The Secret Pepper Society

The Boy To The Rescue

2012-02-11T06:57:00.000-08:00

Last night was The Boy's annual Valentine Dance. Behaviors at the "dance" are fairly predictable from event to event.

The boy's initiate the evening by running wildly through the auditorium chasing other boys. Then the girls run wildly through the auditorium chasing the boys. Then the boys muster the courage to chase the girls. And then the girls pretend they are not enjoying being chased by the boys.

There are always a few girls and boys who actually dance. The girls twirl in their prettiest party dresses. The Boy's gyrate in their Sunday best.

The Teenager, who has recently been invited, eats sweets when she thinks I am not looking.

The Baby is generally wheeled around by a nice young man in The Boy's class who has taken her under his wing. This year I put the Baby in the wheel chair stroller which is not as tippy as her one-armed drive wheel chair since we learned at previous events that, like all "young men," the wheeling around frequently involves high speed chases and wheelies.

I spend the evening shrieking at The Boy to..."STOP RUNNING OR YOU WILL SIT THIS ONE OUT!"

Because all I can think of is that blasted intramedullary rod in one of his femurs that is telescoping out of postilion and I don't want to ever see him suffer like he did during the 2008 bent-rod-femur-fracture-2 surgeries-in-2-weeks-significant-blood loss-non-union-bone stimulator-for- one -year- fiasco. Ever again.

Ouch from Google Images

Our orthopedic appointment is April 9th to schedule the elective surgery to replace the rod.

The phrase "elective surgery" in our family is an oxymoron. So I continue to shriek at school dances.

One year I actually left him in the care of a number of parents at the dance who assured me they would watch him. When I returned to pick him up he was clad in a white sleeveless undershirt. I asked what happened to his Sunday dress shirt and neck tie and one of the parents replied, "Oh we though that's what he wore to the dance."

I've never dropped him off again. Thank God the undershirt wasn't one of those holy, stained rags we keep for "layering" during the winter months.

Last night the dance was going as predicted above. The Teenager was somewhere in the kitchen cruising for cupcakes. The Baby was doing wheelies and peeling out with her dance partner. I was stealing Sweet Tart lollipops from unsuspecting children.

Dang those things are good!

And then the Boy comes running (yes of course) to me yelling...

"EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! MOM COME QUICK! WE NEED YOU! EMERGENCY!"

Of course I thought it was one of his usual emergencies. You know The faucet is leaking... A snake has a baby bird in it's mouth...so i waved him off. And then I realized I wasn't responsible for the school plumbing and there were no snakes or birds nests in the auditorium.

Uh oh...

The Boy leads me to the boys bathroom where Attilla is out cold flat on his back. His mom is kneeling at his side on her cell phone calling 911. Seems The Boy knew to grab her first. I was so impressed!

"Mom! Atilla's mom almost ran faster than me!" he was amazed by her sprinting ability.

I wasn't surprised. I explained to The Boy that mom's displayed super powers like that when their "baby's" were hurt even if their "baby' was built like John Cena.

I didn't do much. The nurse in me checked his respiration's while preparing my self mentally to do CPR if necessary and praying it would not be necessary. His pulse was steady. His pupils were equal. There was no blood so I began searching his skull for dents (hate those) or lumps ( a little better). I made mom feel his head where i thought I felt something that shouldn't have been there. Atilla had brain surgery this year so I wasn't sure if the lump should have been there or not. When I moved mom's hand over the suspicious area her eyes grew large.

"That's not supposed to be there."

I instructed The Boy to go and get ice while we waited for the paramedics. Mom continued to talk to the 911 dispatcher asking what was taking them so long while I assessed and stressed silently. Is he not responding well because he's postictal or is he not responding because he has sustained a significant head injury? I hate the not knowing part. I wished I had a CT scanner in my purse.

During all of this The Boy refused to leave Attila and i didn't have the strength to continue arguing with him.

Finally Attila began to respond a little. He knew The Boy was there and said his name twice. He reached for moms hand on and off.

In retrospect it's always hard to tell what came first. The chicken or the egg on the head? Atilla's episode was reminiscent of The Teenagers first seizure where she fell backwards striking her head on an antique steamer trunk. Did she fall first and then begin to seize? Did she seize first and then fall?

In response to the questions, The Boy graced Mrs Needs-To-Be Canonized and myself with a dramatic recreation of the incident. He staggered around, bounced off a couple of walls, and then crashing his head against the wall, slowly slid to the ground where he lay twitching.

Ker. Plunk.

Mrs. Needs-To-Be Canonized and I just looked at each other. I thought I saw a faint, circular glow forming around her head.

As I'm typing this my phone rang with news that Attila is ok. He probably had a seizure due to the onset of puberty and those stinkin' hormones. His head is fine with no skull fracture or concussion.

I hate puberty. But that's a discussion for another time. Right now I am content with the knowledge that Attila is ok and proud to bursting of my boy.

We Could Discuss This Subject At Length But A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

2012-02-10T03:29:00.001-08:00

Little Angel

During our January visit to the Big City behavioral specialist said doctor decided to wean The Boy off of one of his two medications for hyperactivity. I was a little surprised and pondered out loud why he wanted to mess with success?

"I'd rather have him on one medication than 2."

Wouldn't we all.

I dislike medication of any kind but have learned to recognize over the years that for some children and adults it is just plain necessary whether it be for hypertension or hyperactivity. I also recognize that some people still think love and nurturing are enough when it comes to dealing with behavioral issues while others see every twitch or fart as needing psychiatric medication to deal with said twitches and farts.

Both types of people drive me completely insane. There is, after all, a balance.

A balance that I hope to have achieved during my experiences with multitudes of foster children and my own three who were adopted through the foster care system arriving with extensive illicit drug exposure in utero, no pre-natal care, traumatic birth histories, family pre-dispositions to mental illness and learning disorders......blah...blah...blah.

I will admit, however, that I STILL lean towards NOT medicating. Which is why I let the Big City behavioral specialist talk me in to messing with success.

Immediately I noticed a difference. The normally talkative child could not and would not shut up.

"How big is God?"

"Does Jesus have brothers and sisters?"

"Have you ever eaten ants?"

On and on and on. No, not terrible behavior. Annoying. Super annoying. Off the scale on the annoyance meter annoying.

And then the outside complaints began to trickle in. When I came home from work on Tuesday evening my sitter, Curly T, greeted me at the door with...and I quote...

"What in the hell is with The Boy?"

Yesterday, Mrs. Needs-To-Be-Canonized mentioned The Boy's escalating impulsivity during the past two weeks while giving me that all knowing, all wise Mrs. Needs-To-Be-Canonized look.

eek!

I called the Big City doctors office from the car before we even screeched out of the school parking lot and reported the behaviors to the nurse.

After we arrived home The Boy presented me with a note from his teacher, Mrs. Zookeeper, regarding his not being able to stay in his seat and concerns regarding escalating impulsivity.

Please sign note.

This is the first EVER note home in 3 years.

"Is it bad? Is it bad? Is it bad?" he asks while boinging through the house.

"No, honey. It's not bad at all."

OMG. It's bad. It's bad. It's bad.....

On a brighter note now perhaps they understand more fully what life is like at home as The Boy has historically only been able to "behave in one arena" to quote the Big City behavior specialist and honey home was NOT that arena. At school he is the little "angel."

Or rather was the little "angel."

I called the behavior specialists office back and told the nurse to add "teacher" to the list of concerned citizens.

We wait for our answer on Monday. It's going to be a long weekend.

In the meantime I reminisced back to the days before medication when The Boy was unable to sit still. At the age of 8 years all drawings looked like this one:

At the age of 8 years after one week on medication all drawings looked like these:

And now...

Like I said. A picture is worth a thousand words.

February In Florida

2012-02-09T16:44:00.000-08:00

Backyard and beach. Two of my favorite places in Florida.

Yes! It's Monster Jam Time, Again!

2012-02-05T11:52:00.000-08:00

The Genius may never sit next to me again because I annoyed her with my hyperactivity. But hey, I did have a roll of toilet paper in my purse when the stadium was clean out of it. Who brings toilet paper to these functions? Yer, mama!

FYI: It is never a good idea to rankle The Genius. Ticket Master was especially nasty and non-accommodating regarding seats for two children in wheel chairs. We ended up with the best seats in 5 years of Monster Jam attendance when The Genius went directly to the stadium supervisor. Yes, we did.

This was The Baby's first year at Monster Jam. She seemed to be especially fond of Gravedigger.

And then there is The Teenager who becomes so over stimulated the first 15 minutes we are there we embark on a 6 hour emotional roller coaster ride. One minute she is sobbing because she can't have popcorn with her $8.25 hotdog and the next minute she is doing "the wave." Go figure.

I call the above photo two gorgeous grills. She really liked this truck.

The Artist came for the evening from north Florida.

She takes her Monster Jam's seriously.

And then there are the boy's...

Boys love trucks.

Posing with Maximum Destruction

Clothed in the finest cammo.

(OMG. I just noticed myself in the bumper. No my rear-end is NOT that huge...)

More interested in the food than "the wave."

And seriously? The Artists' boyfriend fits in with this family like okra in stewed tomatoes. No further explanation necessary.

We partied in the pits before the stadium opened under blue skies and warm breezes.

I think I like Monster Jam much better when it's not pouring rain and 40 degrees. We didn't even need a sweater!

Thanks global warming!

Thanks The Genius for the pit passes!

The monster trucks never disappoint! We always have a fabulous time whoopin' and hollerin' when they tip, flip, and soar through the air.

Can't wait for Monster Jam 2013! Bring it on!

"I Told My Dentist My Teeth Were Turning Yellow. He Told Me To Wear A Brown Tie." Rodney Dangerfiled

2012-02-03T04:05:00.001-08:00

All photos in this post are from Google Images

A few days ago I sat and prayed, "Lord....could we have one week without drama and medical appointment's?" His answer was clearly no.

Ok. So here is your choice. You roll with that answer or you don't roll with it and if you don't roll with it then you are clearly inviting things like murderous thoughts, hypertension, headaches, nervous tics, and screw top gallon jugs of $4.99 wine into your life.

Looking back over the days since I blogged last on January 22, 2012 it is clear that I haven't blogged since January 22, 2012 because of the complexities of a life with many children. Both mine and the children of my clients.

On the home front, The Teenager has been going to the same pediatric dentist for 15 years and has never missed a 6 month exam. That's 30 dental examinations for those of you who are counting. Unfortunately, during the first dental exam at the age of three they accidentally choked my orally defensive CP child with the water squirter.

She has NEVER forgotten this and has never behaved well since that first visit. I will say she has improved a little over the years. During the last exam and cleaning it only took 3 adults to hold her down. I believe she holds the office record for 6 adults.

Since the age of three, The Teenager has had a special disdain for this pediatric dentist compared to the orthodontist, pediatrician, ophthalmologist, orthopedic physician, and neurologist.

Which is why...I suppose...in 15 years the pediatric dentist has never shot one x-ray. Which brings me to the 3rd molar eruption aka the wisdom tooth fiasco. Somehow those wisdom teeth began growing sideways beneath the gums and the next thing I know we are off to the University of Florida dental school to see about getting them out ASAP. Sans panoramic films or any kind of radio-graphic proof.

Not always...and I say again...not always...but more often than not....it is all about HOW you approach special needs children. The tiny Asian lady at the UF dental school had that magic fairy dust clinging to her lab coat when she warmly shuffled the teenager off and with no issues whatsoever took dental x-rays while I hid. Lots of x-rays. The Teenager came in to the exam room afterwards all smiles with a sheriff's badge affixed to her blouse.

Wow. What just happened, Tinkerbell?

We then saw the cute, little "mini-dentist" who looked to be around 15 years old. I spelled words for her that she was not familiar with like Lamictal and Timolol and then she reviewed the x-rays laying out the three options for extractions poo-pooing the admission to the children's hospital because "you really want to avoid general anesthesia."

Avoid general anesthesia with The Teenager? Oh. Ho. Ho. Ho.

I will add an important tid-bit here for those of you who are unaware of the world of special needs children, many of whom have Medicaid. Children who have Medicaid are the property of teaching universities and medical/dental students in their area if you live in such an area. This is not always a bad thing if you live in an area like we do that has a pediatric hospital affiliated with John Hopkins and a state of the art dental clinic affiliated with the University of Florida and if you are a mother like me who does not hesitate to throw students out on their still powdered and diapered butts if they are idiots while demanding a real "ologist" or a face to face with Risk Management. Now.

If you live in podunk and have Medicaid, however, you may want to consider relocation.

The super nice, 15 year old "mini-dentist" informed me the "almost a dentist" who would be performing the oral surgery was currently in surgery so they sent the HEAD of the dental school in instead to meet The Teenager and review her films.

I will refer to him as "the actual dentist." I liked him instantly.

As a matter of fact I liked everyone at this clinic. It's not often the entire staff from receptionist to head of the department are this cheerful and humanoid. Call me jaded but after a while I was beginning to suspect a large scale Nitrous Oxide leak in the clinic.

The first thing "the actual dentist" did was warmly grasp The Teenagers hand in greeting. I couldn't help but observe he was also scanning for IV sites. Clever dentist.

I was correct. Call me brilliant.

"How is she with IV's?" He asked quietly.

"That depends on how good your technique is." I replied.

"No pressure there," he jovially responds.

Sniff. Sniff. Is Nitrous Oxide odorless? I began breathing deeply. Just in case.

After scanning Tinkerbell's films he announces the procedure would have to be done under general anesthesia in the children's hospital due to the proximately of the bottom 3rd molars to the inferior alveolar nerve. I could have bowed down and kissed his feet I was so relieved. Had the "almost a dentist" not been performing surgery and had they not sent in "the actual dentist" who had many, many years of wisdom and experience under his belt the outcome may have been very different.

William Cowper put it nicely:

God moves in a mysterious way. His wonders to perform...."

The Teenager was admitted to the local children's hospital a few weeks later. It did not go well.

When 'the actual dentist" came out of surgery around 7:30pm the first words out of his mouth were, "we had a little trouble."

I am quite familiar with the words, "we had a little trouble." With my three I've heard these words before.

"We had a little trouble with The Boy. He lost a lot of blood and we had to transfuse him."

"We had a little trouble with The Baby when we tried to wake her up from the adenoidectomy. She did not respond to the Narcan so we had to give her caffeine to facilitate breathing on her own. She won't be going home today as planned.

"We had a little trouble with The Teenager. In my 33 years as "the actual dentist" and hundreds of wisdom teeth extractions she was the top 5 worse cases I've ever done. We only managed to get 2 teeth out in 2 1/2 hours and in the process she lost a second molar which was fused to the wisdom tooth."

We had a little trouble.

The "almost a dentist" is sitting behind "the actual dentist" looking terrified. I'm thinking he may have started the procedure but clearly did not finish it before "the actual dentist" had to take over. Two and 1/2 hours is a long time on a tooth.

The next surgery is scheduled for March 23rd in hopes of removing the remaining wisdom teeth.

Today we went in for the post-op visit where we saw "almost a dentist." I have to say the man/boy is a living doll.

He was wonderful with the Teenager and even managed to flush her surgical wound with chlorohexasomethingorother. We do not have to return until our surgery in March.

"Will you be doing the next surgery?" I inquired.

"Unfortunately, I will not be here in March so you will have Dr. Brady. She will be in the operating room with 'the actual dentist" and you will really like her. She is my dentist!" This man/boy is so stinking sweet and adorable I wanted to squeeze him.

Which is exactly why I almost bit my tongue in half when he mentioned Dr. Brady rather than spit out the words dancing on the tip of it.

"Dr Brady! How lovely! Would that be Jan or Marsha?"

You may be reading this thinking I am prone to exaggeration. No way.

As we were leaving I stopped to remind the lady who schedules the hospital admissions that "the actual dentist" informed me after surgery that next time he wanted to schedule The Teenager as the first case in the morning and not the last case of the day.

She smiles sweetly at me and responds, "she will be the only case on that day."

Proof enough? I believe so.

O Come, O Come Emmanuel and Playstation

2012-01-22T05:46:00.000-08:00

I remember reading on someones blog once that their special needs child has been Jewish, Catholic, Lutheran and a number of other denominations in their quest for a decent education to accommodate the child's differences.

The Boy attends a small Catholic school for special needs children. Because of this school and the remarkable teachers he has learned to read and write. And spell. And play a musical instrument. And make beautiful, award winning art. And he has learned to sing.

This morning as he is playing Monster Jam on his play station he is singing the above song at the top of his lungs. I was more than a little amused.

And then I started to reflect on how blessed we are.

Autistic Girl Expresses Unimaginable Intelligence

2012-01-16T05:26:00.000-08:00

In view of our recent conversations like this one and this one I believe EVERYONE should watch the clip above.

How Far Removed Is This From The 'Useless Eater" Philosophy?

2012-01-15T08:38:00.000-08:00

Google Images

Who decides societal worth?

Hitler began with the special needs population.

Just thought i should point that out for those of you who were unaware of this fact.

After reading Elizabeth's post on her blog A Moon Worn As If It Had Been A Shell I was re-directed to another post regarding a child being turned down for a kidney transplant because she was mentally retarded dooming her to certain death. For some reason I can't link to that blog so please go to Elizabeth's blog where you can freely access the post.

Reading the comments on Elizabeth's blog I realize that most folks have no idea this kind of discrimination occurs with special needs children and adults. Being in the medical profession I happen to know that this kind of discrimination does exist. Sometimes subtle. Sometimes not.

Google Images

You never know where you are gong to encounter "the attitude." I recall the pediatric dentist who we had been going to for years telling me that The Teenager wasn't a candidate for braces although she needed them desperately because, "she wouldn't know any difference anyway."

The Teenager sees her hummer limo for the first time on her 18th birthday

At least his attitude did not condemn my daughter to death like the little girl who needs a kidney transplant but it stung nevertheless.

Then please go here and read this article that was featured on our local news channel on January 13th and happened in Largo, Florida. A friend of mine who has an autistic son posted it on Facebook.

It hit dangerously close to home for my friend.

For those of you who do not know what the Baker Act is, it is an involuntary commitment to a mental health facility for no longer than 72 hours initiated by law enforcement, mental health professionals or members of the medical profession who deem that the individual (in this case a six year old autistic child):

has a mental illness (as defined in the Baker Act).
is a harm to self, harm to others, or self neglectful (as defined in the Baker Act).

I have to wonder why they Baker Acted this child instead of calling his mother?

You ask what is this world coming to?

Don't ask.

Google Images

You probably don't want to know.

Siblings, Inane Cosequences and Medicinal Marijuana

2012-01-09T10:12:00.000-08:00

Google Images

I can think of a few readers of this blog who will wholeheartedly appreciate and relate to what I am about to say and other readers who will probably think I am the worse mother of special needs children in the world. To the latter group one word.

Pffffft.

It all started with an invitation to the birthday party of Mama Maria's granddaughter, Little Mia. I met Little Mia two years ago when she spent the summer with grandma Maria and found her to be a darling, polite, well-mannered little girl. Unlike my brood.

I had never met her parents, though. Until yesterday. Dear God. The poor things.

