in 20 years!) She was not able to make the 45 minute drive over to the Ikea on Via Fracesco Redi for me.

Que palle.

So I tried to ask my mother. I know her brother, my Uncle and her only sibling, lives in Edinburgh, and my mother also runs a business restoring old houses in Scotland with this fella Mister A. I called her and asked that she call either her brother or her business partner, once Christmas was over, and ask them to pick up some Pingvins for me. Not only did she say that she thought I was being ridiculous, but she also said she was just too busy after the office being closed for a few days to make any calls. I pointed out that she could call any old time over the next week or so, but would she call some time soon, as these toys seem to be selling out fast. She said, “Darling, I can’t just call up people and ask them to go shopping for me. I am up to my tonsils in mail here at the office and my brother is so flaky and Mister A is worse – he wouldn’t know a penguin if it bit him. Besides that, I know him, and he’ll say, Yes, I’ll help, then he’ll go to Ikea and forget what he went for.” I asked why was she in business with such a moron and she got all sniffy and rang off. This was on December 27, and I gave up on her help.

I sent another email to my Aunt L in London, wondering why she wasn’t replying, and pinned my hopes on her. A few days went by, and I called a few more Ikea around the globe, but no one seemed willing to throw me a bone. Or a Klappar Pingvin either.

Finally, on January 3, I called my Aunt L. I don’t call her often, because rates to the UK are really expensive, but I figured what the heck, I’m burning up the lines to the UK anyway. I called and asked, “How is everyone? How is Great Auntie? Mummy said she was a bit ill on Christmas Day.”

My Aunt L. told me Great Auntie died a week ago.

I was shocked. Not by her death, she was my father’s mother’s twin sister, so that would make her about 99 years old. She had also been increasingly fragile for the past 10 of those years. When I lived with them in London in the early 90’s it took her most of a morning to run into town on the bus to do her shopping. It was amazing that she did so much; like take a bus at age 80 plus for 20 minutes, walk all over and take the bus home. She had had cataract surgery thrice, had fallen and had broken bones several times, had some other health issues, but seemed indestructible.

No one is indestructible – I had forgotten that.

I had also forgotten how incredibly self centered my parents can be. My beloved Great Auntie, my favorite Aunt’s only Aunt, my best loved Grandmother’s twin sister dies, and my parents don’t feel it necessary to tell me. I called my mother the next day, and her excuse was that she had forgotten to call. She had forgotten to call for EIGHT DAYS? She said, “Oh, the office has been so busy, I am up to the rafters in mail, we had such a hard time getting hold of your father’s brother, we just forgot about you! I apologize.” HMPHF!! Apologize, bull-oney. She also "forgot" to tell either my brother or sister, and she spoke to my sister the same day Great Auntie died, and to my brother only two days later, when he called her. I simply furious - I can’t speak to her right now.

I am going to have to get back to this post and let you all know about the march of the Klappar Pingvin. The march from Scotland to the USA, that might have begun today. I think this tale will end happily for my little boy, but for me, this tale is full of fury right now.