Treadmill

Up at 5:45. I could hardly open my eyes so i pried them open with my thumb and index finger and proceeded to grope around for my morning caffeine fix. Normally I'm awake in 5 minutes and raring to go. Today 30 minutes tick by and I'm still dropping things, staggering around like a drunken sailor and bumping into the kitchen cabinets.

I am very tired this week.

I shower, get dressed, set my hair, put on makeup, start a load of laundry, pack lunches and lay out The Boy's school uniform.

When he wakes up he informs me he wants to dress up today for Wednesday's school church service. Last week he didn't want to dress up for Wednesday's school church service.

I hang up The Boy's uniform and I lay out his church clothes deliberately choosing the peach dress shirt because it's the only dress shirt that isn't as wrinkled as Moses' mother-in-law. I lay out the matching tie.

10 minutes later he emerges in a white dress shirt that looks like it has been retrieved from an elephant stampede. He has changed ties. The peach dress shirt and matching tie are on the floor of his closet.

The Baby is in a rip snortin' mood this morning. I get her dressed in her tiny little uniform.

Would you like a drink, baby?
"NO!"
Would you like some breakfast, baby?
"NO!"
Take take your medicine, baby.
"NO!"

She takes her right shoe off and throws it to the left. She takes her sock off and throws it to the right. After the 3rd time The Boy suggests that the teeny-weeny string on her sock may be bothering her. I can hardly see the blasted string but grab the scissors anyway and very dramatically snip it off. The Boy is, after all, the sensory integration issue expert in our family.

The Baby is now very pleased with her right sock. The shoe, however, goes sailing down the hallway. Again.

By now The Boy is standing on top of the white coffee table it took me weeks to sand, prime, and paint announcing that the cat peed behind the sofa while grinding the heels of his church shoes into the surface. This illustrates perfectly why the decor in my home has gone from shabby chic to shabby sh*t.

After a maniacal mom meltdown I drop The Boy off at school...late...and head to work. Yes, all this and work too.

I'm a block away from my first client on the other side of yahooty-ville when they call to cancel. This is after we agreed last week that i would arrive 30 minutes earlier because it would be easier for them. They cancel because the baby is still sleeping. No pay. No gas reimbursement. Arghhh.

The day drones on painfully. I finish work and gather the kids from school and race home just in time for The Baby's therapy.

The therapist doesn't show up. Groan.

There's a timid knock on my front door. A painfully thin elderly lady with bad teeth is standing on my porch with a paper in her hand that she keeps referring to. She is mumbling but I finally make out the words, "You have a drink you're giving away?" She is referring to the supplement I advertised on Freecycle but I am puzzled because I left it on the front porch this morning and it is already gone. It becomes quickly apparent I won't get much information from this lady. She seems confused. I ask her if she is the lady who e-mailed me who's husband needed the supplement to gain weight. "No," she replies, "It's for her not me." I look around. As far as I can see there is no "her" present. I have to confess that I am very tired and I don't care who "her" is.

I have extra supplement left and tell "Sally" I will carry a case to her car as it is too heavy to lift. She informs me she has taken a bus to my home and walked almost a mile from the bus stop. She asks to use my phone but then can't remember the number. When she turned to the side I noticed the clumps of matted hair dingle-dangling from the back of her head. No, they weren't dreads.

Can this day get ANY weirder?

Photo from Google Images

I can't let this lady walk to the bus stop but do I really want her matted little head in my car? Is she dangerous? But more importantly do I really want to drag the wheelchairs out of the back of the van to put the back seat up? Groan. Not to mention having to drag three tired kids along? Groan again. And again. And does she actually know where she lives?

By now "Sally" is mumbling in my living room. I do a quick visual assessment. Yes, even if she suddenly displayed the crazed strength of a psychotic serial killer she would be no threat whatsoever.

In my current state of mind I could snap her in two with one hand tied behind my back.

I pile the kids, the supplements and "Sally" into the van and start driving. Thankfully, she does know where she lives.

After we drop Sally off to a chorus of "God Bless You's" The Boy ponders the event out loud.

"She was really crazy wasn't she mommy?"
Yes honey, she was.
"I think she said the "B' word."
You mean bitch?
"Yes."
No, I don't think she said the "B" word.
"Well, she was moving her mouth like she was saying it."
She was moving her mouth because she didn't have control over her movements. It's called tardive dyskinesia. Generally a result of long term psychotropic usage.

The Teenager had a different perspective.