Little Mia's parents recently moved the family to Florida and decided to throw a birthday party for her complete with amazing cookout (ribs and burgers oh my!) and yummy cake with sprinkles.

Google Images

Earlier in the week I had purchased an impressive assortment of flavored lip glosses in little carrying cases for Little Mia....Nerd flavor....Ring Pop Flavor....and safely secured them on a high shelf. Safely secured that is until The Boy climbed up on something, removed the carrying cases, opened ALL of the lip glosses and yes, I don't even have to ask, slurped and slobbered all over every flavor. He is not ~~bright~~ devious enough to dispose of the evidence so he left it all on his bed complete with lip goo on the quilt and lip goo on the carrying cases and lip goo everywhere.

I. Could. Have. Wrung. His. Neck.

And since this was not an isolated incident and since he made The Baby cry twice this weekend with his bad attitude and made The Teenager cry with his relentless teasing this weekend and was almost road kill when he pulled out in front of a school bus on his scooter from the high sloped neighboring drive way he has been told to stay off of...oh....I don't know....about 128 times in the past 3 months.....and since the smarty, smarty informs me I will forget I'm mad in the morning because I always forget I'm mad in the morning and further reminded me, "you can't spank me because I have a fragile butt," I felt it was time to inflict some pain.

Physical butt warming pain would have been truly satisfying but psychic pain would have to suffice.

"You are grounded for the weekend and you will not be going to the party."

After my proclamation The Boy's pain level was about a 1.

When i came to my senses and realized my lesson regarding suffering consequences for wrongdoing was gong to cost me $10.00 and hour for a sitter my pain level was about a 5.

Curly T volunteered for the ~~warden position~~ babysitting job so before she arrived we ran to the store and bought a replacement present for Little Mia. One that The Boy could not ingest.

While there we also saw the two and only two movies that The Teenager wanted to spend her Christmas gift cards on. They were on sale so we grabbed them both and tossed them into the cart. Fortunately, the nice young checkout boy sputtered something about Blue-ray.

UH OH.

Try explaining to The Teenager that we don't have Blue-ray and that these wonderful bargains we found need to be taken back immediately. In hindsight it may have been easier to go out and invest in a Blue-ray home theater system than it was to explain and re-explain to The Teenager that we had to return the DVD's .

I found her hiding behind a post in Target crying and giving me the malocchio and she's not even Italian.

I was seriously doomed.

After I managed to drag her out of the store kicking and sobbing we rushed home to wrap Little Mia's present. WT? The Disney pj's I picked up to go with her Disney dolls were two sizes too small. Obviously when a "6" looks like an "8" to you with your glasses on it is time to get new glasses.

Could it get any worse? And why do I keep asking myself that insane question? Of course it can get worse. It generally does when you're on the expert slope and your skis fell off a mile or so back.

We make it to the party where shortly thereafter The Teenager has a sudden choking spell and while choking rushes the party table and heaves and gags perilously close to the cake with sprinkles

OMG.

Help me! Somebody Help me!

I truly thought she was going to blow chunks all over everything and everyone so Brasilia and I grabbed her and attempted to shuffle her off to the bathroom where she could blow up and out.

Google Images

She would not budge. It was like trying to move a rock. A big one.

Mercifully, the retching stopped having spotted the cake and ice cream so she plunks herself down at the head of the table.

"Is she ok?" asks Little Mia's mother who is cutting the cake.

Yes...she's fine. I'm puzzled. I'm standing behind the Teenager and I can't see her face. Why would she ask that? After all, it had been nearly one minute since the gagging drama.

"Because she's crying," Little Mia's mother states.

I walk around in front of The Teenager to get a better look. Sure enough, big tears are streaming down the cheeks. I'm even more nervous now because when this girl decides to wail she can wake the dead.

"What is wrong?" I fake sweetness through clenched teeth. I may have cracked a molar.

"I. sniff MISS. sob MY. snort BROTHER!"

Are you frickin' kidding me? Am I really hearing this with my own ears?

You mean the Brother you "H-A-T-E?"

The Brother you think should get his own apartment? At the age of 11?

The brother you wanted to trade in for a new baby yesterday?

The brother who eats lip gloss but does this to perfectly good potatoes?

The Jingle Bells all girls smell brother?

This brother?

Somebody please give me some of this...

Can I purchase it at Wal-Mart?

Or at the very least would someone introduce me to this woman? She looks like she could be a lot of fun...

Google Images

I'd be more than happy to wheel her around and be her BFF as long as I could legally inhale her second hand smoke.

Perhaps I should hire a nice nanny? I wonder if this guy would be interested?

He looks like he would be good with kids.

Enough said.

Tis The Season

2011-12-26T05:50:00.000-08:00

According to The Artist I am now officially, "Dork mom"

It's been a while since I was able to sit down and post. The past two months have been a whirlwind. Starting with the November 22nd orthopedic surgery and subsequent Frankenfoot and ending with The Teenagers hospitalization after she plunged into respiratory distress last Monday, it seems like I haven't slept or sat down for ages. Throw in Christmas shopping, attempts at working for a living, school plays and vacation, housework, canning for the holidays etc., and I find myself in major need of a re-boot.

Thank God for organic coffee and wonderful friends.

Haggie Maggie and dork mom on Christmas Morning
BFF for 48 years

My dear friend Haggie Maggie was diagnosed with cancer recently and I spent as much time at the hospital with her as Frankenfoot would allow and once I was cleared to drive. I am amazed at how tough this woman is and how well she is doing. Radiation, chemo and radical surgery and she still keeps ticking. Strong enough to spend Christmas morning with the Pepper Posse which is a decades long tradition and in itself enough to bring the strongest person-alive to their knees.

*Please note the scarf from Island Rider in the above photo and note that it was also 80 degrees on Christmas morning. It keeps the air conditioning off of my neck and I love it!

The golden girl at Christmas

The Teenager has had a rocky December. When she aspirated at breakfast on December 7th it triggered a series of episodes which left her with left lower lobe pneumonia and a respiratory crash a week later that landed her in the hospital. The teenager has NEVER been in the hospital for an illness.

She loved the cable tv channel surfing, room service and spending the night with her big sister, The Genius who never left her side.

The Baby was a joy to watch at Christmas. She is the epitome of the Christmas spirit and truly loved every gift she was given. As Island Rider pointed out, however, The Baby is no longer a baby. I'm thinking we should have a contest to officially change her name.

I vote for Sassafras. Why? She has developed serious attitude which I suppose, is necessary for survival in this household.

The Boy is ...well...the Boy.

The Genius and The Boy.
Don't forget to brush your teeth before you burglarize the neighborhood, sweetie...

The Artist is here with The Boyfriend Every Mother In The Universe Would Love. I've stolen a recent photo of him taken by The Artist because I only managed to capture his foot on Christmas Day.

TBEMITUWL with Abby my grand-daugher

The Artist is spending a little extra time with us this year and I've loved having her here.

The Artist loves her brothers artwork which featured prominently in this years gift exchange

I am thankful for each and every one of my blogging buddies and am blessed to have met you! Praying you all have a wonderful holiday season and a healthy, happy and prosperous 2012.

Onward to a new year!

Merry Christmas 2011

2011-12-25T05:30:00.000-08:00

Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas and a healthy and happy 2012.

Obla Di Obla Da

2011-12-10T05:52:00.000-08:00

Photo form Google Images

This week will be my first week back to work. I spent a good portion of my time calling my clients yesterday. One in particular touched my heart. A lovely black family who lives in a rough area that used to be called "projects" but are no longer called "projects." I can't remember the proper terminology because my aspiration in life has never been to be politically correct.

The family has three huge bubba boys under the age of 6. Always immaculately dressed with heads shaved clean and ready smiles that blind. I always feel like I'm in the presence of little George Foreman's destined for greatness when I'm with this family.

"Bubba #3 has really missed you. Every white woman in Wal-Mart he sees we think he thinks it's you and he has a fit trying to get to them." Mom says.

I can't wait to hug my littlest Bubba who always runs to me and affectionately choke holds my carotid arteries for the first five minute of our visit.

Finally got the sutures removed this week and the foot was re-xrayed. The outside of the foot is still walking-deadish but the x-ray was fantastic. For the first time in too many years to count I have a "normal' foot. The doc did a magnificent job removing all of that excess bone. I look forward to not being in chronic pain. I look forward to wearing real shoes.

Since the swelling went down I demonstrated to the skeptical doc how I am able to move my toes side to side.

The doc was stunned. Silence. And then he spoke.

"If you ever figure out how you can use this talent in society please let me know."

The Boy has a solo in the school Christmas play. He can't remember the words but doesn't seem to care. He continues to keep me on my Frankenfoot...

"You snuck out and went across the street to Buddy's because you knew I was talking to Cindy on the phone. I was distracted and you took advantage me!"

"You were talking to your friend who died?"

"Wha?"

"You were talking to your friend who died?"

Completely missing the point as always.

"How can I talk on the phone to a friend of mine who is dead?"

"Through a miracle."

Ah. Gotta love that child-like faith.

The Boy had his annual follow-up with Orthopedics. He will have surgery in May to replace the rod that is about to telescope up and out because of growth. It has served him well since it's insertion in 2002. I only hope it hangs in there unlike the other rod. His last femur fracture in 2008 was the stuff nightmares were made of with two surgeries in two weeks, significant pain and blood loss and a non-union of fracture and surgical osteotomy requiring a bone stimulator for over a year. He also re-broke the osteotomy at art camp during origami week but who's counting.

The Baby has mastered the Wii one-armed. She loves to sit and create Mii characters for hours on end. She has been weaned successfully off of the seizure medicine. The process took well over 6 months. Since this time she has begun to talk.

A lot.

The Teenager aspirated last week and we are fighting off the ill effects with inhalers and chest percussion. I have e-mailed the pediatrician requesting an appointment tomorrow. We will probably need a chest x-ray. I am praying she does not have pneumonia.

As I sit typing this entry, Frankenfoot elevated, I wonder...how will I return to work tomorrow, take The Teenager to the pediatrician and then to the hospital for a chest x-ray while making it home by 2:10 to get The Baby off of the bus and then to The Boy's school to pick him up by 2:30pm? Never mind dinner, baths, homework, dishes....

Thank God music therapy at 4:30pm has been cancelled.

I realize my "vacation" has come to an end and I find my self humming...

Oh Bladi Oh Blah Da

My own form of music therapy.

Frankenfoot

2011-11-29T14:22:00.000-08:00

YES

This has been an interesting week. Fortunately, I don't remember much of it. Between the Morphine every 6 hours and the agonizing post surgical pain I believe I entered into a dissociative fugue state that left me with partial amnesia for events experienced during the fugue state time frame.

That's my theory anyway.

I remember the first night after surgery when the nerve block wore off about 10 hours too early. I was not prepared for the intense pain. Didn't I breeze through back surgery? Didn't I have abdominal surgery? Didn't I give birth to two children both of whom had complicated deliveries? Didn't I break this foot not once but three times recently?

Walks in the park compared to Frankenfoot.

On the morning after surgery I remember nausea overtaking me so suddenly that I projectile spewed all over the dining room table (yes, you heard me correctly), floor and kitchen cabinets since I could not run (let alone hobble) to the bathroom in time. Instantly, after I cleaned the barf up with bleach those familiar words came drifting down the stairs which I had not yet been able to even think about navigating...

"I went POOOOOOOPIE?"

I remember calling up to The Teenager asking if she made it to the potty this time?

"Sort of."

Uh oh.

I don't remember going up or down those stairs hauling bleach but I do remember cleaning up the "pooooooopie."

On day two after I had pressure washed my kitchen with puke I remember someone delivering a big Thanksgiving dinner to my door that my friend BJ had so carefully arranged for us to receive. Unfortunately, it was all frozen, including the turkey which also needed to be cooked. BJ was livid.

"That's what you get when you leave a man in charge," she fussed.

Before I knew it she was banging on my door with a huge pot roast, potatoes, carrots, gravy, rolls and a giant ham with pineapple rings decorating it and still fuming about the "damned frozen turkey."

Two days after the surgery was Thanksgiving day and I felt well but not well enough to go to dinner at Mama Mia Maria's. I was able to make breakfast and lunch for the kids.

Around dinner time, however, agonizing ankle pain overtook me and i was unable to weight bear.

At all.

The teenager was crying because she was hungry. After all it had been nearly four hours since lunch.

Dear Lord.

I popped a Morphine, 600mg of Motrin and walker-hopped to the stove and made grilled cheese sandwiches for Thanksgiving dinner.

Around 7 pm neighbors delivered a real Thanksgiving dinner to our door which we were all too tired and too full of cheese to eat.

And the ankle pain was relentless. I figured I had a blood clot until BDDW called me and told me he had had a revelation regarding the ankle pain.

'It's the boot. Take it off. Ice and elevate your ankle and try as much range of motion as you can tolerate."

Scuba diving anyone?

I so love it when I have friends who practice medicine on the side. BDDW was 100% correct. Within 24 hours I could walk again.

Today I got my gross dressing changed and my first glimpse of Frankenfoot. The doctor was not pleased with the boot induced ankle pain story especially when he saw the ~~flipper~~ boot that I had been given pre-operatively.

I left the office with a boot that actually fit my size 6 1/2 foot and a nice, clean dressing.

WOOT!

In the past few days since I've been off the pain medicine and able to ambulate without agony I have passed the time by watching The Last Of The Mohicans, My Left Foot, Alice's Restaurant, The Constant Gardener, The Stand, and the first seasons of Storage Wars, Law and Order SVU and The Walking Dead. Yes, the first seasons in their entirety.

I'm beginning to relate to the zombies who are referred to in The Walking Dead show as, "the walkers." Not only do I have a Frankenfoot that would qualify me for the job I am also brainless after three days of Netflix.

Next week sutures come out. In the meantime, the foot specialist instructed me to move my toe as much as possible. I told him I could already move it up and down but not side to side.

The doctor nearly fell off of his stool laughing.

"Toes don't move side to side," he howled.

"I beg to differ! I'm certain I could move my toes side to side!" I informed him.

"Bwahahahaha." The man is choking with laughter now.

"It's been so long since you've had any movement in that foot you can't even remember how toes are supposed to move," he informs me.

Yeah well...I bet my zombie friends can move their toes from side to side.

Those who have toes, that is.

Daniel Boone Alive And Well In Florida

2011-11-19T06:56:00.000-08:00

For those of us in the Tampa Bay and Miami areas of Florida we have a tendency to forget that we are, after all, still in the deep south.

Daniel Boone reminded me of this today.

Baby Sings The Blues

2011-11-17T12:06:00.001-08:00

One of my neighbors who no one seems to know but me knocked on my door recently and asked If I would like their Play Station Rock Band. Her son has grown and moved away and no longer wanted it.

Seriously?

The Boy had received a Play Station from a friend years ago and it finally passed away this year. We've have no money to replace it so he's been without for quite some time.This week Curly T hooked up a few things for us and last night we were in Rock Band business.

I sat mesmerized for 2 hours watching The Boy drumming and The Baby singing. And even though it was horrifyingly loud and The Baby sounded like a cross between Aretha Franklin and a screaming Janis Joplin I couldn't help but be fascinated by her facial expressions. This child puts her heart and soul into music.

Since she was a 5lb infant she has been fascinated by all music which she simply calls "song."

Her favorite seems to be Nina Simone and she will sit and demand I replay Nina Simone videos over and over for her.

And is it just me or is there a resemblance?

Move over Nina. This Baby can sing the blues.

"... we do not take a trip, a trip takes us."

2011-11-16T04:15:00.001-08:00

If there is one thing I've learned while being the mom of three special needs children it is that making plans for the future is as absurd as a staunch Republican at a MoveOn meeting.

Take this week for instance.

Iris/Virus is on a cruise. I can't remember exactly who is on the cruise with her besides The Beard (see Bio's) and a pack of metal bands who's names elude me. Being of the Jimi Hendrix/Led Zeppelin era I wouldn't know a Whitesnake from a Metallica.

So since I have no personal care assistant for The Teenager I had to take off of work this week. You know? The job with no benefits such as insurance coverage, sick time, vacation time, gas reimbursement, etc.

Yes, the older I get the more backwards my employment river seems to flow.

Then I found out I have to have surgery and the doctor wants me off work for at least 4 weeks. Home for the holidays only sounds charming in the movies.

Sing it Perry

Home for the holidays in the real world means no paycheck at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I'm hoping my recovery is swift and that I can return sooner than later to work. After all, I can't shake that feeling that I am safer at work than I am locked in this house with the three musketeers.

In the meantime this week was to have been a week to have fun with The Teenager and prepare for the surgery/holidays by getting as much done as humanly possible. Yesterday was a perfect example of why plans do not work well in my world.

After the pediatrician finished chewing me out for taking The Baby to the Emergency room after the face plant we scheduled a follow up appointment for a face plant re-check and flu vaccines for The Baby and The Boy. Unfortunately, the morning of the appointment The Teenager began vomiting.

When the Teenager vomits she stands firmly rooted to her current spot and simply let's the barf spill up and over. It doesn't matter if she is on her new purple carpet, sitting on the living room sofa, or in the middle of a department store. She barfs where she stands. And then she stick her fingers down her throat and barfs some more. And then she walks in it.

One hour before the pediatricians appointment clear across town I am mucking in the midst of the Woodstock of vomit festivals.

Obviously not able to drag the poor girl to the pediatricians office with us I searched frantically for a teensitter. My entire backup posse was either at work or ill themselves so I did something I've never done before. I called my 92 year old father and Pearl Harbor survivor, Popi, and asked him to teensit.

I'm sure you are all under the assumption that i hesitated because Popi is 92 soon to be 93. After all, we are all guilty of making assumptions regarding age and aging.

FYI: The man is in better shape than I am and only this year have I noticed him slowing down a little. By slowing down I mean he has slightly limited his tree climbing, brick laying, building and painting projects.

FYI: I hesitated because he is a hideous babysitter. This I've learned from my own child hood as a rather sickly child who missed a lot of school. Since my parents both worked he was occasionally left in charge of me.

I was lucky to get a sip of water or a baby aspirin out of the man during his 8 hour shift.

Popi and The Boy taking a break.

When I returned from the pediatricians Popi was out back sweeping the patio he constructed. In his defense the man did leave the sliding glass doors open while sweeping. I'm not sure why since the air conditioner was blasting and the man is as deaf as a tree stump from destroyer depth charges that exploded around his submarine during multiple World War 2 battles. The important thing was that the man made an effort to pretend he was observing The Teenager.

And when I returned home I was barely in the door when i heard those familiar words, "uh oh! I have diarrhea," wafting from up stairs along with a distinct odor. And did she ever.

Walls. Clothing. Floor. Rugs.

Yep.

Today hasn't gone much better, actually. The Boy is home for the second day in a row. He was not given the flu shot yesterday because, as it turns out, he was wheezing. Who would have known? He tells me nothing and shows no visible signs of illness. Am I supposed to be psychic? And let me just say that knowing what tomorrow would bring is about the last thing on my Christmas wish list. I'd probably die of fright.

Although projects have been altered this week to accommodate the usual insanity all has not been lost. I managed to get our 3 Christmas trees up and Friday night Curly T and I are planning a booze jam marathon.

