Sometimes A Photo Is Enough

Cake Wrecks

Oh and no, people. This is not my cake. If I was an opiate lover my kids would have surely cannibalized me by now when I was stuporous.

Prone Standers and the End Of Summer Freedoms

Today is the official end of summer vacation. No, we still have 7 more glorious days until school begins but TODAY we begin implementing our school schedule. At least we attempt to begin implementing our school schedule. Mornings during school are brutal and that's putting it mildly. We need to get in to the groove of early to bed and early to rise now and not after the fact. Especially me who was up until 1:30 AM last night watching re-runs of Bones on Netflix.

I am nervous about sending the baby to a new school where she doesn't know any one. Remember how hard the first day of kindergarten was? Letting your 5 year old go off into the big, scary world? Imagine that child could not walk or talk well and was only three. The Baby will begin her new communication disorder pre-k class at a local elementary school while the boy returns to the school he attended last year. Yesterday we took advantage of tax free shopping, BOGO offers, and internet coupons finishing up shoe, uniform and clothing shopping. They are ready. I am not!

So today, the minute the baby got off the school bus we began our new schedule in her prone stander. I have to say I've been lax to say the least about her daily time in the prone stander primarily because Popi cleaned out the garage and buried it under a pile of other equipment that i did not feel like digging through. Motivated by guilt i recently resurrected it and cleaned it up. Before The Baby's physical therapist went on maternity leave we made the necessary adjustments and it is ready to rock n' roll. It has a nifty tray pictured above to do art activities and games on but the most fun is when big brother is "manning the wheel" so to speak. Their antics this afternoon reminded me of my favorite former Disney ride, Mr Toads Wild Ride.

Here we go!

This is where I'm screeching, "Stop sailing her across the room! " Obviously she's terrified.

Pondering what mischief they could get into out side.

Peas in a pod.

There is an irony to this particular prone stander. When we were putting it together after obtaining it from a local hospital's loaner program we found a name etched on the under side. The former owner was someone I knew! The last time I saw the original owner, a little girl with severe cerebral palsy, was when I was the nurse one summer at a Hippotherapy camp for special needs children. The therapist who ran the camp bribed asked me to replace the first nurse who "didn't work out." For my nursing skills she would give one of my foster children and the teenager free scholarships. How could I pass that up? We were talking $1,000.00.

It was stinking hot and nothing says pungent like horse poo in the summer. Besides being the camp nurse i also seemed to be the camp arts and crafts lady, snack lady, life guard, fly swatter, side walker and referee. One darling little girl sat next to me at snack time one day and informed me she liked me much better than that other nurse who "never moved." I told her someone should have checked her pulse because the nurse was probably dead. At the end of camp while I was walking from one end of the pasture to the other my pants literally almost fell off. I had lost 6 lbs.

The original owner of the prone stander from horsey camp? She's a freshman in college now! Lord, I am getting old!

For all of you young readers I'm here to tell you that your mom is right. It's a short distance from the cradle to the crematorium. It only seems long when you're young.

Dyslexia And Other Academic Horrors

After five children I have learned that my strength as a parent is not in the area of behavior and academics having minimal patience for either. I'm sure you are asking your self, what's left? My defect was beautifully illustrated today when The Boy was attempting to say a three word sentence and it was so convoluted I had to ask him to repeat himself three times. When I finally realized what he was saying it tickled me so badly i started hee hawing like a demented burro. I'd share those 3 words with you to further illustrate my point but I can't remember them. I seem to have short term memory retrieval issues and the 1960's are partially to blame for that defect. Laughing at your child's dyslexia is what I've been reduced to after 40 years of parenting. Besides the 1960's it is partially due to "the beach glass phenomenon." (my own diagnoses) Forty years ago I started out crystal clear and sharp enough to pierce with that cutting edge but over the years the stress has worn my edges down and I'm no longer transparent. I've become cloudy-dull and harmless. Pretty soon I'll be in someones fish tank as a decoration.