"Poor Sally! she walked to our house!"
Yes, she did.
" She was so pretty in her flowered skirt and blue blouse."
I agree. She was dressed very nicely.
"And she had shoes on!"
Yes, she did. Imagine that!

Apparently, The Teenager missed the teeth , hair mats and tardive dyskinesia.

Today was a bizarre ride on a tedious, fatiguing treadmill. Ironically, The Artist sent me this treadmill video. I'm thinking there has got to be a way to make life's tedious treadmill days as much fun as the guys did in the video.

Photo from Google Images

On second thought, maybe I'll work on that thought tomorrow.

The Giant School Bus

You thought I was kidding?
A very large bus for a very small girl.
I'm the only one in the morning.

While waiting for The Giant School Bus we work on phonics. Hmmm. What does the duck say? I can't remember.

My morning bus driver is so nice.

Time to go up, up, up!

And my personal assistant is very strong.
He calls me "mommy."
I call him "Tez."

After 25 days without a bus my mommy is crying tears of joy.

And now that her memory card is working again she can record this fabulous moment.

No thanks to Vibhu.

May I Speak To Anyone Named Susan In...Like Texas?

I just spent one hour chatting on-line with someone named Vibhu from technical support regarding my memory card for the camera. Dear God.


Customer: My 14 year-old son has put a password on my computer and I can't get in.

Tech Support: Has he forgotten it?

Customer: No he just won't tell me it because I've grounded him.

I was eligible for a "one time only" technical support since I don't have a service warranty. This is after we determined that I purchased my computer in the USA. Why is this important?

Tech Support: Can you click on 'My Computer'?

Customer: I don't have your computer, just mine.

Vibhu directed me to a useless screen before he signed off.

Tech Support: "OK Bob, let's press the control and escape keys at the same time. That brings up a task list in the middle of the screen. Now type the letter 'P' to bring up the Program Manager."

Customer: "I don't have a 'P'."

Tech Support: "On your keyboard, Bob."

Customer: "What do you mean?"

Tech Support: "'P' on your keyboard, Bob."

Customer: "I'm not going to do that!"

I will say the useless screen gave me some ideas, however, and after rummaging around for a while I put my memory stick in and lo and behold it imported my photos.


Tech Support: 'Have you made backups of your software and data?'

Customer: 'I didn't know it had a reverse.'

As always, I have no earthly idea what I did.

Customer: 'How do you spell 'Internet America' ? Is there a space between 'inter' and 'net' ?'

Tech Support: 'No space between 'inter' and 'net' . It's spelled normally.'

Customer: 'Ok. A-M-E-R-I-C-K?'

Tech Support: 'That's A-M-E-R-I-C-A.

Customer: 'I-C-K???'

Tech Support: 'A as in apple'

Customer: 'There's no 'K' in apple!'

I am quite confident that Vibhu (which means "All Pervading") was no help whatsoever thus using up my one and only shot at technical support.

Tech Support: “What type of computer do you have?”

Customer: “A white one.”

I believe it's called revenge.

In Praise Of The Xylophone

I am frustrated tonight because my computer no longer reads my memory card from the camera and it won't import photos via a USB cable either. No photos for the blog? Impossible. Any suggestions?

The Boy cheered me up, however, when he announced tonight that he wanted to take xylophone lessons.

Yes!

I am 100% lovin' it.

Happy Fall Equinox

My favorite time of year and I'm singing this: (of course not as well as Leon)

Attack of the Gluten Free Pasta

Photo from Google Images (source unknown)

The day before The Baby was seen at the local children's hospital by the otolaryngologist she was started on a gluten free diet.

The Baby will eat everything including Thai food and Indian Curry so gluten free has been a smooth transition for her. Not everyone in the family has been as enthusiastic.

I notice The Teenager gagging at dinner tonight. After the 3rd episode I ask in exasperation what her problem is.

"Well....it's the spaghetti. It's ok but it keeps getting stuck in my uvula."

And to think that after five children and dozens of foster children I thought I had heard every mealtime excuse.

It's Sunday

and this is my kind of "choir"...

Dolphin's Tale! Coming To A Thrift Store Near You!

Photo from Google Images (source unknown)

I don't normally blog twice in one day but I promised Anne Of Green Gables and Mrs. M I would write an addendum to this as they are insisting that it was really Morgan Freeman I met on September 7th. You know stranger things have happened. Especially to me.

It seems Morgan is in town and has been. Yes. Our town.