Uh oh, did I say, planning? Perhaps I should rephrase that...

My favorite author of all times sums it up more succinctly than I ever could since I'm prone to run on sentences and flight of ideas:

A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. John Steinbeck

Thanks for the reminder, John. If you were here now I'd propose a toast to your wisdom with booze jam. Or at least give you a piece of toast with booze jam on it.

Face Plant

2011-11-11T05:06:00.000-08:00

Photo Google Images

A man walks in to a bar. Stop me if you've heard this one...

I love the blog A Moon Worn As If It Had Been A Shell. I can't remember how I even stumbled upon it but have been an avid follower for a while now. A prolific poster and gifted writer and poet, Elizabeth has a feature she calls, How We Do It where she shares happenings of daily life which I should point out rarely happens to anyone else in daily life. Not only does it crack me up but it makes me feel soooo much better about my own life.

I thought of Elizabeth yesterday when The Baby did a face plant in her wheel chair on the ceramic tile floor.

As Montell Jordan said, "This is how we do it."

Here is the abbreviated version of our week ~~in the nuthouse~~ in a nutshell:

The morning starts when The Teenager walks down the stairs stating, " I know how it's done. Moses was NOT a slave. The people had to work."

No. I have no clue.

While she is bathing I run into the downstairs bathroom in a panic.

"Let me guess," she states. "You have to pee like a racehorse?"

I have a doctors appointment. Iris/Virus asks me twice, "who has the apportionment?" It suddenly dawns on her I have an appointment. She is stunned into silence primarily because I never have an appointment. I don't have time. Why I can't even remember my last pap smear. Was it this decade?

I go see my Thursday morning clients and then to the doctor.

He schedules surgery on my foot on November 22nd. I say happy Thanksgiving to me as this is the perfect excuse to eat more pie and stuffing which will aid in my recuperation. The foot is pretty terrible so I already knew I'd probably end up sliced and diced if I actually sought medical attention. What I didn't know is that it is also broken with a nice piece of bone poking around in there. Doesn't it hurt?

Yes.

Does it slow me down? No.

Fortunately, I have the pain tolerance of a yeti which all family members have except The Genius and The Teenager who I suspect may be the more normal members of the Yeti clan.

The Family

I get The Baby off the bus and the driver tells me I need to wash her hair because she is itching. I am highly offend and use all the self control I can muster not to smack this idiot into the gutter. The Baby has some pretty serious hormonal issues from the extensive neurological damage she sustained after being squeezed out of the birth canal on a hallway floor and then left for dead. This includes facial and scalp acne and some pretty potent adult sized body odor. Do I really need to explain this to the bus driver?

I make a mental note to speak with The Baby's teacher as now, in my paranoia, I am thinking they are discussing our personal hygiene behind my back.

I then go to Elizabeth's blog and read the note from her daughters teacher.

"please try to send Sophie in with a proper coat since it's freezing out and we want to take her for a walk."

I like the comment from Birdie regarding the coat:

Do these teachers not take courses in communication?

"Please try to send Sophie in with a proper coat since it's freezing out and we want to take her for a walk."

How about,

"We are really looking forward to taking Sophie for a walk. It is getting cold and the leaves are beautiful! Sophie looked so warm and cozy today but could you send her coat along tomorrow just in case the temperature drops?"

If only sweet Birdie were our children's teacher! Because it doesn't end there.

I call a friend to discuss my hair humiliation and she informs me she had just received a nasty call from the school demanding she cut her autistic child's nails. One nail takes approximately an hour and creates a tremendous meltdown.

She suggests the teacher cut the nails herself.

And yet a third friend who just returned from a meeting with the middle school principal after a teacher told her daughter in front of the entire classroom, "Yes, you may go to the bathroom as I talked to your mother and she told me you have already wet yourself twice."

Bad enough to be humiliated in front of the peers when you are 13 but also lied to? The teacher never spoke with her mom.

Welcome to public schools where many of the employees received their sensitivity training from culturally corrosive comedy acts like Carlin and the school bus drivers moonlight as Endocrinologists.

Then the face plant occurs. The Teenager pushes The Baby's wheel chair in to the living room but The Baby slams on the brakes. The Teenager shoves and The Baby tips forward and lands face down, buckled in, on the ceramic tile, with the wheel chair on top of her. The Baby, who never cries, is hysterical clutching her head. I become hysterical. The Teenager becomes hysterical.

We are all hysterical.

And the weather is beautiful and all the windows are open. I expect the police to arrive at any moment.

I drop The Teenager off at the nail place where Iris/Virus is having her nails done and The Teenager walks in to the nail place and melts down as only The Teenager can do. Two black woman are glaring at me. The entire nail salon is upset, thinking I am an abusive white foster mother who has terrified this poor black child. Iris/Virus calms The Teenager down and the Vietnamese employees throw her in a massage chair which lulls her into compliance. I expect the police to arrive at any moment.

I rush Face Plant to the ER where she checks out fine and we are sent home in record time. The ER doctor hands me her phone as we are leaving informing me our pediatrician wants to speak with me. The pediatrician informs me I am not to go to the ER without calling her first unless it is life or death because of Medipass.

WT?

I tell the pediatrician I've dealt with Medipass for 18 years with dozens of foster kids and have never been questioned once since it is not an HMO.

As usual, I get no where. I expect the Medipass police to arrive at any moment.

I pick up The Boy from Mrs. M's who simply picked him up from school without any explanation on my part other than my hysterical slobbering and screeching over the phone. I then drive to retrieve the Teenager from Iris. The Teenager begins to melt down again while walking to the car.

Mental note: Make appointment with the neurologist regarding the outbursts which have become worse with the onset of Epilepsy.

We make it home. I arrive to discover that my adult neighbor across the street has confiscated The Boy's go-kart from my garage and is allowing every kid in the neighborhood to speed up and down the busy street between cars. Without helmets or parental permission.

Law suit anyone?

I march over to the neighbor and informs him it is now HIS go-kart as I will not be sued when someone cracks their head open or worse.

Bye Bye Go-Kart

This morning Mama Mia Maria and I were going to hang out, have lunch and go fabric shopping. By ourselves. I've been looking forward to this for two weeks.

Instead I had to keep The Baby home from school since she was awake, blabbering total nonsense and singing from 1 am to 5 am non-stop. Concussion anyone?

Nonsensical blabbering is fairly common in our home but generally it's origin is me. And a darned good thing I kept her home to observe her closely as The Baby had explosive diarrhea down to her ankles and up to her neck requiring a change of clothing before I could walk out of the front door to pick up Mama Mia Maria.

Twice.

In my paranoid state I am certain the school would blame the diarrhea on me as well.

Hours later I still can't get the smell of poo out of my nose.

Elizabeth...my comrade...this is how we do it.

Osama. Obama. Fi. Fi. Fo. Mama.

2011-11-01T18:25:00.001-07:00

Yesterday we were officially approved for Social Security disability!

Today we were officially approved for Social Security disability!

Yes. We are still the recipients of duplicate mailings. Ironically, not the recipients of duplicate checks.

No more R-o-s-e that spells G-r-a-c-e because they actually got the middle name correct!

No more Osama or Obama because they actually got the last name correct!

One teesny issue...

They spelled her first name incorrectly and in doing so her Medicaid was also changed to the incorrect first name.

Ever dealt with Medicaid? If not, let's just say that it is easier to elicit the current weather forecast from a local zoos lemur population than to find intelligent and efficient life forms in your local Medicaid office.

I need to rest up for this next battle. Perhaps a cruise first?

Anyone care to join me?

Crazy Busy Week

2011-10-28T19:49:00.001-07:00

Beauty and The Beast

Four or five new referrals at work in a week. I lost count. Three month evaluations. Re-evaluations. Reams of paper work in a job i was told only had two forms to fill out.

And I believed that!

All day training today learning to administer and score the Battelle Developmental Inventory 2nd Edition (BDI-2). Did I sign up for this?

The Boy's school dance tonight. Spent a fortune at the Army/Navy Store on The Boy.

I love the smell of napalm in the morning

but lucked out with The Baby's thrift store cheerleader outfit. Yes, she kept the wig on all night. The girl loves all things hair, nails and clothing.

The Baby gets "tp'd" by Thomas's classmates

Unable to find The Teenagers angel costume for the dance but she didn't seem to mind tonight. Being allowed to "tp" friends and family members AND dance made it all worth while. Not to mention the pounds of candy she thought I didn't see her ingest.

The Teenager in her tied dye shirt tp-ing a friend.

I'm looking forward to a rainy weekend and a rest!

If We Could Just Put Mona In a 57' Chevy....

2011-10-22T07:55:00.000-07:00

This week was the first time in 11 1/2 years that The Boy was able to complete his Pamidronate infusion in two days and not three days. I know that may not seem like a milestone to you but to me it is heaven on earth.

After infusion we had a few minutes before The Baby got off of the school bus so we zipped in to a couple of antique stores because I've come up with another ~~lamebrain~~ creative idea I wanted to pursue. The Boy mostly drove me insane zipping ahead of me brushing precariously close to breakables.

"Are there toys here?" One of his favorite questions.

At one point he disappeared into an adjoining room and I heard him exclaim:

"Her again! I see that women everywhere I go!"

I was a little surprised when I saw the painting that he could not remember who Mona Lisa was as he has the most magnificent art teacher in the history of art teachers and has had more than one encounter with Mona. I took it upon my self to do a spontaneous exhortation regarding Mona and her smile and Leonardo's absolute genius.

To The Boy, who is an auditory learner, my speech sounded exactly like this:

blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

On the way home as we're driving down the interstate he lets out a huge, happy yelp.

"Look on your right! On your right! On your right!"

"I mean your left! Your left! Your left!"

Wasn't Leonardo dyslexic as well?

I mustered as much enthusiasm as I could and commented positively on the vintage car he was so thrilled with on the left right left. I wondered out loud what it was?

"That's a 1957 Chevy Bel Air."

Stunned.

"How do you know that?" I inquired.

"I know my cars, " he replied.

Move over Mona.

Two Hurdles Down

2011-10-17T17:26:00.001-07:00

Today at 3:30pm the man arrived from the wheel chair company and installed The Baby's one-armed drive. It normally takes him 45 minutes but he had a "few problems" so he was with us for 2 hours and 15 minutes.

Now there's a surprise!

Also today I received two letters from Social Security. They both said exactly the same thing because from the moment I filled out "the application which wasn't an application" on line they have been sending me duplicate mailings of everything.

The letters, however were both addressed to The Teenagers adoptive name.

What a pip!

More hurdles? Bring them on.

Onward and over! Here I go!

What A Difference A Decade Makes

2011-10-16T06:03:00.000-07:00

It occurs to me yesterday as I spent 5 hours cleaning the foulness out of the inside of my mini van just how much my life has changed since adoption. Prior to 2000 I used to own the above sporty, red car. Oh, how I loved and pampered that baby! The auto detailer came to my office every other month to tweak it's perfection.

I will admit I got a few speeding tickets motoring in this baby.

Only because it was red.

Now I own this:

I had to trade in my red baby for more cargo space. I needed room for 1 to 3 car seats, a couple of wheel chairs and a few strollers at one time. I had to order one with a bench seat in the middle to accommodate The Boy when he looked like this:

Which was every six months or so although I admit that even when he was able to bend at the waste I could barely squeeze him into the red car.

As I cleaned the purple crayons out of the sliding door tracks, the Pediasure off of the ceiling liner and scraped the melted gummy bears out of the seat belt buckles with a bread knife I couldn't help but ponder how my life has changed in a decade.

Now the only thing I get stopped for in my white mini van is expired auto tags because I'm too busy to remember my own birthday.

I used to look like this:

Me and my buddy, Tim. RIP sweet friend.

Now I look like this:

Wendell Berry said, " The past is our definition. We may strive, with good reason, to escape it, or to escape what is bad in it, but we will escape it only by adding something better to it."

Somewhere between mourning the loss of my red car and burrowing through the petrified forest of dead nuggets and french fries two things occurred to me.

First thing being that I've added something much better to my life during the past decade.

Second thing being that I'm going to offer my neighbor across the street twenty bucks to finish the outside of the mini van.

"Kick Em' In The Junk Bonds " 30 AD Style

2011-10-14T04:39:00.000-07:00

The story of the money changers being driven out of the temple occurs in all four of the gospels of the New Testament. It is the only accounting of Jesus ever using any type of physical force in the entire Gospels combined. John seems to allude to the fact that he whipped their greedy butts more than once since scholars believe John mentioned more than one Passover in his documentation.

In doing so Jesus publicly challenged the authorities of thieving and taking advantage of the poor. The authorities in 30 AD who were no different than the international bankers of 2011. The authorities who set up shop with the blessing of the political leaders of their time. The authorities who forced exchange rates that only benefited the wealthy. The authorities who exploited the poor.

Sound Familiar?

Google Images

People even The Lamb of God knew enough about the destructive consequences of usury to stage a public protest.

Just my opinion.

Social Security Disability. Yes. Again.

2011-10-13T10:48:00.000-07:00

It occurs to me as I travel home from the fax machine at Office Depot that I only share the tip of the family iceberg with my blog friends and followers.

Yes. The tip.

Many of you may find that hard to believe since our experiences are often so bizarre and overwhelmingly complicated that you could not imagine any more excitement being packed into our daily lives.

I don't have the mental or physical energy to blog about what's under the tip of the iceberg but when it comes to The Teenagers Adventures in Social Security Land I think every detail SHOULD be documented don't you?

When I arrived home today from the grocery store I had a voice mail message.

The message was addressed to the mother of (insert The Teenagers birth name) informing me that The Teenager needed an IQ and Achievement test which they would pay for but they needed to make sure that I would be bringing her for the testing. Never once did she state who "they" were or leave her actual name on the message.

And yes, just to be absolutely fair I just went in and re-listened to the message and no she never mentioned her name or the name of the agency she represented. She did miraculously leave a phone number which I suppose I should be thankful for.

I phoned the 1-800 number reaching a very pleasant lady who turned out to be from the Florida Disability Determination Office. That's three people I've dealt with who can't remember the correct name of the client they are working with but are as sweet as canned pineapple in heavy syrup. I'm beginning to suspect Prozac in the water cooler.

I asked why she was referring to The Teenager using her birth name which has not been her legal name since 1996.

"Oh, you will have to take that up with the Social Security office and have them change it."

Wrong answer.

I informed her I had taken it up with the Social Security office in 1996 and was in possession of a social security card and birth certificate with the correct name on it.

"Oh. It doesn't matter as long as I have the correct address."

"No, it does matter. It matters to me. It matters because The Teenager was adopted in 1996 and legally you should have no knowledge of her birth name as it does not exist. What you are doing is not legal. In other words you are telling me it would be ok for me to apply for SSI for my daughter under the name Elvis Presley even though that is not her legal name just as long as I used this address? Perhaps Elvis Presley is not a good example since he's dead and all. Let's say I apply for Social Security using the name Barack Husain Obama? It's ok just as long as I use this address even though that is not her legal name?"

"I'm changing it in the computer now!" she trills. "The reason I'm calling is that we need an IQ test on the Teenager and we will, of course pay for it!"

"She had one in July of 2011."

'What?"

"Yes, I brought the copy in to the Social Security Office."

"I don't have that..."

"Really? Why I'm totally shocked," I gasped.

I wanted to tell her that I forked $320.00 out of pocket for the IQ test because I think any psychologist who contracts with the agency for disability determinations is a nit wit who probably couldn't even get a job in a Filipino call center let alone a job as a real psychologist.

Instead, I told her I'd be happy to fax her the report I already turned in to J-O-H-N-N-Y in September.

"That would be wonderful," she tra la la'd

I think I could hear the bubbling of the water cooler in the background.

So I fax'd the $320.00 four page report stating The Teenager's IQ is 46. It cost me $6.00 and gas to Office Depot which ticked me off more than anything. After all, I am on a very strict budget and I wish these people would stop wiping their rear ends with my daughters medical records.

"It's ok to use my name! Just be sure to use the following address...Social Security Disability for everyone!"

Perhaps Obama should use my address in his next campaign and offer free SSI for anyone residing with me. He could modify his last campaign slogan just a tad.

It's about time!
It's about change!
Bogus name?
OK with Husain!

It would certainly do wonders for his popularity.

It's Official. The World Has Gone Completely Mad.

2011-10-12T13:42:00.001-07:00

Amish Arrested!

Seriously? The Amish attacking other Amish with scissors and battery powered hair clippers? Didn't their mothers ever teach them not to ~~run with~~ break and enter with scissors?

And assault with a battery powered hair clipper? Assault aside, are the Amish even allowed to use batteries? Just asking.

Is it me or do the above perps really look Amish to you?

Allegedly, one has had a previous brush with law enforcement for sexual contact with a minor. Care to guess which one by looking at their mug shots? I find it difficult to decide since they all look like Charles Manson wannabe's. And don't let that bowl cut on the right fool you. He's probably snortin' crushed Vicodin behind the haystack before he sets it on fire morphing old MacDonald has a farm into the MacDonald Triad.

I don't mean to be critical but while we're on the subject nothing says kissin cousins like the photos above either. The fact that 17 out of the 18 involved hair trimming, beard snatching families are "related" comes as no surprise when you look at those mug shots. Can first cousins marry in Ohio? How about siblings?

"Rachel called, Josiah. She told us to bolt the barn door and charge up the taser. We need to throw down them gangbanger foo's before they clip us tonight."

And what about these eight arrested in Kentucky for failure to affix those bright orange triangles to the back of their horse drawn buggy's because they violate their modesty codes. I know. I agree. Orange is for inmates and hookers...

but guys! What about those hairdos? Are perky flips modest? Really?

You want to talk perky flip? Look at me in 8th grade.

I don't know why this whole Amish thing has done me in today. Maybe it's because I'm always threatening to run away and become Amish. Maybe it's because I think they have the most wonderful, healthy life styles.

Maybe it's because if you can't trust the Amish not to scalp you who can you trust?

Next Mother Earth Project?

2011-10-09T07:47:00.001-07:00

While The Artist was here last week for Creative Clay's 5th annual Folk Fest she spent a good deal of time brushing Vanna White. The above pile of fur was one of about 7 or 8 piles over a two day period.

You can actually knit with Pyr fur. Every year at the Pyr club they auction off mittens and scarves.

My next project?

I'll pass.

The Boy and I are busy this morning making worm homes for our kitchen scraps.

And FYI...when you go to the Creative Clay link...Yes...that is The Boy.

I think the only thing he painted was his hands.

Kollassal Kraut Kuote

2011-10-08T14:47:00.001-07:00

"Good job, mom! Keep punching it!" The Teenager

I have to admit that there is something therapeutic about punching the stuffing out of a head of cabbage.

Trying out my new Pickl-It paraphernalia. Drove to Gulfport to a small produce stand that sells organic and locally grown produce to pick up the cabbage and makings for salsa.

Life is good.

We Did It!

2011-10-08T06:47:00.000-07:00

Last night Curly T and I got together at around 8:00 pm to try our hand at home canning. We had already poured through the Ball Jar Complete Book Of Home Preserving last week and finally decided on a recipe we both thought sounded good.

Strawberry Margarita Preserves.page 65.