Around the age of five the boy began exhibiting signs of learning difficulties. I had been told since pre-k he was "fine" by his teachers. One teacher kept telling me he was the "typical medically complex child." What they really meant to say was that he was so cute they couldn't get past it long enough to asses him objectively. I was on red alert, however, having gone through this exact thing with the artist who was also so cute the teachers couldn't assess her objectively either. I found out at the end of the school year that she was never able to complete her assignments so they kept her in at recess every day and helped her complete them. A little late on the notice people. This happened to a friend of mine also who's concerns were brushed off all year long until the last day of kindergarten when the teacher informed her, "I don't think your daughter is ready for first grade." The problem with "cuteness" is that it is generally reserved for pre-K thru 1st grade. After that the reality of academic difficulty is no longer "cute."

For the artist, the solution was removing her from the private schools where she did not fit the cookie cutter mold and putting her in public school where she was in advanced classes and French 3 by 8th grade. Her artistic giftings were simultaneously pursued with a vengeance because that was where her heart was. After turning down acceptance from Boston Conservatory she ended up graduating from The University Of The Arts In Philadelphia and moving to NYC two months later to pursue dance.

The Artist

Photo by Lois Greenfield

It has never been an easy academic road for any of them. The Genius was so intelligent that her IQ was generally a good 50 points higher than most of her teachers and honey she knew it. This did not always go well with the teachers as illustrated by the incident where she ran in to one 10 years later and when he recognized her, he gave her the finger. Couple this with the caustic wit of a high paid talk show host and I was getting phone calls from her high school VP weekly. I love that man to this day because without fail he would always begin his conversation with, "The Genius is a good girl but..." Always reinforcing her goodness had a lasting impression on me. I ran into him years later when he accepted a position at the Artist's high school. I asked him if he remembered The Genius. "Oh! The Genius!" he laughed. " I had a hard time keeping up with The Genius!" I will always love you Mr. Dixon. Enjoy your well deserved retirement. XXXOOO

The Genius went to college later in life and holds a degree in Criminology. She remains one of the funniest people I have ever met making Ellen sound like the Pope.

The solution for The Boy has been more difficult due to the severe dylexia, dyscalculia and dysgraphia diagnosed to the tune of $870.00 3 years ago. 40% of dyslexics also suffer from ADHD. Add pre-natal street drug exposure and medical complexities causing severe pain and you have a casserole-for-a- brain with so many ingredients it's hard to identity the main dish. Where to start? I tried to homeschool one year but when he gnawed through the noise canceling headphones and computer mouse wires like a rabid ferret I knew this wasn't going to work.

Here is a snippet of one of the 1,000 interruptions while I am attempting to type this:

SPP: (working on the computer) I have asked you 1,000 times to not interrupt me when I am on the computer or on the phone.
The Boy: But it's not ringing.
SPP: I am on the computer not the phone.
The boy: Oh.

I have two more children somewhere in this house with academic and behavioral issues that would bring George Foreman, (one of the most feared heavy weight boxers in the world prior to his grilling days) to his knees without one blow. Maybe another time. Right now I have to take The Baby in to the pediatrician as we have lost the 3 day viral battle. At breakfast she was blowing prize winning pea soup colored bubbles out of her nose to the chanting of The Boy's,"Pop it! Pop it! Top Pit! Pot Tip!" Our family's version of "dinner theater."

For more famous people with the gift of dyslexia go here

Time to Lug Out The Portable Loo

Last months pay check was $500.00 less than it should be. I took one day off for "vacation" when the artist came down. And then there are always the cancellations. I work with a population that is very medically complex. They have numerous medical appointments, many emergent situations and lots of illness. I understand completely. I also missed a day due to yet another flat tire which ended up costing me $300.00 as there wasn't enough tread to patch and "FYI, "you actually have 3 bad tires." After all of this and 3 new tires later Popi calls me before i leave for work this morning to tell me I need to get the car back to Tire Commonwealth as two of them are very low. I've been up all night with the baby who has a virus and high temp. I do not want to hear this. I stick my fingers in my ears...la la la la la..... and drive to the other side of the city where my first client is.