I had no idea.

The movie he is currently filming is called Dolphin's Tale which is the heartwarming story of a dolphin named Winter who lost her tail and how this sea critter went on to inspire special needs children and adults world wide.

We have first hand knowledge of Winter having spent an evening with her in October of 2009 thanks to our wonderful Hospice children's program.

Soaking wet after being splashed by Winter

Here is how the phone conversation went:

Me: Why would Morgan be in a thrift store, though?
Mrs. M: Maybe he's a thirfter. (Mrs. M always cuts to the chase.)
Anne Shirley: What was he buying? What was he buying? (she can hardly contain her excitement)
Me: I don't know...wait...I do know one thing he purchased.There was a beautiful pair of men's leather shoes on the counter. When Morgan...er....the Morgan look-alike let me go in front of him he moved the shoes towards the cashier. I noticed them because they were of extremely high quality. But...
Mrs. M: What? You don't think Morgan knows quality when he sees it?
Anne Shirley: He's probably going to be wearing them in the new movie!
Mrs. M: Keep your eyes peeled for Ashley Judd and Harry Connick, Jr. They are in town, too.

Mrs. M and Anne of Green Gables are absolutely convinced it was the real Morgan.

I do know one thing for certain. I will be checking out Morgan's feet when Dolphin's Tale is released in 2011.

Never Measure Your Child's Phenobarbital Over Your Pancake Batter

Saturday Morning.

I just burned 5 gluten free pancakes. This was after i dripped Pheobarbital in the batter. Yes people, accidentally.

When I put some egg in The Baby's bowl that contained pancakes she threw it on the floor. I'm not sure how the placing of an egg next to a pancake irritated her but it did. As a matter of fact she has been irritable all morning. I knew I would be punished eventually because of the bus incident.

Vanna White came to my assistance and cleaned the floor. Dogs are useful like this. She has almost redeemed herself after peeing on two beds and one sofa because I took in Little Dog.

Shockingly, Roller pooped on the The Teenager's floor. I'll blame that one on Little Dog as well. I simply have no other explanation.

Is it just me or do they look like they use the same dentist?

The Teenager asks at the breakfast table, "Does this outfit make me look fat?" I am always amazed with what this developmentally delayed girl comes up with. I tell her she looks fine.

"I am kind of cute aren't I?" Perhaps I've gone overboard in the quest to build self-esteem in my children.

She continues to enthrall me over Phenobarb Pancakes with stories of her beach outing with Lindy who is "you know, the one who has the tattoos that don't wash off?"

The boy informs me he wants to be Jack Bauer for Halloween.

Keifer Sutherland as Jack Bauer

I don't watch tv as we don't have a tv but recently during moments like this when I need some zone out therapy I discovered Season One of 24 on Netflix. They like to torture people on this show. They administer drugs. They employ psychological torment. They badger incessantly. They use loud noise bedevilment. And my personal favorite: shooting bad guys in the thigh while avoiding main arteries.

It occurs to me that one Saturday morning over pancakes with my family would be much more effective torture. Sans the shooting of thighs. Of course.

Is it Sunday yet?

Parenthood Is Not For Wimps

This morning was not pretty.

The bus came. Two burly men hopped out. The driver and the assistant.

The Baby who never cries, fears nothing and is always seriously happy begins nuclear reactor meltdown phase.

I could hear her screaming all the way down the block in the full-sized, air conditioned bus.

Oh. It. Was. Terrible.

Number of passengers? One. The Baby. Three if you count the two burly men. Seems she has a giant bus all to herself.

Within minutes the teacher phoned giddy with happiness. "WE DID IT! She's here!"

I told the teacher about the meltdown and that I'm sure The Baby has been traumatized for life. And the screaming, "mama, mama, mama." Ironically, due to difficulty with lip closure from the Cerebral Palsy The Baby has NEVER called me "mama" that I can recall. We even have a little game:

Me: Say mama!
The Baby: dada!
Me: No, not dada! Say mama!
The Baby: DADA! giggle giggle giggle

Ever notice how children stockpile "mama" weaponry and such so that they can gun you down when you are at your most vulnerable?

The teacher listened patiently and then told me The Baby stopped crying almost immediately after take off but she wants a photo of me and she will use my photo and one of the bus so she can work with her to "comfort her."

Have I ever mentioned how much I love teachers?

Have I ever mentioned how difficult parenthood is?

White and Bus-less

Who are you calling white?

