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

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.