The entire idea, of course, in beginning our adventure so late was that my kids would be in bed fast asleep. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Both The Boy and The Baby chose last evening to nut-up big time.

Curly T had a headache so bad she thought she was having a stroke. I was so irritated with my family I thought I was having a stroke. Finally, having had enough of the whining I decided on some adult therapeutic intervention.

No, we didn't drink the Tequila called for in the recipe. We ordered pizza. Pizza with gross things like mushrooms and onions and olives. Adult pizza. R-rated pizza that no child should or would consume.

It felt gooooood. Decadent almost.

The Teenager, who is ~~almost~~ always a delight, joined us.

Knowing absolutely nothing about canning, we began with the basics.

No. I'm not exaggerating. Do you know how daunting the process is when you factor in exploding Ball jars, elevation gauges and botulism?

We watched a few You Tube videos on preparing the jars deciding that there are some seriously sick folk on You Tube making canning videos. We poured over the Ball Jar book again and again. We pondered the altitude gauge for way too long. We Googled when we had to. The three of us took turns stirring. We jumped up and down at the sound of the pop-pop-popping of the jars sealing after we took them out of the water bath.

Yes, like 3 big dorks.

But the end result...

was oh so beautiful.

Curly T surprised me with an early/late birthday/Christmas present. Having suffered through my festering kraut escapade, but agreeing that the festering kraut was quite yummy, Curly T got on the internet and found a more efficient, sanitary way of making kraut.
A 3 liter pickle system from Pickl-It. The most fabulous pickling system around.

Today we are off to the market to buy cabbage because one can never have enough kraut festering in the kitchen.

Next up: Pineapple Jam.

State Fair here we come.

Still Swimming Upstream

2011-10-07T06:41:00.000-07:00

All week I've been playing phone tag with a nice sounding lady named Dee (not really but her name does begin with a 'D") from the local Social Security Office. When we eventually hooked up the conversation went something like this...

Dee: The Teenager has been approved for presumptive social security disability.
Me: What is presumptive Social Security disability?
Dee: She will receive SSI checks for 6 months until the medical committee decides to approve her or deny her.
Me: It takes 6 months to do that?
Dee: No. It never takes that long to decide.
Me: Huh?
Dee: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Me: I can't imagine her not qualifying with an IQ of 46, epilepsy, glaucoma and cerebral palsy...
Dee: Which is why she is gong to receive presumptive social security disability for 6 months. I need to review the information with you now and make sure nothing has changed since September.

What the heck? Did I accidentally write "nomad" instead of whitey under the race space?

(nomad (nō`măd'), one of a group of people without fixed habitation, especially pastoralists.)

What could have changed in a few weeks? Obviously we have a very ~~boring~~ stable lifestyle.

When I recently attended the Sparc2011 conference the guardian advocacy lady and I really hit it off and spent a great deal of time after her lecture swapping war stories. Our conversation eventually veered towards the social security fiasco parents encounter when applying for their special needs 18 year olds. I told her briefly about my encounter with Johnny.

"I have 6 different friends who have recently applied for SSI for their disabled child and all 6 have different, horrifying stories. If you didn't know better you would think all 6 were applying at 6 different, unrelated agencies." she stated.

True dat.

Dee: When The teenager turns 18...
Me: She is already 18. I have clearly indicated this on the original application that was not an application and when I was face to face with J-O-H-N-N-Y. She is already 18.
Dee: She is! Why she was 18 when you were in the office in September!
Me: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Dee: So this has nothing to do with your income then.
Me: Exactly, which is what I tried to explain to J-O-H-N-N-Y in September.

Johnny who asked me if I had a savings account and how much was in it and if i had a safe at home and how much was in it and did i have money stored in non-traditional places like under my mattress?

The Sparc2011 lady totally flipped out at this question. "Do not answer that! He has no legal right to ask you this!" Boy was she mad.

But too late at that point. Already answered.

Like I would actually put paper money under a mattresses with the dog who loves to pee on furniture? And converting to coin would seem like way too much trouble. I think if I had any money I would just use a bank...

Dee: So....she's already 18. Then this will be simple.
Me: uh-oh.
Dee: Does The Teenager own her own home?
Me: No.
Dee: Does she have a car, if so what is the value? Does she have any stocks, bonds, savings worth over $2,000?
Me: No.
Dee: Ok. So let's talk about the amount she will be receiving. She will be receiving $400 a month.
Me: Ok.
Dee: She is receiving $400.00 because she lives with you and you are supplying her needs so we deduct food and shelter from the amount she would normally get.
Me: Huh? So if she had her own apartment she would receive almost $700.00?
Dee: Yes.
Me: But since she is not able to be employed and I am supporting her that doesn't make sense.
Dee: When you start receiving her checks you can go to the Social Security office and bring proof of mortgage, food expenses, etc and they will consider giving her the full amount. But you have to have already begun receiving the presumptive disability checks to apply for her full amount. Your presumptive disability check should arrive in 5 days. If she is approved in 6 months by the medical committee then you will receive an additional check for the month of September but only if she is approved.
Me: Thank you for clarifying that.

Ever feel like you're sinking because the life boat has a big hole in it?
\

Happy Birthday Genius!

2011-10-05T04:26:00.001-07:00

The Genius and The Artist in Los Angeles
Nabisco's, "Celebrating 100 Extraordinary Women" contest winners

Hard to believe my "baby" is 41 this week. Seriously? The 7 lb 9 oz catalyst that changed the course of my life for the better forever.

Happy Birthday!

Yer Mama is proud of you!

Hooray!

2011-10-02T05:06:00.000-07:00

Go here:

Pinellas Park police recover stolen therapy tricycle - St. Petersburg Times

Romans 8:28

2011-10-01T04:24:00.001-07:00

Times photo by Dirk Shadd

"And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose. "

I woke up Thursday morning and checked my e-mail as always before rounding up the troupes for school and getting myself to work. There was a an e-mail from a mom of one of The Boys classmates that caught my immediate attention.

Christine's therapy bike had been stolen in the night. Please pray!

For those of you who have been following this blog for some time you may remember Christine from the Halloween dance. She was the first girl that The Boy ever asked to dance.

People THAT kind of milestone in a boy's life is never forgotten by a mom. Especially when they choose so wisely!

Dancing

Although I have to say he nearly frightened me to death as his dancing is much like his life. Wild and reckless. I told him to be careful with Christine but she was laughing so hard as they whirled around the dance floor...

Christine's mom and I spoke briefly as we were dropping the kids off at school on Thursday morning. I told her that I would bring a scholarship application from an organization that would replace the therapy bike later that afternoon.

When I picked the boy up at 2:30 pm a Bay News 9 van was at the school. The St. Petersburg Times had already interviewed the family at the school.

The mother of another student had alerted them all.

Yesterday at the school's bowling field trip Channel 10 news was at the alley. Go here to see the video.

At the bowling alley Christine's mom was filling me in on the community outpouring of concern and generosity. An outpouring of love.

Someone had given the police a $1,000.00 reward for the return of the bike. Countless citizens and organizations have offered to replace the $2,200 bike.

Why even the wheel chair company called and offered to buy Christine a new bike!

Mrs. M, Christine's mom and I were whooping with laughter about that offer in view of The Baby's one-armed drive fiasco. Christine's mom informed me that it had also taken well over a year to get Christine's wheel chair from them as well!

For some outpouring of love = good publicity.

For the majority of well wishers the outpouring of love is straight from their hearts.

Christine's mom also told me at the bowling alley that it dawned on her in a big way that the bike theft was not about Christine but about Christine and The Boy's school. She elaborated by stating how God works all things together for good. You see, no one is a better representative of the school our children attend than Christine's mother. Tirelessly raising funds and spreading the word. At the auction last year she sold 75 tickets to the fundraiser.

I couldn't even sell one.

Fundraisers are a big part of keeping the school going. Attendance is way down and parents and professionals are constantly trying to raise funds and spread awareness regarding this wonderful school.

Yesterday at the bowling alley I noticed that instead of filming and leaving as the news usually does, the reporter stayed the entire 2 hours. Her eyes continuously filling with tears as she watched the special students bowl.

She remarked to Christine's mom that she never knew a school like ours existed.

Christine's' mom, in true Christine's mom fashion, has engaged every reporter, camera man/woman and news anchor to spread the word and take part in the upcoming auction. Her exemplary attitude regarding the situation has been a testament to viewers, readers and reporters everywhere. And because of her our school shines.

Talk about your free publicity.

Roman's 8:28 in action. Story at 11.

Wheelchair One-Armed Drive Is Approved!

2011-09-29T15:11:00.001-07:00

Remember this post regarding my attempt to obtain a one-armed drive for The Baby's wheelchair. The Baby who is paralyzed on one side after being left in a hallway at birth for dead? The Baby, who because of this paralysis, is wheeling around in circles?

I never even updated the above July post with the argument I had in August with the wheel chair company who still had not done anything about the process stating the therapist had never responded to their request by writing the justification letter, therefore, they could do no more for me.

You know the therapist who told me she had written the justification letter last winter?

The one who really didn't ever write the justification letter as I discovered in August?

The one who has been with The Baby for four years but quit recently to take a better paying job? The one who left on good terms? The one who would not return my phone calls or e-mails regarding the one-armed drive when I battled with the wheel chair company just 2 weeks after she left us in August?

I guess in some people's minds when they are done they are just danged done.

If it was just about me I would've brushed it off my shoulders like a bad case of dandruff but The Baby? Wheeling in circles?

Sometimes it is simply too painful to contemplate as you're dangling in one-armed drive limbo.

Yesterday morning as I was driving to work I prayed the way Jesus taught us to pray by beginning with the "hallowed be thy name" part. You know. The part we often forget. The part where we forget to praise and revere our creator for the things He has done in our lives and the things He does on a daily basis? The many blessing we partake in and forget to acknowledge?

So yesterday morning while whizzing down the interstate I made it a point to acknowledge out loud why our creator is worthy of veneration by naming the blessings I am the recipient of on a daily basis one by one.

Somehow I ended up on the subject of the one-armed drive turning it completely over to Him. All of my frustration. All of my anxiety. Asking Him to intervene as He saw fit.

Today the phone call arrived.

The one-armed drive has been approved.

It was actually approved on Monday of this week but for $5.00 less that the actual equipment would cost the wheel chair company to purchase. They refused.

Because as we all know wheel chair companies are not charities.

No profit? No deal!

Today Medicaid bit the bullet and agreed to the wheel chair company's terms.

Now we wait as the wheel chair company orders the one-armed drive.

And we are thankful!

Today I Hit An All Time Low

2011-09-26T15:19:00.001-07:00

If you've been following this blog for any amount of time you know I love to thrift. In addition to "loving" to thrift I also possess a passion for re-purposing, re-using and re-cycling.

I'm also broke.

When I was in the Social Security office recently with The Teenager and learned that I "may qualify for Medicaid " I felt it was the perfect summation on paper of my current financial status.

Irregardless, I still "tithe" and have consistently for 11 years now. I give 10% of my income to organizations and ministries that I feel make a difference in communities primarily in this country. I just got a letter from an organization in inner city NYC last week with photos of two kids I sent to camp this summer. One of them I already know as I have been sponsoring her since she was in pre-k and she is now in middle school. My sponsorship provides Thanksgiving dinner, Christmas presents and school supplies and so much more.

The founder of this ministry, Bill Wilson, is from my city. He was abandoned by his alcoholic mother at the age of 12 on a bench near the over pass that runs a few blocks from the home I live in now. Every Christmas eve, Rev. Wilson comes back to our city and spends time sitting on that very bench where his mother left him.

He was taken in by the elders of a church up the street when they became concerned after seeing him sitting in the same spot for more than a day still waiting for his mom.

She never returned.

The church paid for his braces. They clothed and fed him. They sheltered him and they sent him to college.

Back in those days one could do this without DCF swooping in.

If you go to the organization link I posted above watch the video about Bill being shot. He has also been blinded and beaten while living in NYC since 1980. His associate pastor was stabbed and killed a few years ago.

Bill still lives in the same apartment he rented in Bedford-Stuyvesant over 30 years ago.

Over the years as my income has dwindled my 10% to worthy causes has as well. I keep telling the Lord that 10% of $3,000.00 is $300.00 while 10% of $300.00 is only $30.00.

He keeps reminding me He knows how to do math.

So we live frugally. Which brings me to hitting an all time low.

Yes, you all knew I'd get back to that eventually.

Last Monday I stopped at a local Salvation Army thrift store on a whim and discovered that the week before they had begun a senior 1/2 price day every Monday.

Be still my elderly heart!

Today I went back and spent a whopping $8.00.I bought a Liz Claiborne shirt for The Teenager, two shirts for The Baby, cammo pj's for The Boy, a Karen Neuburger nightgown and a red blouse for myself for work and....

a bra

No. It was not a new bra.

According to The Bra Fairy web site:

" On average women buy 7 bras per year from Walmart, Macy's, Lane Bryant, Nordstrom's, Victoria Secret, etc. at an average cost of $20-$60/bra for a total of $140 - $420 annually. (This does not include athletic, nursing or specialty bras.) Store-bought bras typically last only 3-6 months at most."

Seriously? $420.00 annually? I could send a lot of kids to camp for that price including my own crew.

And 3-6 months?

Snort.

I'll bet the bra donor spent more time in my thrift find today than 3 to 6 months. Just saying.

Anyway, I have to look at this realistically.

It cost me 99 cents and it hoists the puppies up. What more could one ask for?

Besides I'm tired of tripping on them.

Alice: " It would be nice if something would make sense for a change."

2011-09-25T05:20:00.001-07:00

Ms. Wheelchair Florida 2011
Mayra Paulina Reyes
Speaker at the SPARC2011 conference

Warning: You'd better read this all the way to the end if you have or know a child with special needs.

In 1993 I fell down the special needs rabbit hole and found myself in a curious world. Like Alice of Alice In Wonderland after that fall "...I should think nothing of falling down stairs." Which by the way, I have and it is far less painful than obtaining help for your special needs child.

My first introduction to an IEP was in 1996. The same year STAND was formed by a very small group of parents and professionals. Very small in every way. I attended an IEP workshop back in those early days and sat with an audience of about six individuals. Call us wildflowers.

Daisy: What kind of a garden do you come from?
Alice: Oh I don't come from any garden.
Daisy: Do you suppose she's a wildflower?

There was little direction in those days from the professionals who were supposed to be directing the parent so finding STAND was a gift from above. And even if you did receive direction from the directors you could count on numerous directions being incorrect at any given moment propelling you in the wrong direction.

Doorknob: Read the directions and directly you will be directed in the right direction.

It is a dilemma many of us face now but back in those days it was much worse. Even if you were intelligent enough to navigate statutes and fine print you still needed professional guidance and as Alice said, "curiosity often leads to trouble." Challenging an imperfect "system" often makes one slightly unpopular. Ask any whistle blower about that one.

Queen of Hearts: Now where do you come from?
Alice: Well, I'm trying to find my way home...
Queen of Hearts: Your way! All ways here are my ways!

Yesterday I attended SPARC2011 which STAND's for Stand Pinellas Accessing Resources Conference. It is the 5th annual resource conference put together by STAND. The list of presenters was so impressive I had a terrible time narrowing them down to just four. I ended up choosing a couple for me and a couple that would benefit my clients in the zero to three population. I wish I would have been able to sit in on ALL of lectures.

There were over 700 people in attendance. A far cry from the 1996 handful.

I've mentioned my journey regarding The Teenagers 18th birthday recently. She is followed by a program in the state of Florida which should have been able to help me with the transition to adulthood. It didn't. Actually the advice they gave me was more than wrong. It was really, really wrong.

Alice: Unbirthday? I'm sorry but I don't quite understand.
March Hare: It's very simple. Now thirty days has Septem-NO wait. An unbirthday, if you have a birthday, then you...

One of the presenters was the very articulate mom of a developmentally disabled son who turned 18 in February of 2009. She spoke on the Guardian Advocacy program which my state is fortunate enough to have implemented in 2008. The brain child of a kindhearted judge who was concerned about the special needs children whose parents did not have $6,000.00 to file for Guardianship, the Guardian Advocacy program insured the same rights as Guardianship but for a filing fee of $400.00. It is also a simplified process that a parent can accomplish without an attorney.

Currently the state of Florida is waiving the $400.00 fee.

The mom who spoke was the first parent to apply for Guardian Advocacy in the State of Florida. When she walked in to the courtroom the judge told her before she even opened her mouth...

"I don't like what you are doing."

The pioneer mom forged on and the judge granted her request anyway.

Alice: I simply must get through!
Doorknob: Sorry, your much too big. Simply impassible.
Alice: You mean impossible?
Doorknob: No, impassable. Nothing's impossible.

Here's a news flash for those of you who parent special needs children (and I include myself) especially those of you who have younger disabled children. And a news flash for people who DO NOT have a special needs child. I have spoken to many on this 18th birthday topic and ALL, yes, ALL have been horrified...

When someone turns 18 they are legally competent unless proven otherwise. I don't care how OBVIOUSLY disabled your child is they are still legally competent. I don't care if your daughter thinks Martin Luther King Jr. is the son of God.

They are competent until proven otherwise.

Alice: Of all the silly nonsense this is the stupidest tea party I've ever been to in all my life.

This means if your higher functioning yet socially incapable child meets a predator on the Internet who just happens to have an STD they can hook up if they want to. Yes, this happened to a friend who happens to be an attorney.

This means if your disabled child wants to marry a louse who is only interested in their SSI check they can without your permission. In a similar incident a neighbor of mine spent $40,000 and four years getting the marriage annulled.

This means if you are 70 and your disabled son is 50 and you've managed to get away with being his caretaker since his infancy you may come up against a problem when he needs surgery 32 years later. Why? Because you are not legally able to sign and someone has finally challenged you.

This 70 year old mom is currently going through the process of becoming a Guardian Advocate.

It makes absolutely no sense for everything to change for a parent of a child who is emotionally, socially, and/or physically incapable to care for themselves simply because said child turns 18. But change it does unless you take the steps to protect your child by filing for Guardianship or Guardian Advocacy.

For a higher functioning special needs child Power Of Attorney may be an option but remember this: the child must be mentally capable of granting Power Of Attorney to the parent. When or if the donor (child) becomes incapacitated the document will lose it's effectiveness and enforceability unless this possible scenario is specified in the original requested document. This is commonly referred to as Durable Power Of Attorney.

Eaglet: Speak English! I don't know the meaning of half those long words and I don't believe you do either!

Summary: When your special needs child turns 18 they are no longer your child.

Alice: I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same the next question is 'Who in the world am I?' Ah, that's the great puzzle!

Great puzzle, indeed.

Start now by aligning yourselves with other knowledgeable parents and groups like STAND. You'll be glad you did.

I'll keep you posted on the Guardian Advocacy process for The Teenager.

Let's hope it goes more smoothly than S-O-C-I-A-L S-E-C-U-R-I-T-Y.

That spells M-A-D-N-E-S-S.

Alice: But I don't want to go among mad people
Cheshire Cat: Oh but you must, you can't help that, we're all mad here. I'm mad. you're mad.
Alice: How do you know that I'm mad?
Cheshire Cat: You must be, or you wouldn't have come here.