My neighbor Anne of Green Gables came to my door this week with a complaint regarding no recent blog entries. Here's a synopsis of why I haven't blogged:

Work:
I've been busy. There is no end in sight as far as referrals go. I could work 100 hours a week if I wanted to. It is known that I will take tough cases. I like tough cases. They keep me awake in the afternoon. At my age this is important.

I did have the good fortune to see Little Dog this week between clients. Since I was in da'neighborhood I stopped by. Little Dog answered the door boing, boing, boinging up in the air in gleeful anticipation like a furry little pogo stick when she saw me. I knocked politely. No answer. I knocked politely again. No answer. I did the: flushyourcrackdownthecrapper knock which woke everyone up.

I learned the flushyourcrackdownthecrapper knock from A Health Department employee in the 80's who was a Drug Involved Familes nurse. Now days I'm pretty sure you couldn't name a program Drug Involved Families as this would be a Hipaa violation. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Hipaa it is an acronym which stands for Hey I'm Prettysure Ain'tnuthinconfidential Anyhoo.

Irregardless of what the medical profession says Hipaa policy was secretly designed as a deforesting project. Millions of trees have given their lives to become the useless 3 page Notice of Privacy Policy that is handed out every time a patient farts.

I'm happy to report that Little Dog is fine.

The Bus:
On Monday the Baby's Teacher approached me to inform me there was "a rumor" going around. There may be a bus on Tuesday. Yawn

On Wednesday I was informed it was a GO for Thursday. EVERYTHING was in place. It has now been 24 days since school started. I have been driving The Boy to his school and then driving all the way back past my home in the opposite direction to The Baby's School. Then I go to work. Then I start the process over only backwards for the afternoon pick up

This morning i am waiting for the bus. The phone rings. It is The Baby's teacher. They had only "1/2 of a car seat and Mrs. Smith wasn't comfortable with this so the bus will not start until they get the correct car seat." I'm pretty confident I have no idea who Mrs. Smith is.

I'm also confident that the teacher...bless-her...is referring to a booster seat not, "1/2 a car seat." Although...knowing that we are dealing with my county's school transportation department it is entirely possible that they have cut the car seats in half to save money.

I drive the baby to school while my neighbor, Brasilia, sits with the teenager who is still sleeping.

As I am buckling The Baby into her adaptive seat in the classroom the teacher informs me she tried to call me at 9:00 pm last night but my number was disconnected. I recently had to change the home phone number I have had since 1987. It broke my heart but after the 3rd time I was frauded by The Teenagers birth mother (Social Security, Medicaid, identity, etc.) I confronted her. She swore to me she would never do this as "this is why my mother is in prison." It occurred to me when I had The Teenager at genetics last week and the geneticist was asking me where this relative was and where that relative was and my answer was always prison...prison...died in prison...prison...that it would be a lot easier to just change my phone number than to tolerate the nightly hang-ups I've received since I threatened to call law enforcement.

I asked the teacher why she didn't try my cell phone? She tells me it wasn't listed in their computer. Of course, this tells me that the reams of paper work I filled out on the first day of school have not been entered into the school computer system yet by the data prep clerk as the correct home phone number and cell phone numbers were listed over and over and over and over and over to infinity and beyond.

" Correct," replies the teacher.

At this point I just want to go home and clean the algae out of my pool filter. I am looking forward to cleaning the algae out of my pool filter. I long to clean the algae out of my pool filter.

"There is one more thing," states the teacher. "The baby is listed as Caucasian in the school computer." She goes on to tell me that she is concerned. What if there was an emergency and they were looking for her and she is listed as white? They would never find her. She does have a valid point.

I am speechless. I have a hard time answering. I. Can't. Stop. Laughing.

I suggest she change The baby's race to black since there is nothing white about The Baby except her adoptive honky muther.

"They wouldn't change it. They thought you wanted her listed as white and we need your permission to put her in the system as black." By now the teacher and I are both rolling on the floor. Thank God I only had one cup of tea this morning because I would also be peeing on the floor.

Then a horrific thought hit me. I begged the teacher, "PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE tell me I don't have to go to the office to change her from white to black." Thankfully, the teacher informed me that my verbal consent to make my child black would suffice. She would handle it. They just needed to know that I wanted her listed as black.

When I arrived home I asked Brasilia if she knew you could make your child any race you wanted them to be in our school system? We marveled over the scholarship possibilities.