Actually my first client is in a galaxy far away at an amusement park so I made arrangements last night with the remainder of my clients to move them up one hour. All graciously agreed. I arrive at 9:00 am for our pre-arranged session at the day care. No baby. Mee Ma (not the real name) took the baby somewhere else but neither day care person or Mee Ma thought about calling me. Yes, I had just spoken to them 12 hours ago. "I'll sign your paper for you," says the gracious day care person. I explained to her that I cannot charge for my services if I don't actually work with a client. Two months ago the hospital I contract out with quit reimbursing for client no shows so my trip to the other side of the city is without gas reimbursement as well.

It's too early to go to my next client who is generally asleep when I get there at the usual time of 12:30 and I have no cell phone to call them anyway as I discovered this morning that i had left it behind earlier this week at another clients... on the other side of the city. A moot point anyway as suddenly and unexpectedly I get horrific diarrhea. There are few bathrooms in the hood. My house is on the other side of the city in the general vicinity of the cell phone but i remember something terrible. Even if I make it home there is always No tire de la cadena del inodoro! At this time I'm 99% sure I just crapped my pants.

I speed to a distant pharmacy in the rain on my floppy tires and mow down any blue haired lady that gets in my way while I'm doing an accelerated "sting ray shuffle" to the pharmacy bathroom located at the very back of the store. I notice pee all over the bathroom floor. I have a very strong stomach but not when it comes to public restrooms. Public restrooms induce a panic in me that intravenous Valium wouldn't touch. I'd rather be back in Haiti pooping in an outhouse crawling with tarantulas than in a public USA restroom. There's just something about that faux cleanliness that reeks of disease. The pee on the floor only heightens my anxiety but I'm desperate. I plop down quickly unable to swathe the toilet seat in paper, relieved that I did not poop my pants but the relief is short lived. Someone has peed all over the toilet seat as well as the floor. OMG!

Then I remember I am unable to even shower when i get home because of No tire de la cadena del inodoro!! I spend the next 5 minutes washing my butt off with tp and hand soap.

At this juncture I give up. Before I drive home to use my home phone to cancel the remaining client I stop at the grocery store. As the lady is bagging my hamburger and chicken I notice she is putting them in different PLASTIC bags. I inform her they can go in the same bag. She seems a little snippy when she explains that most people don't want their raw chicken in with anything else even their raw hamburger. Sweetheart. Sweetheart. Sweetheart. At this point if i ended up with e-coli AND salmonella it couldn't be any worse than what my butt has been through already today. I would consider it a mercy killing.

No tire de la cadena del inodoro

Phot0 by J Clutter

Today I come home from work and I have a lovely sign on my door that states, " In the next few days, we will be in the neighborhood reconstructing certain sewer pipes in need of repair." It goes on to say that our sewer service connection will be temporarily sealed off and our cooperation is needed:
1.) Do not wash clothes or dishes (Are you serious? We have so much laundry in this house that we rarely if ever are able to visualize our living room sofa. The clothes line, dryer and washer are NEVER...repeat NEVER empty.)
2.) Do not take showers or baths ( I can't even go here with the pee sheets and pee pajamas and pee people every morning. (No, not me. I only pee my pants when I cough, sneeze, drink too much coffee, water, tea, soda, pick up anything weighing over 20 lbs, or laugh too hard.)
3.) Do not flush toilets. No tire de la cadena del inodoro. Even the boy asks, "Mom do we just let the poo pile up all day?" Gag.
4.) Turn off sump pumps which are connected to the sewer service. Or in Spanish which sounds so much more poetic, " Apague las bombas que estan conectadas al servico de drenaje." What is a sump pump but more importantly do I have one?

I am assuming that the old company that blew the neighborhood up a few years back without notice lost their contract. Now we have an obviously more professional company who is warning us in writing that they are about to blow our neighborhood up. You think I'm kidding?

I happened to be home on that fateful day. The teen just got off of the toilet when it began to make foreboding noises. I assumed she had plugged it up as she does on a fairly routine basis and reached for the plunger. Thank God I moved my face just in time as i barely avoided the Vesuvius like-toilet eruption. Fortunately, I am quite good in emergency situations dealing with bodily waste and reacted quickly. I flung open the bathroom window for ventilation, slammed the toilet seat down and bathroom door shut and wedged a towel beneath the door frame. Even so the smell of methane gas was nearly overpowering. Our physical therapist was here for one of the kids therapy sessions and I can still picture the look on her face and the tears running down her cheeks. Sorry, Cheryl.