Curb Alert! Curb Alert!

2011-09-21T12:38:00.001-07:00

I LOVE Freecycle although this post has nothing to do with Freecycle.

For those of you not familiar with the site it is a "gifting" group that offers free items. You can get anything from boxed cereal to chickens to generators for absolutely nothing. You can also make "offers' of items you have that you would like to get rid of. I recently cleaned out my fabric scraps and crafting items and rather than donate them to a thrift shop where they would probably get destroyed before they were even unwrapped I put them on Freecycle knowing someone out there would want them.

You remember this guy from this post?

"hey i'm wondering on the sizes of scraps? are they in odd shapes? i'm in need of curtains and ceiling covers. are they very "girly" colors? i am a guy but not opposed to all floral patterns. hope to hear back thanks"

I have visions of being 93 and mumbling, "ceiling cover...ceiling cover....what is a ceiling cover...."

The same week as ceiling cover man I met a 70 year old retired nurse who had just begun pursuing her life long dream as a collage artist and who gleefully grabbed up my vintage sheet music. We had the BEST time talking about art, nursing, and long lost dreams come true I almost forgot to see my next client.

The older I get the more i love re-using and re-cycling and re-purposing and people who re-use, re-cycle and re-purpose.

Of my five beautiful children when it comes to thrifting and freebies two of them are like me, digging through trash like puppies on steroids.

Can you guess which two?

And that brings me to "curb alerts."

Three families have moved out of our neighborhood recently. I was happy to see the lunatics next door go even though they left their teenagers behind in the house. As it turns out the teens are much more responsible than the parents ever were. And even thought there are usually a minimum of 6 cars on any given day parked in front and sometimes on my lawn, it is so nice not to wake up to the sound of the mother spewing the "f" word and/or the husband apologizing for bashing the wife's head into the pool, the wall, the tree...whatever.

Good riddance. God is merciful. I have no desire whatsoever to deal with someone afflicted with borderline personality disorder. If I did I would have been a psychiatric nurse not a pediatric nurse.

The next two families didn't bother with bagging their left behind trash. They just threw it out on the street and split. This clogged up traffic one day as the trash men took forever picking up their crap.

Yesterday another pile appeared a few doors to the left. What is wrong with these people? Haven't they ever heard of Hefty bags?

Enter The Boy. He comes through the front door all excited having found an in line skate in the heap.

"Look! I found wheels for our chicken coop!"

Even though the wheels were way too small for our chicken tractor I just wanted to squeeze him he was so darned cute.

And then I took a good look at the skate.

"Is there another one, " I asked nonchalantly?

Those suckers were PERFECT and are going right on Craig's List. Call me a dumpster entrepreneur but I am making money from these things not chicken wheels.

So I meandered down to the pile with The Boy and began picking through the items in a lady like manner.

Like any of my neighbors peeping through their curtains bought that one.

I found this:
A book I have always wanted to read! I know nothing about sports. I don't watch sports. The closest I ever got to anything football was dating two foot ball players in high school. But I have always loved two football figures, Tony Dungy and Lee Roy Selmon. Both are such men of honesty and integrity in a sports world gone mad

Rest In Peace Lee Roy. You are sadly missed.

And then The Boy found these:

And this:

I end this story with something that happen this week at The Boy's school. I was putting The Boy's wheelchair in the back of the van when Mrs. Needs-To-Be-Canonized spotted a vintage oil paining that i had in the back. She informed me her daughter collected old paintings and I gladly gave it to her. It was kind of a school parking circle pick-up "curb alert." She was thrilled. I was thrilled and apparently her daughter was thrilled until she realized out loud...

"She must think I'm such a loser shopping out of the back of her van!" And then Mrs. Needs-To Be-Canonized informed her who owned the van.

"Oh! It was The Boy's mother? Ok!"

I am still laughing.

Oh and before I forget...can anyone guess which one of my other children loves to dumpster dive?

Fullfilling Life Long Dreams or The Week In An Eggshell

2011-09-18T07:22:00.000-07:00

Frizzle chickens

There's a chill in the air. It's currently 81 degrees.

Brrrrrr.

I love this time of year. One can actually garden and not faint.

On the home improvement scene this week I'm moving my entire house around and rearranging furniture. My friend, Heart of Dixie, sent a twin four poster bed with carved roses on the head board all the way from Alabama for The Baby a few weeks ago. Iris/Virus's hubby, The Beard, set it up.

It is gorgeous!

The Baby is tickled pink with her "Princes Bed." Literally. She keeps wrapping her self up in the pink canopy that drapes over the posts, giggling. While making the bed up with the linens I had just washed, I bumped "The Finger" which pulsated blood everywhere.

The Princess Bed quickly turned into a crime scene.

I immediately transferred The Baby, fresh from the tub, to the twin bed in the same room (that I had also just made up) where she promptly peed all over the Pottery Barn Quilt and through the layers of sheets and blankets. I was up til midnight washing everything.

Again.

This week The Boy and I hauled furniture from the garage and from up stairs where I dropped a full sized box spring on my toe. You know the one with the horrific arthritic joint? The one that the orthopedic surgeon told me was the worse arthritis he had ever seen and I needed a joint replacement but they don't make artificial joints for that area?

Because that is life, isn't it? You have nine perfect toes so you drop the box spring on number ten. I'm sure I broke it but it is so painful on a daily basis it sincerely doesn't matter.

I assured The Boy he did not need to call 911 and to simply ignore me. So proud of him for knowing the appropriate response to a woman's agonizing screams.

On the gardening scene this week I pulled weeds, bought established vegetable plants and planted tomatoes, cabbage, zucchini, and lettuce. I'm growing everything in pots this winter, inspired by one of my favorite blog-sters and by Mrs. M who does pots and "doesn't have the patience for seeds." I'm amending the soil with manure.

So much poo. So little time.

On the school scene Mrs. M and I attended the first PTA meeting at The Boy's school where the president was telling a new parent about the PTA's biggest fundraiser, The Auction, ending with the statement, "and they serve beer and wine." Mrs. M leaned over to me and whispered that they should also serve alcohol at the PTA meetings.

I love Mrs. M.

I also love The Boy's new teacher, Mrs. Zookeeper as does The Boy, although he sorely misses Mrs. Needs-To-Be-Canonized.

Mrs. Needs-To-Be-Canonized who greeted me at the car circle dressed like an alien this week to promote a school fund raiser. This was probably the catalyst that prompted my Menierre's attack. The metallic fabric of her weird garb swirled round and round provoking a serious case of nystagmus. We really take our 8th cranial nerve for granted.

The Boy wraps Mrs. Needs-To-Be-Canonized in toilet paper.

On the crafting scene I'm working on a project for The Baby's room. A month ago I eyeballed a nasty, plastic king-sized headboard in a local thrift shop which was seriously ugly but had intriguing swirls that would make an awesome side rail for the other twin bed. I knew exactly how i would turn this eye-sore into a work of art but not for the $59.00 they were asking. No way, Jose.

Who actually happens to be the manager of the thrift store.

This week it was still there. No surprise. I spoke with Jose and told him something i think he already knew. No way was he selling that plastic atrocity for $30.00. Yes it was still "half-price." I noticed all the other headboards were gone but my king-sized blight on the head board industry was standing alone. He gleefully gave it to me for $20.00. I can't wait to show you my creation!

After I go out and charge a new camera.

On the fulfilling life long dream scene I ordered a water bath, steamer, canner to fulfill my life long ambition of canning my own produce and unable to wait for it's arrival, I spent the evening watching You Tube videos on making home made sauerkraut. This does not require a canner.

I have a crock ~~festering~~ fermenting in the kitchen as we speak.

One of the kraut videos showed a woman stomping the cabbage with her feet to make her sauerkraut. I will never do this. I know. I know. You are probably saying that people drink wine whose grapes were stomped by foot but they are probably also drunk and don't really think about the toe jam thing.

As God is my witness I will never step on my kraut.

On the fulfilling life long dream scene part two I have begun the fulfillment of my life-long chicken ambition. The Boy and I are going to modify a Dogloo that I purchased on Craig's List into a coop. I have a lot of research ahead of me right now but hope to be up and running in a few months. I am employing my neighbor to make a predator proof, custom fit, door/ramp for the coop although I haven't informed him of this yet.

He will also be helping me build a chicken tractor so they can free range in the garden. I haven't shared that with him either.

I am saving and preparing egg shells to re-feed them and researching additional ways to feed them inexpensively. We're raising earthworms to supplement any commercial feed we will have to purchase. Guess who's in charge of the worms?

And we are researching chicken breeds primarily interested in egg layers that are heat tolerant. I love the Frizzles.

We will purchase 3 which is what they advise instead of the two that i really wanted. Since chickens are very social beings within their own cluck cliques if something happens to one the other two will be ok. I've also learned from Brasilia when Peep was killed by a predator leaving Re-Peep alone and lonely. They've had behavioral issues with Re-Peep ever since the tragedy.

Also this way we all get to name a chicken except The Baby who sincerely does not give a hoot about anything involving nature. If it isn't pink, purple, frilly or involves shopping and looking in the mirror she is not interested.

The Boy has named his prospective chicken Sabrina. The Teenager has named hers, Elliana. I will be having a name-that-chicken contest once the girls arrive. The winner will receive....well...you'll just have to wait and see.

All in all it's been a very good week. I'm off now to finish a two story cardboard three dimensional replica of our house with The Baby. Her homework.

No comment.

So how was your week?

I'm A Prepper!

2011-09-11T07:42:00.000-07:00

Photo courtesy of Google Images

I'm a Prepper, he's a Prepper,
She's a Prepper, we're a Prepper,
Wouldn't you like to be a Prepper, too?
(parody of the famous Dr. Pepper jingle)
Finally! A name for my inborn personality disorder!
Since early childhood when we evacuated for hurricanes I packed bedding, food, blankets, lawn chairs and candles while my parents eventually toted a fifth of whiskey and Pierre the Poodle to our wood paneled station wagon.
I'm a PREPPER!
I realize more and more that I am no longer a "fringe" personality but becoming "mainstream" as the video below mentions when I meet more and more people who have chickens in the city, gardens in their back yard, and new licenses to carry concealed. (you know who you are)
He's a Prepper!
I admire my neighbor Brasilia's solar shower and lugable loo.
She's a Prepper!
I have always seen things differently from most folk who think the government will help in times of crisis. I thought it was the Vietnam Generation I was born into deeply ingrained in my psyche but hurricanes Andrew and Katrina dispelled that myth. My buddy Myrtle lost it all in Katrina as did countless others. It was a bitter lesson learned when the government was no help whatsoever. Instead, her relief came from fellow human beings who practice humanity like my daughter The Artist. She and others helped Myrtle and her elderly husband by supplying the basics of survival.

Like food.

We're a Prepper!

Go to this link and watch this well done mini documentary.

And when you've seen it I have one question for you after you pull your head out of the sand...

Wouldn't you like to be a Prepper , too?

Somehow This Seems Symbolic

2011-09-09T04:24:00.000-07:00

The weather here is chilly i.e., 76 degrees this morning and you can smell fall in the air.

Not that we have fall in Florida but I think I can smell it in Maine or something.

Yesterday after getting The Baby down for a nap after school, inspired by the temperatures below 95 (with a heat index of 110), I weeded one of the front garden beds. When I stuck my left hand in to the beach sunflowers something bit me.

YEOW! Blood everywhere. Piece of brown glass.

Dang dump mulch.

I am just recovering from a knife slice on my right hand and that has given given me some discomfort. I am not a wimp but finger cuts hurt like the dickens because of the touchy feely nerve endings. And bleed like crazy.

Plus I don't have a dishwasher and my hands are submerged constantly so healing time is generally delayed. I'm on my third pair of Playtex Gloves as the latex fingers keep getting sliced.

I can't imagine why.

Last night, cleaning up after dinner i threw something away and in doing so cut the tip of my finger off on a broken Corning Ware bowl in the garbage can.

It's times like this when I get kind of wistful about not having a husband around so he could finish the dishes while i stop the spurting.

Maybe this guy who answered my Freecycle add when I offered a bag of fabric scarps including vintage curtains last week might be interested in the position ...

"hey i'm wondering on the sizes of scraps? are they in odd shapes? i'm in need of curtains and ceiling covers. are they very "girly" colors? i am a guy but not opposed to all floral patterns. hope to hear back thanks"

What in the world is a ceiling cover? Maybe I don't want a husband.

On the other hand...no pun intended...I always have my neighbor, Brasilia. You remember her? She's the one who butter-flied my head together when I got swoony with the flu and hit the wall? I called her and she ran right over.

"OOOOOH! You cut your finger tip off!" she remarked excitedly upon seeing the wound.

Brasilia is always up for a good time.

After she got The Baby out of the tub (who by now had turned in to a little black raisin), put her p.j's on and tucked her in she got to my finger.

Or at least what was once my finger.

I'd been marching around the house with my arm in a high salute with a paper towel wrapped around it applying pressure. People ask me if I went to the Emergency Room. What for? So they could tell me I cut the tip of my finger off and charge me $2,000?

Besides Brasilia is great at first aid and she's free. And it was halfway through the bandaging that we noticed which fingers were affected on both hands and began laughing and laughing and laughing. Laughing makes you bleed more but it was so much more fun than an emergency room would have been.

Brasilia finished up the pots in the sink and then went through the house wiping up the trail of blood before she left.

Iris took the above photo and sent it to The Genius so she could e-mail it to me for the blog. Not having a camera makes one seriously creative.

My phone rings....OMG what happened? Are you in pain?

I told her it's just a finger tip. No worries. And no pain. Not after 2 cups of coffee and 1/2 of a Vicodin.

Which...I've decided this morning...is the real breakfast of champions.

Would The Real Rose Stewart Please Step Forward?

2011-09-07T13:09:00.000-07:00

Or in our case Rose Stewart

Yesterday my cellphone rang and as usual I couldn't find it. When I finally retrieved it it was from Johnny at the Social Security office.

"Hello Mrs. Stewart. This is Johnny at Social Security and I had a few more questions to ask you about The Teenager."

'NOOOOOOOOOOO!" I shrieked out loud.

I couldn't believe I missed the call knowing full well how difficult it would be to reach him. Ever actually try to call your local Social Security office?

Also I couldn't believe he called me Mrs. Stewart. Why you ask?

That's not my name. Not even close.

That has NEVER been my name.

That is not The Teenagers name and never has been.

Now. Did you really need to ask?

On a positive note, however, I'm getting really excited regarding The Boy and his severe dyslexia! Perhaps one day he too can be a Social Security clerk!

R-O-S-E! That spells GRACE!

I immediately phoned back but received a message that the office was closed. Since Johnny (who wanted to ask me a few more questions) didn't leave his extension it was impossible to "just ask for Johnny" when the operator apparently doesn't answer after 3 PM

It was 3:10 PM

I called several times today and finally got through to Johnny who thanked me for calling him back so promptly. If he only knew.

He wanted to know what grade The Teenager completed.

Now there's a can of worms.

How do you assess "grade level completed" with an IQ of 46, a pre-k math level and a reading level of grade 2.9 over all.

We settled on second grade as Johnny was determined to get a grade "completed" out of me.

And then he starts..."Ok so if she is 18 now and she completed the second grade that would be the year 2000?'

Seriously? What don't you understand about an IQ of 46, Johnny?

Kinda reminded me of one my favorite movies, The Princess Bride and Miracle Max...

Max: Have fun stormin' da castle.
Valerie: Think it'll work?

Max: It would take a miracle.

We have 120 days to see if we successfully stormed da Social Security castle.

You'll be the first to know.

M-O-O-N ! That Spells Nebraska! - Tom Cullen

2011-09-02T13:49:00.001-07:00

Tom Cullen from The Stand

I'm not a Stephen King fan but one of my favorite books happens to be The Stand which is King's 1978 post-apocalyptic novel made into a tv mini-series featuring the above actor as Tom Cullen. In the novel, Tom Cullen is a developmentally disabled man who has significant spelling inadequacies to put it nicely.

Everything is spelled, M-O-O-N to be specific.

"M-O-O-N! That spells parade!"

Today I believe I met his cousin. He's employed by the Social Security office.

Since The Teenager is now 18 I have been going through the process of applying for Social Security disability. When a special needs child is adopted in our state they receive Medicaid until they are 18 other wise no one would adopt from our foster system because no one could afford the outrageous medical bills of anyone with multiple medical complexities. Ok, maybe Rosie O'Donnel could afford the bills but I can't think of anyone else right now.

Because The Teenager has significant medical and cognitive disabilities she should have no problem qualifying for SSI so that she can maintain her insurance which will end any day now.

I didn't collect SSI for the first 18 years so this is a new process and we're starting from scratch.

Beginning 2 weeks ago, I spent 3 hours on line filling out what I thought was a Social Security Disability application. I waited this long because two people told me I could not apply for her until she was 18.

They were wrong. You can apply when the disabled child is 17 1/2.

I wasted 6 months. Help me, Jesus.

No matter how many times I entered her multiple specialists names, addresses, phone numbers, first appointment, last appointment and next appointment the web site told me I was entering a "new specialist name"and that they did not recognize it. This went on at least 3 times. Page after page.

I kept entering and entering and entering...the same names and phone numbers and addresses and first appointment and last appointment and next appointment...over and over and over and over...

Three hours later I was done.

And then this popped up:

"We have received The Teenager's disability report on August 10, 2011 at 6:30 PM Eastern Time. The disability report you just completed is NOT a formal application for benefits, but is part of the claims process...If you have not already done so, contact us immediately."

Seriously?

So I called and made an appointment.

One week after making the appointment I received a verification in the mail addressed to The Teenager's BIRTH NAME. You know the name that hasn't been used since 1996 when the adoption was finalized?

Four days after the first packet arrived I received a second identical packet also addressed to the birth name.

I was NOT happy.Today at the appointment we arrived early and were greeted by a security guard. I couldn't see a receptionist anywhere so I informed him we had an appointment.

"You have an appointment?" He sounded shocked.

This didn't sound promising. I assured him we did.

"Go to the kiosk and press one on the computer," he instructed gruffly.

I obeyed, pressed one, got a receipt and had a seat.

We weren't waiting long when a voice over the intercom told us to report to window 23.

And then the voice on the intercom screeeeeees, "WOULD DUYEN NGUYEN....D-U-Y-E-N N-G-U-Y-E-N please go to window 7? LAST CALL for Duyen Nguyen!"

So much for confidentiality...

Two and a half hours later we were done with the "application." One of the highlights of our appointment was me asking the clerk exactly why he needed to know if I had a life insurance policy when The Teenagers SSI application had nothing to do with my income.

"Well, it won't when she's 18," he says.

"She's 18 now," I reminded him.

No response.

"What is the value of your life insurance policy? " He's ignoring me.

"Dead or alive?" I ask.

"Both."

The Teenager looks up. "This is sooooooo boring." She proceeds to bang her doll on the counter.

Normally I would stop the autistic-like behavior.

But not today. I am thinking these people DESERVE to be driven crazy just like they are driving me crazy.

bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang

bangity bangity bang

The banging stops after 30 minutes."What's this for?" she inquires pointing to the plexiglass barrier separating us from the clerk.