We are so politically correct it doesn't matter anymore if you're white or black or Native American or Bosnian or Southeast Asian. After all, this is America! You can be anything or any race you want to be!

Very quickly my laughter turned to tears of joy.

Since I was seven years old all I ever wanted to be was a backup singer for Martha and the Vandellas.

After 51 years I am now one step closer to my dream.
God Bless America

Little Dog

Yesterday afternoon I sat outdoors at my pretty filigree bistro set with my blue surgical gloves on examining a pile of dog crap. I know. I can't believe this is what my life has come to either.

While at work yesterday morning I stumbled into a sticky situation. Seems Little Dog ate someones gold grill and was not faring well due to the offense. When I heard the angry owner yelling he was going to "get rid" of the Little Dog I struck a deal with him. I walk out of here now with Little Dog and I promise I'll get your gold back.

Apparently I'm trusted in d' hood. How fortunate for Little Dog.

Wisdom dictated that I probably should obtain proof that Little Dog had really scarfed the grill. I wasn't convinced. Someone could have lifted it and sold it at one of the hundreds of "We Buy Gold" establishments that pepper our city. And I sure as shooting wouldn't want to be accused of stealing a gold tooth that wasn't there in the first place. Enter the Genius who arranged an appointment with the no-kill animal rescue/shelter veterinarian for x-rays.

The gold tooth was retrieved today and The Genius picked up the tab. Turns out to be a good thing I took Little Dog in as anatomically she could not have given up the gold. They had to induce vomiting. Thankfully the x-rays showed no old or healing fractures which would have been indicative of past abuses. Had there been signs of past abuse I would have made them an offer they couldn't refuse in return for Little Dog but she was in "good condition" over all. She was up to date on her shots as the owner gave me her records.

Little Dog got a much needed bath killing fleas and I slipped her a Comfortis on the q.t. I had her toenails clipped. She slept in bed with me and followed me everywhere I went. I snuck her tiny treats of ham and cheese. She took the kids to school with me and sat in The Baby's car seat on the way home.

I'll be delivering the tooth in the morning. Since there has been a cooling down period I will have to deliver the dog as well. They want her back.

I know not everyone dresses up their Little Dog in frilly neck scarves and paints their toenails pink. Where I work this just doesn't happen. Ever.

I know people get angry.

I know I was at the right place at the right time for Little Dog's sake.

And I know The Genius has a heart of gold.

The Wheels On The Bus

I was on my way to work today after dropping off The Boy and The Baby at school. Iris phones me stating she had intercepted a phone call at my house. It went like this:

Madam X: Hello? May I speak to The Baby (uses The Baby's first name)
Iris: Who?
Madame X: The Baby (first name)
Iris: She's 3 years old. Who is this?
Madame X: Oh, I'm sorry. May I speak to The Baby? (uses The Baby's middle name)
Iris: WHO IS THIS?
Madame X: Oh...tee hee...whoops....um...May I speak to The Secret Pepper Person?
Iris: WHO. IS. THIS.
Madame X: Oh we are just calling to tell you that the bus will be late this morning.
Iris: WHAT BUS?
Madame X: huh?
Iris: Are you talking about the handicapped bus we've been waiting for since 8/24?
Madame X: Oh, I don't know anything about that. You'll have to call transportation.

Ah, yes. Seventeen painful years of torment over and over with each child and each foster child until I am a drooling imbecile. Iris asks me if I'm going to call transportation?

I would rather bite the head off a family pet on stage at a packed PETA convention than call these people.

No. I will not be calling them.

The geneticist and I were talking about employment for the teenager yesterday. She was lamenting that The Teenager would be wonderful with a little job and that generally kids like her are happier when employed but her ataxia would probably hinder her more than her IQ.

Now where could she find a job with limited physical and cognitive skills?

Thinking. Thinking. Thinking.

Wait I've got it! I'm going on line right now to see if the school district transportation department is hiring!

She'll be in supervision before she turns 20.

A Good Chuckle and Morgan, Too

Up at 6:00 am to get the three hoodlums children fed, watered, medicated and dressed. The Teenager's neurologist finally conned convinced me to get her evaluated in Genetics since testing was "much more sophisticated than it was 17 years ago" and he is convinced that "she has a syndrome." Only problem is that I am still taking The Baby to school. Yes. No. Bus. Yet.

At 7:46 am I take off to The Boy's school to drop him off and then double back to The Baby's school which doesn't open it's doors until 8:30 am. The Teenager's appointment is at 8:30 am on the other side of town. If anyone needs to learn how to astral project it's me.

