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