How do you tell your developmentally disabled child the plexiglass is there so clients can't jump through the window and kill the Social Security clerk?

Just then the security guard walks past.

"He has a gun!" she shrieks.

Yes sweetie and I'm pretty sure he uses it at least once a day.

The clerk scans the medical records i brought and hands me a nice neat packet that is all about ME and not the Teenager. I can't help but notice that I am so poor that I may "qualify for Medicaid" myself. I have fantasies of dropping my Blue Cross Blue Shield and sucking the system dry until I notice the 1/2 inch packet, once again, has the WRONG name on it.

The Birth Name.

"This is the wrong name. This is not even legal. I need paperwork reflecting the legal name not the name that no longer exists." I can't believe I am actually calm while I'm telling him this.

He informs me he's not going to reprint it.

"Really? This is not HER NAME."

He tells me he has corrected it in the computer.

"Then why is it still printing out her BIRTH NAME?" I ask.

He takes the paper from me...and yes....this story is 100% true and I have the copy in my possession to prove it...he scratches out the middle name and pens in a name.

He leaves the rest of the incorrect name as is.

"What is this? This isn't legal. Anyone could have written this. What is your name?" I ask calmly.

"My name is Johnny," he replies.

"Johnny. How does anyone know that you, a Social Security office clerk, wrote this name in and not me?" I asked politely.

And then I notice the middle name he has penned in over the wrong middle name...

R-O-S-E

"Johnny. The Teenagers correct middle name is Grace." I inform him.

"That is Grace,'" he replies.

"But you wrote R-O-S-E."

And then I thought about Tom Cullen from The Stand.

R-O-S-E that spells Grace!

Johnny realized pretty quickly I wasn't going to leave even if the security guard shot me and eventually reprinted the cover sheet with the corrected, legal name.

And now we wait 120 days for our "answer."

Wanna bet the answer is addressed to the wrong name?

Wanna bet The Teenager is denied?

I say Y-E-S.

Because that spells N-O.

The Teenager Turns 18!

2011-08-31T16:12:00.002-07:00

What was she looking at?

Oh, nothing. Just the giant Hummer limo that picked her up at 5:00 pm.

Filled with balloons, cool fiber optic lights, mirrored ceiling, loud music, pizza...

mom....

brother....

silly dancing sisters...

and teenage friends.

Stopping at various locations throughout the city for a "scavenger hunt' where pre-planted gift bags for each teenager were waiting.

And oooo-la-la I had sooooooo much fun shopping for nail-themed items, bath-themed items, writing-themed items and candy themed items.

And eating the candy-themed items.

Only one melt down regarding a left behind gift bag, ( The Teenager) one seizure ( a guest), and one popper mishap pictured above. Seriously! I'm amazed myself at how smoothly it all went.

And at the end of the three hour limo ride, a very happy teenager.

Happy 18th! You've come a long way baby!

Adoptive Child Syndrome

2011-08-26T03:58:00.000-07:00

"In twenty-five years of practice I have seen hundreds of adoptees, most adopted in infancy. In case after case, I have observed what I have come to call the Adopted Child Syndrome, which may include pathological lying, stealing, truancy, manipulation, shallowness of attachment, provocation of parents and other authorities, threatened or actual running away, promiscuity, learning problems, fire-setting, and increasingly serious antisocial behavior, often leading to court custody. It may include an extremely negative or grandiose self-image, low frustration tolerance, and an absence of normal guilt or anxiety." ("The Adopted Child Syndrome: What Therapists Should Know," Psychotherapy in Private Practice, vol. 8 (3) Hayworth Press, 1990)....

David Kirschner, Ph.D (No, not the same David Kirschner, producer, who did the Chucky film series) coined the phrase and although it is not an "approved" diagnosis by the American Psychiatric Association it is an interesting concept.

Knowing of more than a few failed adoptions I'm of the firm belief that it would be a good idea if this subject was touched on in the Model Approach to Partnership in Parenting (MAPP) classes required for all potential adoptive parents instead of the inane "role -playing" dramatizations they put prospective parents through. I remember my role playing assignment had me miming a tire change on an imaginary car. Seriously, to this day I have no clue as to how this exercise prepared me to be an informed foster parent or adoptive parent.

Especially since I pay AAA auto club to change my tires for me.

A friend of mine who took the classes years later called me weekly to tell me horror stories regarding the supervisor who taught her MAPP classes The one story that sticks with me all these years later was that according to my friend the supervisor kept discussing "gentiles" and she and her husband could not figure out what gentiles had to do with anything until it became apparent that the supervisor was mispronouncing "genitals."

Of course the flip side is that if prospective adoptive parents were given the good, the bad and the ugly statistics in their MAPP classes would anyone ever adopt? Certainly those on the fence might climb off leaving behind the seasoned veterans who actually know what they are getting in to but even those seasoned veterans who've already experienced and won battles are sometimes taken by surprise.

This week, for instance, the arrest of the adopted son of dear friends was plastered on the front page of our local newspaper. After reading the article and being overwhelmed with grief for his wonderful parents I did my own Internet mini-study last night.

Of the five families I personally know who have adopted boys, now in their 20's two are currently in jail, the third has been arrested four times and the fourth has been arrested 3 times.

Only the fifth has never had a brush with the law but is currently living at home driving his parent person insane.

Although experts don't all buy the Adoptive Child Syndrome almost all will agree on the fact that if a child is adopted before the age of 6 months the outcome is generally the same as if they had been raised by a birth parent.

Hello!

Who in our current foster system is adopted before the age 6 months? According to the Child Welfare Information Gateway the average age of the adopted foster child is 8 1/2 years while a 2005 study showed 7 years. Of course there are some exceptions but rarely are those exceptions under 6 months of age.

Who's to blame? Don't ask me. I'm pretty certain you don't want to hear it.

One of my favorite bloggers and someone who lives in the trenches is Cindy of Big Mama Hollers. Reading this post yesterday, as always, gave me more food for thought.

The difficulties of adoption, whether you are the adoptive parent or the adoptee, needs to be addressed in detail before embarking on the life. If you have had experiences with adoption or know more than one person who has adopted, you have a pretty good idea that some adoptions do not always, realistically speaking, end well. The fail rate alone of teens who are adopted is 14- 15%.

So what can we do?

I believe the most productive thing a prospective adoptive parent can do is to educate themselves and not rely on the "system" to adequately prepare you for the issues that the majority of adoptive families will face.

Once you've completed your Forever Family Puppies & Rainbows classes take a moment to ponder these blogs from veterans that will tell it like it really is:

Big Mama Hollers
Mega Family Living
Never A Dull Moment

Or you can do your own searches for your own blogs. There are hundreds out there.

Read about what it's like from the child's perspective when they find themselves snared in the foster care web starting with Three Little Words by Ashley Rhodes-Courter and The Red Glass:From Abuse Hell To Living Well by my friend Pamela K. Keyser.

And for all of you Pollyanna's out there I'll go ahead and apologize now. The above rant is intended to inform.

I did not set out to pee in your punch bowl.

The Magic School Bus

2011-08-22T18:44:00.001-07:00

School started today.It was the happiest day of my life. I love my children but after this summer I was seriously thinking about becoming an alcoholic.

Remember last year and 25 days before we got a school bus for The Baby? Well, this year we got one on the first day of school!

The FIRST day!

Of course it went down the wrong side of the street and parked two houses down. Call me smarty smarty because I just knew that bus down yonder parked at the wrong house had to be our bus so I went screeeeeeing out the front door waving my old lady dingle dangle arms in the air.

A faceless voice out a small window yelled at me, "The Baby?"

Yes!

"We'll be right back. We went the wrong way."

As my 86 year old mother used to say before she passed away, "No sh*t, Sherlock."

Eventually the bus weaved it's way through the maze of my neighborhood landing on the correct side of the street to lower the wheel chair lift AND in front of our house. We put the baby on the wheel chair lift and she jerk, jerk, jerked up.

And then jerk jerk jerked down.

And then up up up.

And then down down down.

And then up up up.

Seems the driver couldn't get the lift level with the door.

The Baby looked a little worried now so I soothed her with my ~~fakest~~ biggest I'm-not- worried-look-at-mommy-smile informing her that this experience was better and bumpier than a Disney World ride.

And no admission fee!

Finally level the driver pushed the button to release the flap blocking the bus entrance so we could roll her back into the bus and the awaiting aide.

It didn't work so he pushed the remote button again.

And again

And again.

After about 10 to 12 button pushes he reached over and flicked it with his finger and the flap fell over like a piece of flimsy cardboard. I was starting to have some concerns...

Thinking it was over I go inside to finish getting ready for work and get The Boy up. I'm sipping my coffee when I notice the bus is still in my front yard. I look at the clock. It's been there 20 minutes. It looks like the LA freeway in front of and behind the bus from cars waiting.

I know my neighbors seriously hate me by now.

I finally go outside when I see the bus driver get out of the bus again. An alarm is ringing. He explains that he can't get the door to latch. You know, the door The Baby sits next to.

The alarm goes ding ding ding diiiiiinnnngggggg as he fiddle faddles with the door.

Fiddle.

Faddle.

As always I'll have to tough this one out un-medicated and pray I don't have a stroke in the meantime.

He finally gets the door latched so I go indoors.

And then he sits grinding gears for five minutes in front of my house.

Did it get better? No.

The bus was 40 minutes late in the afternoon. It arrived at 2:40 pm. School is over at 1:30 pm. The Boy's school is in another area of town and gets out at 2:30 pm. I had promised to pick up Mrs. M's daughter as well as Mrs. M is swamped with appointments.

After Iris rescued all of us Mrs. M and I sat across from each other in my living room.

"What a day," she sighs.

I didn't even have to ask. I figured if it was anything like mine we were blessed to be cerebrovascular accident free and still able to communicate with each other over our bottled water without drooling.
.
So how was your day?

Too Bad Our Salaries Don't Double Every Year Like Our Electric Bills

2011-08-20T05:21:00.001-07:00

My electric bill history printout really slapped me awake today. I had signed up for on line payments this week after the post office lost my check last month. Getting hit with a two month bill this week was terrible financial timing.

Mortgage Delinquencies And Foreclosures

Cruising around the Progress Energy sight this morning since they still haven't taken my payment out of checking I found this:

Payment History:


Payment Date
07/29/2009	$163.00
09/14/2009	$183.00
09/25/2009	$188.00
11/03/2009	$183.00
12/01/2009	$217.00
12/28/2009	$217.00
Total for '09	$1,151.00

02/01/2010	$217.00
03/01/2010	$218.00
03/29/2010	$218.00
04/30/2010	$218.00
05/28/2010	$206.00
06/29/2010	$206.00
07/28/2010	$206.00
08/30/2010	$214.00
09/28/2010	$214.00
11/01/2010	$214.00
11/30/2010	$214.00
12/29/2010	$214.00
Total for '10	$2,559.00

01/28/2011	$214.00
02/28/2011	$204.00
03/24/2011	$204.00
04/25/2011	$204.00
05/31/2011	$181.00
06/28/2011	$181.00
08/18/2011	$383.00
Total for '11	$1,571.00

Civilian Unemployment Rate from The Department of Labor

Achieving Balance

2011-08-18T12:55:00.000-07:00

Does one ever achieve balance with a parcel of special needs children? Ever?

The Boy has been sleeping through the night this week thanks to The Big City Doctor and his prescription. Yesterday I phoned Iris/Virus from work at 10 am and made her take his pulse because he was still asleep. He was not thrilled.

You pray for sleep and when it comes through chemistry you are checking respiration's and carotid pulses. Are we ever happy?

Last night he heads to bed and says, "Do not wake me up in the morning."

This from The Boy who hasn't slept through the night in a year and hasn't napped in 8 years and would never, ever admit he was sleepy even if he was asleep.

I've died and gone to heaven.

And the new attitude? I'm not sure I know who this boy is. Calm. Sweet. Cooperative.

Alien abduction aside it's got to be the sleep.

Someone asked how come it took so long to get him on some medication when the sleep deprivation was so severe? I believe I present my self as being a tad too calm and therefore the severity of the issue must have been minimized in the eyes of The Big City Doctor.

This time me screeching, "We are in crisis!" and "I'm going to drop him off at a fire station!" got the ball rolling. The wracking sobs helped, too.

Today we went to school orientation for The Boy. Mrs. Needs-To-Be-Canonized was canonized over the summer and crowned the principal. The Boy was not happy to lose his favorite teacher until he met his new teacher a cute, new graduate who Mrs. M observed was only slightly older than The Boy.

"I think I have a crush." he sighs.

And do you remember your new teachers name? (I do because I wrote it on a bank envelope. Miss Zulinski)

Silence.

I'll give you a hint.....Miss Zooooooooo

"Miss Zookeeper!" he shouts.

No sweetie. Not her job description. Her name.

"I'm A Little Sleepy"

2011-08-16T10:27:00.000-07:00

Just got home from work early as my last client didn't open the door although i could see them peeping out of their curtains. Gotta love it.

Last night The Boy took his first dose of sleepy medicine prescribed by The Big City Doctor.

The Boy slept through the night for the first time in...oh...say a year?

This morning as I was getting up for work at 7:00 am he came out of his bedroom but informed me, "I'm only going to the bathroom and then I'm gong back to bed."

And he did.

This afternoon he greeted me with holy words I never thought I'd hear in his lifetime.

"I'm a little sleepy."

You know I'm Ms. Organic and all for holistic treatment but it doesn't do you much good when you're dead. Which is where I was heading from lack of sleep and cortisol levels through the ceiling from stress.

As Mrs. M says, "Thank God for drugs and the M.D.'s who prescribe them."

Amen.

Hallelujah

2011-08-15T09:50:00.000-07:00

The Big City Doctors' nurse called me this morning to see how the weekend went. I told her I went to sleep at 11:30 pm last night and The Boy went to bed at 9:30 pm. He woke up 3 times in the 2 hours I was still up. Once for water. Once to potty. Once to torment me.

This morning he had a major meltdown.

And then I found the stool pulled up to the cabinets and a bowl of peanut butter in the sink. Clear evidence that he had been up roaming around when I was sleeping.

Probably all night.

We hung up and I figured that was the last I'd hear but an hour ago the phone rang and The Big City Doctor feels the lack of sleep is a contributing factor to the meltdowns.

Do you think? I know I am ready to rip someones head off and I get at least a few more hours sleep than the boy does. Of course I also maintain a two story house, gardens, work and take care of 3 special needs kids as well but we won't go into that sob story because I don't feel like whining today.

The Big City Doctor is prescribing something for sleep to be given with the melatonin and the Tenex. All three together? Yes, the nurse confirmed.

Sounds like they are bringing out the big guns. Which is good because now I won't have to shoot myself.

I hung up and could have sworn I heard a choir of angels singing.

When the Boy was a baby he went through a period of babbling, cooing and talking to someone who was very tall...only there was no one there. The first time I heard him I thought someone had broken in to the house. There he sat looking in a specific direction and giggling and acting like someone was clearly interacting with him. One of my foster children noticed this and I told him it was probably The Boy's guardian angel. God knows he needed one...

A week later my foster child yelled to me in the kitchen, "The Angel is back!"

Children are so sweet.

When they sleep that is.

The Boy loves this story even though he hasn't "talked" to his guardian angel in over 10 years. Recently, however, he came to me a bit distressed.

"I think I killed my angel."

HUH?

"I think he had a hard time keeping up with me and may have died." He was serious.

I reassured him that his angel was still hanging around looking after him although in my heart I secretly suspect that God had probably assigned one or two more to assist the first exhausted celestial being.

Perhaps a SWAT team of angels.

We will pick up the prescription on the way to music therapy and start tonight. I'm not terribly optimistic.

Well, no. That's not true. Don't tell anyone but I can hardly contain my glee.

Ponderings Of An Exhasuted Mom

2011-08-14T08:22:00.000-07:00

This summer has seriously kicked my butt. The first two weeks were idyllic. That ended far too early. Illness, finances and, maniacal meltdowns (no not me...well not initially anyway) have taken a toll on my physical health and energy level.

The boy has developed a most horrifying nocturnal disorder sleeping 2 hours a night and then torturing the rest of the family during the day. He hasn't napped since he was three. I am awaiting a call back from the hospital to attempt to get to the bottom of this and hopefully find some medication that works. We are years beyond the Melatonin and Benadryl suggestions.

Unless you live this life you have no clue what mind numbing stress is heaped upon a parent of special needs children whether birth or adoptive. Although adopted kids do come with their unique sets of challenges.

Children damaged beyond repair by in utero drugs, lack of bonding in infancy, poor or no pre-natal care, torture at the hands of the mentally ill sperm and egg donors before removal, beaten by mom's boyfriends, family genetic predispositions including addictions, and mental health issues. These darling children come to you after 5-10 different foster homes ( one friend adopted a boy who was in 27 homes and now has a restraining order against him) and we still expect them to be suddenly happy and grateful to us because we've bought them a Dora quilt, painted their rooms pink and filled their closets with pretty clothes.

Here's a news flash for the naive in the audience. Love is not enough.

And save your well meaning comments because having a man around the house would make no difference. Spanking is not the solution. And sticker charts...well I won't go there as I may be tempted to say the "F' word out loud and this is a g-rated blog.

It is times like this when I cling to the few and far between who understand parenting special needs children like Big Mama Hollers, Elizabeth, my best adoption buddy Mrs. M and The Big City Behavior specialist. It is ONLY those of us in the trenches who truly understand the life.

One blogger who has suffered with the adoption of special needs older children ( which have a 15% failure rate) has recently asked the question, when the puppies and rainbows of the forever family bites the dust then what?

I've seen professionals who should know better rejoicing over "made in heaven forever families" knowing full well the difficulties the former foster families have had with these children for years and the homes they have been moved in and out of yet they continue to perpetuate the myth that love is enough. Many of these kids go on to be placed in residential treatment facilities by the forever families who were unprepared to cope with the severity of the pre-existing damage.

And then there are the birth parents who show up in your back yard or bump in to you at a fishing tournament, walk up to your child and tell them, "I am your mother."

In the Teenagers case it went directly over her head as she knows that I am her mother even if i have blue eyes. She told me at a very young age that I had blue eyes and white skin but in my heart I was really black like she was.

An astute observation probably derived from listening to too much Motown growing up with whitey.

We've been mother and daughter for a long time and I wouldn't have it any other way.

The Teenager and me in 1994

That doesn't mean that there are not challenges with both Baby and Teenager. They have extensive neurological damage and any time you have brain damage you have 3 things that are universal. Seizures. Learning Disabilities. Behavioral Challenges. The gospel according to our Big City Neurologist.

So it was no surprise when The Baby yelled at the cook in the restaurant this week. Due to the cerebral palsy the only discernible words were, "EAT! EAT!" and "FOOD! FOOD!" Apparently, the cook wasn't preparing our order quickly enough. When I told her to use her restaurant voice she poked her little finger towards my face and said quite clearly, "UT UP!" to which The Boy burst out laughing, encouraging her with his heart felt glee.

I could have smacked em' both right off of their booster seats.