Iris saves the day as always, picks up The Teenager and heads off to the other end of the city. Just as I am leaving The Baby's school Iris phones. "The clinic is empty." Uh-Oh. Wrong clinic. I confirm by phone that this appointment will be held at the "other "clinic sight. Iris beats me there even though she has no idea how to get there nor is she familiar with any of the city landmarks I try to describe. I'm suspicious. Has Virus learned how to astral project?

The geneticist from the Big City University is a lovely woman who I liked very much. She loved The Teenager and said to me, "I've got to tell you. She looks a lot better in person than she does on paper." That pretty much sums up all three of my special kids who have no clue that they are limited because the physical limitations have not been our focus. When the geneticist asked if The Teenager had any birth marks she replies before I can. "No, but I have this really weird toe." She shows the geneticist her pinkie. The geneticist smiles. "Everyone has weird pinky toes. We're entitled."

While at the clinic I catch up with an old friend who I've worked with on and off since the 80's. She is a terrific red-headed nurse with a mischievous twinkle in her eye 90% of the time. In the 90's we did a satellite cardiac clinic together in ya-hooty-ville. The highlight was eating lunch out. One day in our favorite steak house the waitress asks me if I wanted, "the senior special." I was in my 40's at the time. I'm not sure which made twinkle laugh more. The look of horror on my face or 15 minutes later our waitress delivering my lunch with a flourish yelling, "SENIOR TIPS!"

Twinkle has gotten a lot of mileage out of that story over the years.

As she's checking us out of genetics I can tell by the gleam in her eye that it's about to get worse. She hands me the lab slip and points to the clinical indications box which reads: "Mild Mental Retardation, Cerebellum Hypoplasia, Microcephaly, Short Stature, Mom Is Slow Also." We both know the doctor is referring to the birth mom who has a low IQ but my friend asks, "would you like me to put bio mom or should I just leave it?" We both burst out laughing.

Iris takes The Teenager out to lunch as a reward and I am off to the grocery store, The Boys school, home to put the frozen food away and then to The Baby's school. We are now off to the Big City for The Boy's appointment with the behavior specialist. I am patting myself on the back for making it at 2:04 pm to our 2:00 pm appointment. That is until the receptionist informs me our appointment is at 3:00 pm. "You have a loooooong wait," she apologizes.

On the way home I'm fading. I haven't had time to eat breakfast or lunch but The Boy talks me into stopping at the Big City thrift shop we like. Of course we find something. We always find something. The cashier waves me over but it takes me so long to get through the racks with the wheel chair stroller I am cut off by a slim. elderly black man. He graciously allows me to go in front of him. As I'm thanking him I get a good look at him.

I do a double take. A triple take. He looks so much like Morgan Freeman he could be his twin. By now I'm gawking like an idiot. His brilliant smile is blinding. I finally tear my gaze from his to check out.

"You know God is going to bless you for what you are doing."

I turn and stare at him. What?

"I said God is going to bless you for what you are doing. " He is still smiling at me.

Like a deer in headlights or in this situation a deer in a blinding smile I am stunned. I'm thinking to myself, what am I doing? As if he can read my mind he continues. "You know what I mean."

Morgan keeps his gaze steady. "Yes," he continues. " God is going to bless you for what you are doing. He told me to tell you that just now."

As I'm telling Iris this later she says, "You know Morgan Freeman played God in the movie Bruce Almighty."

I did not know that.

But I do know this:
Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, for as much as ye know that your labor is not in vain in the Lord. 1Co 15:58

Thank you Morgan for the reminder today.

It's Only A Little Snake

You're joking...

Right?

"Douglas Makes Me Droopy"

Frederick Douglas

The teenager has a third grade reading level. For years every night before she goes to bed she can be found reading the same book which is titled, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglas, An American Slave, Written By Himself. On the few occasions when she brings a purse with her she generally tucks this book in to her purse as well.

Tonight I go to tuck her in and put in her glaucoma drops and she is already asleep with the book on her chest. I wake her up.

"I don't know what it is about Douglas but he makes me droopy," she yawns. I had to laugh.

There is a special place in heaven for people like The Teenager. I'm sure her angel was laughing, too.

The Baby Slept Through The Night

I am singing this tune this morning.
I am doing this dance.