Here's a fun fact: I have worked pediatrics so long I can name the intestinal bacteria a pediatric client is suffering from simply through fart identification. I should be on a game show. "Yes! I can name that fart in two toots! That fart is definitely a clostridium difficile fart and not rotavirus, Alex." Can you imagine the olfactory processing overload what with an entire neighborhoods' sewer-sludge flowing through my house? And God bless my neighbors who were NOT at home during the eruption. Their bathroom did not fare too well as "lava and ash" were all over the walls if you get my drift.

I was thankful that the teenager was not on the volcanic throne when it erupted. What counselor specializes in that kind of trauma therapy?

Brace yourselves, however for the most horrifying aspect of the explosion. There was an un-sinkable turd in our toilet. What's so bad about that you ask after all we had been through? I'm glad you asked. It wasn't our turd. Whoever owned it must have been eating styrofoam because that stinking thing wouldn't flush for hours.

I sit here reading the instructions trying hard to be thankful in spite of the past. Trying to be grateful for the hours and days and years we do have flush toilets. Thankful for the "break" from laundry and dishes. Thankful that I have to work tomorrow. Then i notice this on the bottom of the placard:

"We have enjoyed being your neighbor - if only for a day."

Yeah, right. Like I believe that one. Here...pull my finger.

Finding Frank

Frank. Day One

Yesterday the boy came in with yet another critter. Extremely excited, "Look what I found! Look what I found!" I expected a flower, or a creepy bug. I was totally shocked when he presented Frank. The boy had named him.

When I was 15 I had a mouse named Zsa Zsa. I came home late one night and found Zsa Zsa eating her babies. There she sat with a baby between her paws snacking on it's head. From that moment on any pink, creepy thing with a bald tail has totally grossed me out to the point of swooning therefore, I was not excited to see Frank. I was shocked, however, at how lively Frank was. Wiggle. Wiggle. Wiggle. Squeak. Squeak Squeak. The only thing Frank has going for him at this point was his tenacity.

The boy showed me where he found Frank near the play area rock climbing wall. Sure enough, there is a huge nest about 1 1/2 stories up in a big old Live Oak. How Frank survived the fall I'll never know. He had a tiny lump on his head with a little abraded area. Now I not only have this pink rat looking thing, I have a pink rat looking thing with a concussion. I told the boy he should probably put it back where he found it and then he informed me there was a big black racer lurking for a Frank meal. The boy chased the snake away. I'm all for the circle of life but dawg! The thought of Frank being swallowed whole by a black racer made me even more nauseous.

Oh, ok we'll keep Frank only because there are no other options but he will not survive. He had a bad fall. He's too little to be separated from his mommy. The usual critter speech falling on deaf ears. I give it my best effort and got on the Internet researching care of orphaned squirrels. Being a medical family I had just about everything I needed on hand including the Peidaltye recommended for the first few feeds. I can't believe I am feeding this alien rat looking thing at 1 AM holding him upright to prevent aspiration.

No one was more surprised than me when I saw this this morning:

Frank. Day two.

Frank is still alive and kicking. I'll be a Monkey's Uncle. Or in this case, a Squirrels' nurse maid. Unfortunately, now we have an additional problem. Somehow from the puddle pad he is sleeping on he developed a fiber tourniquet around his tail tip. At 7 am I am attempting to cut way the fine fibers but the tail tip does not look good. Frank eats heartily in spite of it all. Wiggle. Wiggle. Squeak. Squeak. Before i put him back to bed in the garage I washed his little boo boo head and tail with a q-tip. Every time I feed him I am reminded of one of my favorite scenes from the Princess Bride:

Valerie: "Bye Bye boys!"
Miracle Max: "Have fun storming the castle!"
Valerie: "Think it'll work?"
Miracle Max: "It'll take a miracle."

I'm with Max.

Savoring the Sunset

Tonight the family and a feathered friend got together to watch the sun go down.
Can you tell we are on the Gulf coast where the sand looks like snow?

I love the progression of the colors from steel gray

to pretty pastels

and then:

brilliant oranges and yellows

Our friend got hungry and wandered off.
Good night friend.

Good night sun.

Good night everyone!