The Boy is a different matter altogether. Severe street drug and alcohol exposure in utero, first 6 months of life with little or no bonding. Every time an adult approached him in NICU it generally ended in infliction of severe pain and fractures. Limited physical contact. Carried around on an eggcrate. No skin on skin or warm touches, hugs or cuddling. A lost sleep study which had him lying in his first foster home with severe nocturnal anoxia to the point where when discovered he was emergently trached.

Throw in Dyslexia, Dyscalculia and Dysgraphia and you have a crap load of challenges.

And now he doesn't sleep.

I'm not alone.

I just heard from the adoptive mother of the little girl pictured below. She has been diagnosed with Reactive Attachment Disorder and is being placed in a residential treatment facility.

It took two years despite multiple abuse complaints to remove her from her prostitute mother who lived on the street with the child and ate out of dumpsters. God only knows what the mothers "friends' did to this child. Two years that formed her future.

She is 5 years old.

No. Love was not enough.

And so i sit here tired and defeated. Exhausted from battle and lack of sleep.My house is messy. My dishes need washing. I have tons of laundry. Meals to prepare. Attitudes to adjust and two dear sick friends to check on. Haggie Maggie has been diagnosed with cancer and just finished one week of radiation and chemo and Mama Mia Maria just had another surgery. That's where my heart is... to encourage them. Bring them soup and balloons and sunflowers.

But...I am paralyzed with exhaustion and can't seem to even move!

Yesterday my dear friend in Alabama lay awake praying for sleep for my family. Now there's an irony!

When the bumper sticker above was sent to me by Big Daddy Dr. Weed today it cracked me up. It was my only smile of the day and oddly enough has become my silly incentive to at least attempt to "look busy" today.

Even if the day is half over...

Thanks to all of my friends who prop me up when I am too weary to stand upright.

You know who you are.

Proud to Be A Guest Blogger!

2011-08-01T04:46:00.000-07:00

Back in June when we were all fighting the eye crud and hacking up chunks o' lung Rachel approached me to do a guest post on her amazing blog, Journeys With Autism: Reports From Life On The Spectrum.

Go here to read it.

Thank you, Rachel for the honor!

About Blooming Where We Are Planted

2011-07-31T09:39:00.000-07:00

We waste so much time and energy whining about the things that we do not have that we miss out on the opportunities that present them selves in our daily lives. The older i get the more acutely aware of this fact I become.

We want a better job. More money. A bigger house. A husband. A wife. To be single. To live somewhere else other than where we are currently planted.

I am attracted to bloggers who make the most of what they have in life like this lady who lives on a fixed income in a trailer park with not-so-nice neighbors. She gardens out of pots and plastic bins since she has no land. Her accomplishments are nothing short of miraculous to me.

And this lady who has a lot of acreage and makes the most out of every square inch of it. Toiling daily in the soil to provide healthy food for her large family. Utilizing recycled, re-purposed materials rather than buying new.

I gave up my dream of country life a long time ago although I still get wistful about it on occasion. As much as humanly possible and as much as time allows (of which I have little) I am attempting to farm in my back yard and practice contentment in my current situation.

When I see documentaries like the one below I become inspired anew.

And I have renewed hope regarding blooming where I am currently planted.

What A Differnce 32 Years Makes

2011-07-28T07:34:00.001-07:00

Haggie Maggie tagged some photos of The Artist and The Genius on Facebook yesterday. I looked at them and found the above photo mixed in with the baby pictures and I wondered.

Who is this girl and why did Haggie Maggie put her in with my girls?

A few hours later I went back to look at something different and realized with a start the "girl" was me circa 79'

What a difference 32 years makes.

I'm speechless.

Seems Like Life Is Best Lived Lately When You Can't Feel It

2011-07-26T11:57:00.000-07:00

Seriously I don't know where to begin.

Perhaps I should begin years ago when I went to get my children their flu shots at the local Health Department because their was a shortage of flu vaccine and our pediatrician was advising we do this just in case he did not get the vaccine in a timely manner. When the Health Department went to verify The Teenagers address it was not correct. I informed the clerk I had no idea who's address it was that they had in their computer.

Apparently, the owner of the incorrect address was getting services using The Teenagers name and social security number.

That's how I discovered that the birth mother (BM) had been defrauding us. A social worker friend of mine helped me navigate through the huge mess. She handled Medicaid while I handled credit agencies and Social Security. I did not call the police as she advised me to.

Big mistake.

I spent 3 hours in the Social Security office demanding a new social security number for The Teenager.

"We don't do that" the clerk stated.

I informed him that yes, you do in cases of adoption. He called his supervisor over who called her supervisor over and they conferred behind a portable partition. I could hear every word they said including the tidbit about the fact that the birth mother had been in the Social Security office two weeks earlier and had been give a copy of The Teenagers social security card because she "lost it." My adoption had been final for years. She had absolutely no rights whatsoever.

"Why do you want a new social security number?" I was asked.

"Because I have been defrauded by the birth mother and I do not want her obtaining any social security cards or records on my child," I answered.

"We would never do that!" the man swears.

"I just heard you tell your supervisors that she was in here and given a card two weeks ago."

"You weren't supposed to hear that." he replies.

I was granted permission for her to have a new social security number and 6 weeks later the new card came in the mail.

With the old social security number still on it.

Then the phone call comes in a few years later.

"May I speak to the Teenager?" the pleasant lady inquires.

"Who is this."

"Is the Teenager home?" she asks

"WHO. IS. THIS?"

"This is the Department of Children and Families and we are calling to speak to the Teenager. Does she still live there?" she asks.

"Of course she lives here. She is 14 years old and sitting next to me on the sofa. Why wouldn't she still live here?"

"Well, sometimes adoptions fall through,' she replies.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" I shriek.

"Well....someone has applied for benefits for her and we were wondering..."

"Would that someone be B.M.?" I asked?

Loooooooong pause followed by, "Yes."

Apparently, she was at it again.

Then comes the poo syrup on the sundae of life when i file my income tax return in 2010.

Someone has already filed for The Teenager.

Oh. My. God.

Around this time the BM has the audacity to call me to see how The Teenager was. I confront her regarding the multiple episodes of lying, cheating and fraud.

"I would never do that." she replies. " That's why my momma is in prison."

Perfect.

We hung up after I told her I was notifying the police if she kept it up and then every day for months I started getting phone hang ups to the point where I finally had to change the home number I've had since 1980.

It broke my heart.

And my new number? Apparently the biggest deadbeat in the world used to have my new number so I am getting collection agencies 5 times a day now. Ironically, the dead beat has the exact same first name as The Boy so I am getting calls daily asking if they can speak to The Boy.

The first time this happened I nearly had a stroke.

Today as we leave our neurology clinic appointment I run smack into...you guessed it...the BM.

The teenager has gone ahead of me to play a game in the lobby so I scurry out to the lobby and shuffle her in to the bathroom. I see BM peeking around the corner waiting for us to come out so I send Iris on ahead as lookout. Eventually, after cussing out a vending machine BM leaves.

Why was she there?

Because she is the appointed guardian of a small, special needs child.

Yes.

The woman who had her own child removed by the system. The woman who has a severe, diagnosed mental health issue complete with delusions and hallucinations. The woman who is so developmentally delayed she nearly starved The Teenager to death because she could not be taught how to feed a baby. The woman who continues to commit fraud but has never been convicted.

This woman is a child's guardian. My guess is that she has probably been appointed by the very system who took her own child away.

What's that? Is someone in blog land mumbling that everyone deserves a second chance?

Perhaps you would like to donate your income tax return to BM as well?

There was a time I would seek "justice" but lately I've decided there is no justice in this world. We all know that if you or I had participated in even one of the fraudulent activities that BM had over the years that we'd probably be sitting in a cell now, munching a high carb diet in an orange jumpsuit and sharing a generic menthol with home-girl.

Martha Stout, PHD states in The Sociopath Next Door that 1 out of 25 ordinary Americans secretly has no conscience and can do anything at all without feeling guilty.

I've met my share of BM's with no conscience. And of workers who are supposed to be protecting children not crucifying them.

It's a bitter pill to swallow.

And we wonder why antidepressant usage has doubled in the last decade?

Yesterday We Went To The Beach

2011-07-23T06:45:00.000-07:00

The Gulf of Mexico was crystal clear to the point where we could easily see silly, sideways walking crabs and tiny white fish. I always think of my favorite poem since childhood on days like this.

When I was down beside the sea

A wooden spade they gave to me

To dig the sandy shore

My holes were empty like a cup

In every hole the sea came up

Till it could come no more





Robert Louis Stevenson (1850 - 1894)

Equipment

2011-07-21T20:24:00.000-07:00

The above photo is what a Prone Stander should look like.

Below is what we have.

Yes Baby this is a funny antique

This sucker is so vintage that it has a name etched on it of one of the previous owners. I happen to know this name as I was her nurse at hippotherapy camp years ago. She is now a sophomore in college.

With the exception of a wheelchair, there is no other piece of assistive technology that is more beneficial to children and adults with special needs than a standing device yet most insurance companies won't pay for one

The Baby is supposed to be on the Medicaid Waiver program that ALL children with cerebral palsy qualify for the day they turn three years old but for the past 10 years that program has gone to hell with an approximate 7 year wait list and over 10,000 disabled children in the state of Florida waiting. This means (just in case you didn't do the math) that they are 10 years old before they get services they qualified for at three years of age.

When The Teenager turned 3 she became eligible on her birthday and is still on the program.

My how things have deteriorated in 14 years.

I am not ungrateful for the antique we have been using and you all know how I adore vintage everything but The Baby is outgrowing it rapidly. My only hope of obtaining a new prone stander is by forking out between $1,400 to $2,000 dollars and buying one out of pocket.

But wait a minute. There seems to be a hole in my pocket...

Wheel chairs are another dilemma.

Over a year ago we ordered a wheel chair for The Baby. It arrived fairly quickly, that is within 4 months. Or maybe it was six months. I really should pull my "wheelchair" file so I can be completely accurate but it's like pulling your "divorce" file out. Who wants to re-hash those details?

It became immediately apparent upon the arrival of the purple wheelchair that we had underestimated The Baby's ability to self propel. She sat in the chair, took off, and began going in circles because of her left sided hemiparesis.
One would get dizzy just watching her.

At this point our beloved Occupational Therapist suggested a "one armed drive." In my many years of experience I had never dealt with a one sided paralysis and so this was a brilliant new revelation for me. I called the wheel chair company immediately and requested a one armed drive be attached to her chair.

I called.

And called.

And called.

Months went by and I was finally informed I needed a "justification" letter from OT. I got the letter immediately.

I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally last week when I was cranky and sick I called and told them I was cranky and sick and I wanted an answer and was not hanging up. Thirty minutes later I got an apology. They had...and I quote..."let the ball drop"... regarding the Baby's one armed drive.

Yes! They actually admitted they had screwed up.

They promised to call me back by Thursday.

You guessed it. No call.

On Monday I left a message on their voice mail. I will not go in to detail but i believe they understood that we were no longer best friends forever.

Today I get a call stating that Vick would be at my house within an hour with the loaner chair and the one armed drive because you see it's not enough to have a "justification " letter from an occupational therapist and diagnoses from a pediatrician they also have to video tape the child proving that they can actually navigate the one armed drive system.

But not on the wheel chair they are already accustomed to. On a completely different loaner char that will be "comparable" in size.

As it turns out the loaner chair tire's are 4 sizes bigger than The Baby's and the one armed drive is...whoopsie daisy...tee hee hee...installed on the wrong side.

No, people I do not make this crap up.

Vick man had never changed a one armed drive from one side to the other but attempted it and completed it successfully in my living room while the Baby applauded him and "uh-oh'd" him every time a nut or bolt went rolling across the tile floor.

The Baby has no lip closure due to the cerebral palsy so she kept referring to him as "Tick."

"Yay, Tick!"

~~Tick~~ Vick told me he'd be back in 3 weeks when The Baby got used to the one armed drive to video tape her so he could submit the tape to Medicaid for approval.

That is until he saw The Baby peel out in the loaner chair, bang a u-turn and streak off towards the narrow hall way.

"I think you should tape her now," I suggested.

"Maybe I'll video tape her now" he replied.

And he did.

So now we wait for the one armed drive. Again.

In the meantime I'm calculating how much lemonade we'll have to sell so we can afford a new prone stander.

Happy Birthday Baby!

2011-07-17T07:09:00.000-07:00

The Baby is four years old this weekend.

I remember getting the phone call asking if I would take this baby with the horrific birth history. Anticipating a vegetative state with feeding tubes, seizures and massive brain damage from over 10 minutes of cerebral anoxia I said no thanks. I was already extremely busy with 3 medically complex kids at home.

For some reason...divine intervention perhaps...I asked what her name was. I never asked about names when i got those calls especially if I refused the placement.

The name turned out to be a family name. My middle name. The Genius's middle name. The Artist's middle name. The Teenager's middle name.

Lord have mercy.

I went to the hospital NICU and saw this tiny 4 lb baby in yellow with a mop of straight black hair and a nasty hospital diaper rash. I was amazed that she was tracking visually and bottle fed able to coordinate sucking and swallowing. I never anticipated that with the devastating brain damage.

From day one she had attitude.

I like attitude.

The kids loved her immediately.

And frequently decorated her in a manner fit for a princess.

You've come a long way Baby.

Happy Birthday and thank you for gracing us with your presence.

Proud To Be Winners!

2011-07-13T04:38:00.000-07:00

In hundreds of entries we were one of 4 winners in Adoptive Families Magazine's "Mommy and Me" contest. I hadn't heard from the magazine in NYC since their initial e-mail to me and was surprised to go to the mailbox last week to find two issues of the magazine with our photo on page 6!

One of the primary reasons i entered this contest was because after scanning the website and on line magazine I was unsettled regarding the number of foreign adoptions represented. There are over 1/2 million foster children in the USA. Many are waiting for forever homes and will not find them. For those who age out of the foster system without permanency a majority will end up in the penal system and/or become single moms perpetuating the cycle.

I understand only too well that one of the reasons people don't adopt within our country is because of the often hostile system that they must navigate.

But that's a topic for discussion later.

Much later!

Fat, Sick & Nearly Dead

2011-07-12T18:51:00.000-07:00

Just finished watching this documentary and LOVED it. I loved the way the maker of this film reached out to a man he met on the road and was true to his word that if the man ever needed help to "call him."

He did call and the film becomes their amazing, combined journeys. Truly inspirational and a must see if your are interested in healthier living.

Considering the finding of the latest Gallup-Healthways Well-Being Index, which shows that 63.1% of adults in the US were either overweight or obese in 2009 this is documentary we should all digest.

Got Netflix? Do yourself a favor and watch!

"How Do You Feel Today?"

2011-07-09T06:25:00.000-07:00

It's been an uphill battle.

For nine days well wishers have been calling and e-mailing me asking, "how do you feel today?" Why? Because I sound as horrible as I feel. When I opened an email from Big Daddy Dr. Weeds this morning I thought the attached photos summed up my current condition much better than any words I would choose.

My head feels better. I haven't taken 20 Motrin in at least 24 hours.

As long as I remain perfectly still the asthma is under control.

The house is a little messy but the kids have been helping with the housework..

I can't wait to go back to work in two days. It will be so much fun.

Everything is under control.

Eye Yi Yi

2011-07-06T08:57:00.000-07:00

The Baby

I can feel myself starting to get cranky. It's been exactly 7 days since I woke up with the sore throat and life has not treated me well since. I don't recall being this sick for this long but then again I can never find my van in the Wal-Mart parking lot or remember my last pap smear either so this probably isn't relevant.

I've been way too busy caring for the Munchkins. On the day after I posted this The Teenager's left eye began to swell alarmingly fast in the afternoon. I started her on the antibiotic eye drops that The Baby was already on having found another bottle from days gone by but not "expired."

The Teenager

Meanwhile I am becoming increasingly more impaired physically. Cough. Wheeze. Temperature. Trouble sleeping at night. Pure exhaustion from having no rest.

People ask well couldn't you get a sitter to help you?

Number one: I have missed yet another week of work and no work means no moola thus no sitter.

Number two: Can you name one person who would walk in to a house whose occupants greet them with swollen, purulent, dripping eyes and green goober snot-rockets flying across the living room?

People. Mother Theresa and Gandhi are gone. OK?

The cherry on the doodie cake was when The Baby pulled one of her all nighters' on Sunday waking up at 10:22 PM and playing until 7:00 AM.

"Mommy! Mommy!" Poke. Poke. Poke

"Mommy! Mommy! Tee hee hee hee." Poke. Poke. Poke.

"One. Two. Threeeee. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Niiiiiiiiine. Ten. Mommy! Mommy?"

Poke. Poke. Poke.

On the Fourth Of July I was struggling to get my billing complete and in to my boss via email. I noticed I was having a hard time seeing out of my left eye.

Oh. My. God. Noooooooooooooooooo....

I started my self on the antibiotic eye drops.

Yesterday, Iris arrived fresh form her vacation. Well not exactly fresh after spending her days off with her husband, The Beard, who was also sick. Talk about out of the frying pan into the fire.

I peeled out of the drive when Iris arrived and headed to the clinic where my beloved ARNP was not available. I got a super nice older doctor who wasn't as swift as my beloved ARNP. I was relating the exam details to Curly T later in the day telling her you could hear me wheezing two exam rooms away but he told me my lungs sounded "good." I pointed to my back where he listened to my lungs, informing her that he never even listened to the front of my chest.

"Did you tell him those were your kidneys he was listening to?" Curly T inquired.

He then suggested a pill that to my knowledge hasn't been used since the early 80's. To his defense, however, not in pediatrics anyway. I'm not crystal clear on adult usage. At this point I'm not crystal clear on anything.

He ends up giving me a big dose of antibiotic that even sends the pharmacists' radar blip blipety blipping. After assuring her I was not allergic to Penicillin I popped two in the parking lot and hoped for the best.

In the STD clinic we used to have a crash cart for times like this but I have to say that at this stage in my illness experience anaphylaxis would be a mercy killing.

And in all honesty I had to go easy on the doctor. You don't meet that many cute guys older than me who are still gainfully employed.

Last night....yes it goes on and on and on....The Teenager complained of bilateral earaches and The Baby had a rough night coughing up snot. This morning I loaded up the three mucouskateers and Iris into the mom mobile and met our pediatrician in her office who was in the throes of a severe lumbar strain. She hears me cough and slams on a face mask.

The Boy

"No offense but if I catch what you guys have with this back and start coughing..."

I hear you. I really do.

Let's Heap On The Guilt Cookie Style

2011-07-01T06:33:00.000-07:00

Whatever this eye goop is, it is highly contagious as The Teenager has it this morning. She is also on warm saline compresses and antibiotic eye drops. The Baby is now on an every four hour schedule and The Teenager is now on an every two hour schedule. You'd think this would be easy but I had to make out a written schedule because it kinda threw me over the memory recall edge.

After all. It's not like this is the only medication I dispense in our family. I started to list them all but I don't have the mental or physical strength to do so. Rough night. Lets just leave it at over 20 medications on a good day. Can't. Count. Bad. Days. Right. Now. (and the addition of at least 10 more doses of whatever.)