Pharmacy Ponderings

Yesterday I dropped the new RX off at the children's hospital outpatient pharmacy after seeing the ENT specialist who will be diagnosing "the cough" by "exclusion." "The cough" had already subsided before we got in to said ENT replaced by a nice rattly, loose cough. "Is this the cough you are talking about?" asks the way-too-handsome-student-nurse-heart-throb resident. Doogie, Doogie, Doogie. sigh. If this was "the cough" I wouldn't be sitting here wasting my time on something obviously within normal limits. I do have a life or at least I do long for a life outside of this hospital.

I dropped the RX the ENT prescribed off at the hospitals' outpatient pharmacy which will only accept scripts from physicians on the hospital staff. This means The Teenager's glaucoma drops, The Boy's ADHD medication, and every script written by our pediatrician would not be accepted here thus our 2 additional pharmacies.

I will go on record today stating that if one more person suggests i go to their pharmacy where they never have issues or asks why i use 3 pharmacies when I am not a pill lady pharmacy hopping for Oxycontin i will throw myself on the floor. Don't get me wrong I am happy Walbrown's and Grinn Dixie pharmacies work for you. It simply isn't that easy in our house hold. And remember? I did try your Walbrown's where you never have any problems proving that I am open to suggestions and also proving my claim that it isn't that easy in our household.

Last night I wake up to the baby choking and after it subsides an hour later I'm lying there pondering the pharmacy curse and our options:

Children's Hospital Outpatient Pharmacy:
The Pros: This pharmacy is a hop, skip and jump away on the interstate. They can be trusted with teeny-tiny pediatric doses, complicated compounds and rx's like yesterdays which is not likely stocked by your neighborhood pharmacy. The teeny-tiny four foot nothing pharmacist is a wiz who has bailed us out more times than i have digits to count. When I had The teenagers Diastat rx i was informed by neurology that insurance would not pay for this emergency seizure drug because The Teenager was not yet on a daily seizure medication having had just one seizure at that point. Cost for this Valium rectal rocket? $250.00. Teeny-tiny pharmacist yanked it out of my hand and said, "I'll just override the insurance."

The Cons: When you arrive you park in a parking garage whose handicap spots are often filled,walk about one block through an overhead walkway to the outpatient office building to another overhead walk way where you are stopped by the visitor gestapo lady who makes a name tag you must wear to your destination. You then enter the main hospital and take an elevator down to the hospital lobby where the pharmacy is located and pick up or drop off your rx's. The glitch with the overhead walkway is that is is filled with colorful sit-on sculptures and awesome, projected liquid-looking patterns on the floor that jiggle when you dance on them which is what the teenager was doing. Sitting and dancing. Dancing and sitting. What takes me 2 minutes to accomplish when I am alone took 20 minutes one way with The Teenager in tow.

The walkway is also slanted downward which makes an excellent Evel Knievel ramp for the boy's racing wheel chair. He always uses his wheel chair because the distance from car to pharmacy is too hard on his femurs. He revs up at the garage exit and peels out down this ramp where he skids to a stop in front of the registration desk and security guard who generally applaud and high five him while I am running behind him screeeeeing. It takes all the will power I have not to backhand him right out of said wheel chair for not listening thus endangering not only himself but others with his reckless driving. Yesterday, he nearly plowed into a nurse who again, thought it was adorable. I wanted to smack her down as well. What part of inappropriate behavior don't you nincompoop enablers understand? I don't care if he's cute and in a wheel chair. If he was butt-ugly and ambulatory you would be reprimanding him not high-fiving him!

This pharmacy is not open on weekends or holidays, and closes at 5:00 pm. Yesterday by the time we danced and burned rubber through the walkway to the pharmacy, the teeny-tiny pharmacist informed me, "We're closed." I have learned never to piss off said teeny-tiny pharmacist as she is not a force to be reckoned with. Last year I sent her a Christmas card. She informs me it was the only one received from a client and had it proudly displayed. Don't think I get any brownie points because of the Christmas card, however. Ain't happening with teeny-tiny.

Before she could hand me back yesterdays ENT rx I spun and ran from the pharmacy like I was on fire looking for a spot to stop-drop-and-roll yelling over my shoulder, "That's ok! I'll be back tomorrow! Bye bye now!" This time it worked.

Today I will make my 4th trip in one week to the hospital to pick up the prescription. This would be fun only if i suffered from Munchhausen's by Proxy.