It's funny how you get your pay check and tell yourself you will save save save and not indulge on luxuries like eating out. How you know your cholesterol is too high but eat 2 slices of birthday cake anyway.

Sickness always interferes with your best intentions. When I feel crummy I like Chinese food. Specifically, Won Ton soup. To me it's in the "medication" category right up there with Ciprofloxacin 0.3% and Phenobarbital.

Around 2 PM fueled by more Motrin and finally able to bathe and dress, I piled the kids in the mom mobile and drove to Wok Deli.

After slurping down a bowl of Won Ton soup as best I could with this throat I eagerly opened my fortune cookie. I've loved these since childhood.

Punctuated exactly as it is written:

"Here we go. Low fat, whole wheat green tea."

Give me a break. I opened the next fortune cookie.

Empty.

I think someone is trying to tell me something.

I'm off now to go gag down some green tea.

Consume: "The Act Of Going Somewhere Special And Coming Back Soon."

2011-06-29T19:28:00.000-07:00

This morning around 2 AM I woke up with The Baby sleeping on my right arm snoring loudly, The Boy lying on my left arm and The Cat sleeping on top of my head. I couldn't feel either arm and the top of my head itched. Probably fleas. Could it get any worse?

And then i swallowed.

Terrible sore throat! Ack.

And to think I thought I woke up abruptly because I was being compressed to death.

In preparing for The Teenagers 18th birthday in 2 months I was fortunate enough to obtain an appointment to have her IQ tested at the same time as The Boy's routine behavior specialist follow up at noon today in the Big City. Of course i would wake up sick,The Boy lost the battle with cold symptoms over night complaining of earaches this morning and The Baby's left eye is practically swollen shut while the right eye is draining goop. Before we leave for the Big City I schedule a pediatricians appointment for The Boy and The Baby. Four appointments in one afternoon in two different cities. Even for me this is pushing it.

We make it to the Big City on time. I am pumped up with Motrin, Claritin and saline nose drops. I think I can do this.

The Boy is doing well in school and not so well at home. I don't even have to say a word to the behavior specialist, however. He walks in the room and says:

"Summer is here. He's driving you crazy right?"

How did he know...

"Do you suppose he has fetal alcohol syndrome?" I ask. I explain how he keeps bringing snakes into the house telling me they are non venomous. There is simply no cause and effect or sense of danger. I am still groping for a diagnosis other than the obvious ADHD and brain fried by birth mother with street drugs and booze in utero.

"Possibly but fetal alcohol is just ADHD on steroids." He answers. He tells me I should get some behavior therapy and I inform him there is no funding for behavior therapy. He suggests a place and I tell him no way am I taking him to a place where everyone wears turbans and the only diagnosis they seem to know is "Bi-Polar Disorder."

"Chicken." he responds.

I inform him if he can come up with a name he approves of...any name...turban or no turban I'll make an appointment. He can't.

I see the psychologist waving me down out of the corner of my eye. I leave the behavior specialist and follow the psychologist into her office to hear how The Teenager's IQ test went.

"She is so cute and she has an answer for everything." she smiles.

Yes, that's The Teenager in a nutshell. No pun intended.

"I asked her who Martin Luther King Junior was and she told me he was the Son Of God."

"I asked her to define the word consume and she informed me it was the act of going somewhere special and coming back soon."

We both burst out laughing.

Only on the way out the door, however, I begin to panic. Not only am I a failure as a Christian mother but I'm a failure as a black history teacher as well. This can't be good.

"Teenager? " I ask. "Who is Martin Luther King Junior?"

"I don't know. I think he's the son of God." she replies.

"Well then who is Jesus if Martin Luther King Junior is the son of God?"

"That's the same question the doctor asked!" she exclaims.

Thirty minutes later I try a new approach.

"Teenager?" I ask. " Who is Jesus?"

"Oh, He's the Son of God," she replies matter of factly.

"Well, then who is Martin Luther King Junior?" I inquire.

"I don't know. Was he the President of the United States or something?"

I'm exasperated at this point. I ask the Teenager if she has forgotten the parade we attend every year on January 16th and studying about Martin Luther King Junior and what a great man he was in the 60's working for equality for black Americans?

Crickets chirping.

"Remember? I HAVE A DREAM?" I conclude dramatically.

"Yeah I remember. And then he went and got himself shot," she answers somewhat sarcastically.

I pop a few more Motrin while swerving down the interstate. I've lost count at this point of how many I've taken. My throat is killing me. I have chills and a fever. I haven't had breakfast or lunch and it's 3 PM. We are on our way to the pediatricians and I have to get something to eat. I am soooo hungry. I make the mistake of saying this out loud.

"Are you thirsty, too?" The Boy asks.

Yes.

"Are you thirsty enough to drink your own urine out of a snake skin?"

"No. I will never be thirsty enough to drink my own urine out of a snake skin and I think you've been watching too much Man vs Wild"

I pass on the urine and get a drive through sweet tea instead.

We make it to the Pediatrician where The Boy has bilateral ear infections and The Baby has an eye infection with no other symptoms. The doctor e-files the prescriptions to the correct pharmacy this time. By now it's 6:30 and I've been on the road since noon. We finally make it home thank you Jesus and Martin Luther King Junior.

"Whats for dinner?' asks The Teenager.

"Motrin," I inform her.

The Baby Begins Music Therapy!

2011-06-25T06:59:00.000-07:00

Nina Simone sings my favorite song.

When siblings are home from school I like to include them in my client's sessions. After all we are supposed to be working within the "natural environment" of the child which includes sibling competition and chaos.

Over 6 months ago I called regarding music therapy for a client's foster sibling who is quite delayed but shows an appreciation for music. I adore finding the little switches in special needs children that trigger light bulb moments but unfortunately due to high costs ($70.00 an hour) and lack of funding it is often impossible to implement the therapies they could benefit from.

I just got a phone call from the foster mom who informed me that after all of these months the music therapist phoned her with a scholarship and they needed more children to partake in this scholarship.

The Baby will begin music therapy the second week in July! I am thrilled.

I do have some concerns. however, since her music tastes are a little more sophisticated than the average 3 year old. She scan scat as well as Ella.

And do you think the Suzuki QChord plays Nina Simone?

Trampoline Thursday On A Friday...Again.

2011-06-24T13:52:00.000-07:00

I know. I know. I'm late again. I've been busy.

Now there's a surprise.

The first week in June The Teenager had a 1/2 pound weight gain due to bloat so I didn't get around to posting. I was pretty impressed, however, since the average weight gain during menstrual cycles ranges from 1 to 4 lbs. I think the pediatric nutritionist told me the average weight gain for The Teenager's age group was approximately 2lbs but I can't remember exactly as my short term memory is shot thanks to the 60's and my days as a "flower child."

Had I known about the long term side effects of picking flowers in the 60's I would have picked more. That way I would be totally senile now and not just partially senile. There is something quite disturbing about being partially senile and having that vague recognition that your brain cells are only flying at half mast.

The second week I don't think we weighed in as we were at the hospital all day Wednesday, Thursday and Friday with The Boy for his Pamidronate infusion. Eleven years of infusing. Eleven looooong years. I had a sitter for the girls on Wednesday but on Thursday and Friday I had to bring the entire brood and sit for 5 hours in a hospital room. Pure hell on earth.

As we were leaving on Friday one of the nurses pulled me aside and informed me that she was "so impressed" yada yada yada with how well I handled the three little ~~maniacs~~ angels. I was truly speechless. Was the woman deaf?

"That's it! I've had it! I'm ready for the psyche ward and some I.V Valium and a Morphine pump! If you three don't stop these behaviors I'm calling in the flying monkeys...NOW!"

Anyway, we finally made it to Publix for the big weigh in today.

Beginning weight on April 17, 2011... 138 1/2 lbs

Today's weight...132 1/2 lbs. Wowza!

We drove right to Cracker Barrel to celebrate with pancakes, syrup and fried catfish.

Why the Trampoline?

In researching forms of exercise that The Teenager could actually successfully navigate with cerebral palsy, epilepsy, patella alta...oh I could go on and on....one of the many reasons I chose the mini trampoline was for the actual jumping itself. Tooling along the autism spectrum disorder highway, The Teenager can be a sensory seeker who often needs proprioceptive feedback in order to calm down and re-equilibriate. Too often these kids gravitate towards less socially acceptable self stimulatory behavior so it is a challenge to guide them towards more appropriate outlets. Thus, the mini trampoline and jump, jump, jumping.

Some changes have occurred in recent weeks since The Teenager has been jumping before meals.

1.) She enjoys jumping now. I haven't heard peep one of heart, liver or respiratory failure complaints in 2 weeks.

2.) Her stamina has increased from a very painful 5 minutes to a smiley 8 minutes.

3.) Her appetite has decreased. She is pushing away from the table without asking for those 2nd or 3rd helpings.

4.) Her cholesterol has fallen by 20 points and her HGB A1C has dropped to 5.5 from 6.9. That's right. She is no longer "pre-diabetic." Interestingly, her thyroid levels have also returned to normal. Go figure.

Go, Teenager, go! Mama is so proud!

Happy Weekend Shopping!

2011-06-24T05:52:00.000-07:00

Gulfport, Florida

2011-06-19T06:41:00.002-07:00

Gulfport, Florida was originally named Disston City in 1884 when Hamilton Disston purchased land there. Hamilton Disston (August 23, 1844 - April 30, 1896), was a wealthy industrialist and real estate developer who purchased four million acres of Florida land in 1881. Reportedly this was the most land ever purchased by a single person in world history. Hamilton was a fun loving socialite who owned a yacht named, Mischief. He lived in the city he founded for many years.

Hamilton Disston

The United States Post Office failed to recognize the name Disston City due to a conflict with another area in the Tampa, Florida region so it eventually was re-named Gulfport in 1910. For the past ten years the population of Gulfport has hovered around 12,400 give or take a few folk. It is a quaint "Old Florida" feeling town that is populated by artisans and free spirits much like Mr. Disston

After years of bickering with the locals, the Gulfport City Council recently passed legislation legalizing the keeping of up to 10 chickens in your backyard.

No roosters.

I've been attending the Fresh Market on Tuesday's between clients, recently. Strolling along the uneven sidewalks and absorbing the creative energy of the artisans and farmers has been a spark in the gloom of the mundane tasks of my every day life.

While at the market last Tuesday someone invited me to the Growing Greener gathering...

held yesterday at the old casino...

The Boy, The Baby, The Teenager, The Genius, Curly T and myself piled into the mom mobile and took off. Although it was hovering around 96 degrees in the shade it was well worth the sweat. And most of the booths were located inside the air conditioned Casino, thankfully.

We met a bee keeper...

...who gave a verrrry long dissertation regarding the above hive, droning on and on in the heat about exactly how he removed and relocated the queen bee so that a new hive would begin and how the new hive was currently "making" a queen bee.

After he was finished buzzing The Boy asked, "Where's the queen?"

Sigh.

We ran into the two men I had met at the city dump over the free mulch pile a few months ago. They helped me load mulch into the mom mobile/mulch mobile and I gave one of them social worker advice regarding where he could obtain mental health services for a relative. No, I'm not a social worker. I just look like one. I've learned to live with this.

The men are involved in a huge permaculture movement in the area and were at the Growing Greener gathering with chickens. And I do believe you all have heard too many times about my infatuation with keeping chickens in my back yard...

They are beginning a new project teaching people like me to build coops out of re-cycled materials.

Be still my heart.

Which just goes to show you that one never knows what exciting divine appointments await you at the city dump.

Curly T and I are signing up.

After also signing up to have locally grown, organic produce delivered to my front door weekly (The Genius and I split the cost) we strolled the sidewalks in search of food and found scenes of quaint beauty...

Flowers in rustic window boxes

This vintage coca cola swing is a treasure in someone's yard.

We found some yummy food at Peg's Cantina where we were fortunate enough to commandeer the one indoor table that they had. Eating outdoors in this heat is for tourists.

The Boy sat at the bar socializing with a cute, young couple, discussing swimming and his plans for the future I have always sensed a career in politics for The Boy.Perhaps when he grows up he can be the mayor of Gulfport.

I could be persuaded to live here...

I Think I'm On Vacation

2011-06-12T06:13:00.000-07:00

School ended last Wednesday and I think I'm on vacation.

For the first time in ten months I can sleep until 7 AM if the children let me and the planets are lined up correctly.

For four days I've had no where I've had to be. Four days, people!

No where. No work. No medical appointments. No birthday party attendance for The Boy for the first time in 6 solid weekends.

Yes, I'm grateful he is so popular but am also looking forward to saving $ 20.0 a week plus gas money spent on presents and laser tag arena destinations in galaxies far, far away.

No fund raisers at school. No school ceremonies to attend.

Yes, I cherish my bumper sticker from The Baby being chosen, "Student Of The Month ." Even though I waited 40 years for one....

No more "The Baby is acting weird and squinting and she might be having a seizure can you come right away and pick her up from school?" phone calls from teachers while I am attempting to see clients.

No more picking up The Genius from her pain management injections although the last trip was well worth it. Because I had The Baby with me whose "seizure" turned out to be a severe allergic reaction with both eyes swollen shut and we were in the middle of a tremendous thunder storm, the pain management nurse walked the wobbly Genius to my car. The Genius was still under the influences of the happy juice when one of my work puzzles short circuited and started "cocka-doo-doodle doo-ing" inside the van.

"What the hell was that? Is there a rooster in here?"

I suggested since she was so woozy she might want to come home with me and rest for a while. Then the cow started "moooo-ing."

I won't repeat her reply to my suggestion.

I felt bad yesterday when one of my blog readers asked if I was alive since I haven't been blogging recently. It probably sounds silly but the primary reason I haven't blogged is because my camera is still broken and blogging without recent photo updates is like being Italian and talking with your hands cuffed behind your back. It doesn't work.

Yesterday I worked in the garden the entire day, jumping in the pool several times to cool off. Of course, The Boy had to jump on top of me, swim through my legs, tip me over in the raft while I was dozing and shoot me between the eyes with his one dollar Dollar Tree squirt pen. Dang those things hurt.

Each and every time I jumped in.

Living proof of the "y" chromosome in all of it's annoying glory.

Today I really should put the mountain of clean laundry away and clean the inside of my house especially since Monday and Tuesday are full work days and Wednesday, Thursday and Friday The Boy will be getting his Pamidronate infusion at the local hospital. I also need to get some groceries in here as when I offered tuna casserole to the masses last evening The Boy hollered back, "Yeah, like that's going to happen...ever."

But instead I think I'm going back outside and putter in the yard again. Green beans and the pool beckon me.

I'm so inspired by the restfulness of the past four days I may even plan a little road trip back to St. Augustine.

The Artist may want to leave town before we invade.

Trampoline Thursday On A Friday

2011-05-27T18:34:00.001-07:00

It has been a weird week. Tonight I was suppose to go out with friends and celebrate my birthday but instead I ended up with a 101.6 temp.

Iris/Virus came and got the kids watered, medicated, fertilized, fed and in bed while I swilled down Tylenol and lay in bed moaning. As I'm burping and expelling all sorts of noxious gasses I hear her tell The Boy, "I think your mother is going to explode."

When I told her a friend of mine had similar symptoms with uncontrollable explosive diarrhea this week she reminded me, "I don't do seniors."

Bwahahahahah!

So I'm stable on 1,000 mg of Tylenol at the moment and I'm making brownies because I have the most horrendous appetite with this fever. I swilled down the chicken that Iris brought with mashed potatoes, gravy, biscuits, and mac n' cheese and now I need something chocolate. What kind of a virus is this anyway? My only symptoms being high fever and aching. Specifically my left thumb, right big toe, right hip, and knees.

Before this came on full force when I was simply feeling tired and heavy like I was carrying an elephant on my shoulders The Teenager and I did her weigh-in this morning.

134 lbs.

Neither gained nor lost. Considering how much we cheated this week while celebrating special occasions that encouraged the swilling down of junk food I am very pleased with this weight. Because you know we certainly embraced the swilling part without hesitation.

Time for Walnut Brownies.

If I'm going to explode I might as well explode in style.

We Are Finalists!

2011-05-26T05:56:00.000-07:00

So I'm skimming through my emails after a brutal day yesterday and I see one regarding "the photo you submitted." I almost deleted it thinking it was spam but when I read it I was shocked.

It seems so long ago my dear friend Java NICU Nurse sent me a link about a photo contest called Mommy and Me for an adoptive family web sight. I looked at it as I do all of her interesting links and saw some of the photos and thought well why not? We aren't your typical pristine-matching-white-button-down-shirt-in-front-of-the-surf-and-sea-oats type family. I can't get my kids to sit still long enough for a photo that fancy. The Boy would be chasing sea birds, The Teenager would be wading to Mexico singing to herself and The Baby would be melting down because she doesn't like the feel of sand on her feet. Remember how The Baby feels about nature of any kind?

So I attempted to submit the fountain photo which is a typical family photo of us that was taken on our St. Augustine vacation. I told The Artist all I wanted out of the vacation was time with her and a "decent photo for our Christmas card." The Artist who is an accomplished photographer did her best but in all honesty one photo session with our family and photographers usually begin re-thinking their career choice.

We ended up with the above photo. No one was hitting anyone. No one was head first in the fountain and no one was spitting water. What more could this family ask for?

When I attempted to submit it, however, I had problems. I was surprised when Java NICU Nurse emailed me and told me it eventually went through as she saw it on the web sight.

That's the last time I thought about the contest.

Until the e-mail yesterday. It seems we are one of the "judges finalists." I e-mailed a higher resolution photo to NYC at their request and will fax the photo release to them today.

What a hoot!

People keep asking me what the prize is.

I have no idea.

For me the prize is is being recognized for what families should be about. Wiggles. Goofiness. Happiness. Togetherness. Fun. Who cares if we have on matching clothes? I'm just thankful we were all dressed.

I mean The Lord knows I tried to capture some semblance of order in front of this fountain for our Christmas card but "perfection" is simply unattainable in this family.

I'm just happy ~~I didn't drown the little monsters~~ no one fell in.

Trampoline Thursday

2011-05-18T19:29:00.000-07:00

So the Teenager is jumping last night and starts screeching.

"I can feel my heartbeat!"

"Excellent! That means you are alive!"

"You know hundreds of people have heart attacks every week."

"Yes I know that. Keep jumping. You are not having a heart attack."

"I'm sweating! I'm sweating!" Said in the same tone of voice one would say, "I'm bleeding! I'm bleeding!"

"Good! That means that you are having a good workout."

'ACK! ACK! ITCH! I always start itching when I jump."

"Really? I don't think there is any documentation to substantiate that exercising causes itching but if you like I will Google it for you. After you are done jumping."

Beginning weight: 5 weeks ago: 138 1/2 lbs.

Last Thursdays weight: 136 lbs

Today's weight: 134 lbs

Total weight loss in 35 days: 4 1/2 lbs

Woot! Woot, Teenager!

I am so relieved that she is forgiving and moves on quickly from the unpleasantness of jumping. This morning she was happy indeed and informed me, "the moon visited me last night!" I inquired about the statement and she told me that she woke up to "the beautiful full moon shining through in my bedroom."

I am glad that I have someone like The Teenager to remind me of things I constantly ignore like the wonder of a full moon.