XYZ Pharmacy # 1:
The Pros: Located near my home with a drive-thru. Open 24 hours. I have left the baby's seizure medication here because they always have it in stock and rarely screw this one up and did I mention they have a drive-thru? They also seem to manage to fill common antibiotics without a huge production. Again, the drive-thru is the enticement.
The Cons: Staffed by The Village Idiot and his first cousins who received their pharmacy degrees online. Average wait, "two hours." When your return in two hours, "give us one more hour." When you return two days later on a Friday night at 5:05 they inform you they "will have to" contact the doctor as there is a question regarding the rx. I inform them it is Friday after 5:00pm and there is no doctor until Monday and that I dropped prescriptions off 4 days ago and why didn't they do this 4 days ago? The racket of crickets chirping in their empty heads forces me to snatch rx out of their hands and drive to:

XYZ Pharmacy #2:
The Pros: Brilliant, friendly, happy, compassionate, efficient pharmacist who I adore. He is so personable and calm I suspect he may be dipping into the goods. When you say you are waiting for the rx they tell you 10 to 15 minutes. This is partially true. By the time I go into the bathroom located at the back of the store they have already called my name which I can't hear from the bathroom so I come out sit down and wait 10 to 15 minutes until they see me and wave me over to pick up the prescription that took them 2 minutes to fill.
The Cons: Not close to home. No drive thru which means I have to drag my children inside with me. I try not to bring my children out in public when they are tired, sick or over-stimulated. This leaves a very narrow margin of opportunity which never coincides with the procuring of prescriptions. If you recall the baby had her first ever tantrum in this pharmacy because i wouldn't put her in a shopping cart.

Some folks long to win the lottery.
I long to not be humiliated in public by my children.

So...two trips to the hospital since I had to leave after The Baby's x-rays (where she fought like a tiger on Meth ) to pick up The Boy at school on the other side of town and then return to the hospital for The Baby's appointment. All of this and a mandatory PTA meeting at The Boy's school at 6:00 pm, too. Normally I love to attend anything associated with this school. Unfortunately, at this point, the PTA meeting was merely the cherry on the crap cake this awful day had become. By 5:00 pm the pharmacy is closed, the kids are melting down and I am finished mentally. I called Iris who agreed to take the Teenager off my hands while i drug The Baby and The Boy to the meeting. I informed her if she didn't the headlines in the morning would read, "Mom strangles kids at PTA meeting."

We survived. Thank God, we always do and as Anne Taintor sez:

I feel compelled to add here that today at 7:30 am there is a knock on my front door and it is Andy the sewer guy. We are now on a first name basis. He asks how it's been going since the sewage explosion. He is back in the neighborhood doing some finishing touches and after small talk he advises me, "Be sure to keep your toilet seats down today." I'm happy to report I now know enough not to ask, can it get any worse?.

Library Treasure

This has not been a pleasant week. The Baby is coughing again. She is being seen on an emergent basis today at the local children's hospital by ENT. I am truly running on empty. Or more accurately, running on organic coffee.

Life goes on, however, and the good walks hand in hand with the bad. The Boy is the star of his class. Over our Tom Sawyer summer he has matured and the teacher has observed a huge change. He is her "rock" in the classroom.

The teenager has been seizure free for about 3 weeks.

We have been sewage free for 7 days.

There is a change in the air. I keep asking everyone, "do you notice it?" I get the same answer. No. This morning the warm breeze wasn't as warm and a faint hint of Fall is in the air. Or at least what we call Fall in the tropics. I remember an incredulous teen in the neighborhood astonished that I could "smell rain" hours before it actually fell. I realize, of course, growing up legally blind has left me with a bionic nose.

Yesterday I made it to the local library to look up gluten free diet books which The Baby has begun. We are a family who frequents libraries but life has been so hectic lately I don't think we've been all summer. Walking in to our small community library I had forgotten how much I missed the place. It was reminiscent of that Fall breeze. Subtle excitement and anticipation of good things to come. Unfortunately, a majority of our society doesn't sense the same "fall breeze" in their local libraries.

I found two gluten free cookbooks and grabbed The Great Gatsby. I figured it was time I read The Great Gatsby as I only have about another 30 more years left on this earth figuring in family genetics. And then i found an unexpected treasure: Born To Be Hurt The Untold Story Of Imitation Of Life. The Genius and The Artist know that my favorite movie of all time is the 1959 version of Imitation of Life. As a child it had a profound affect on me. As an adult it still does.

So I head off to the hospital today with The Great Gatsby under one arm my "untold story", under the other arm,The Baby on my hip and The Teenager at my side. It doesn't get much better than this.