So close!
Monkey has an appointment on Thursday with the ENT who did last year’s surgery, because it turns out that Monkey’s sinuses are still assholes. Monkey has sounded like an 80-year-old lifelong three-pack-a-day smoker for a couple of weeks, now, and his behavior indicates that the poor little dude is just feeling miserable. But true to his usual form, he has no fever, claims he feels “fine,” and basically I only know something is wrong because he’s spending more time as Mr. Hyde than Dr. Jekyll, if you catch my drift. And we ALMOST made it to Thursday, too, but… well, Otto took the boys to school this morning, and then Otto brought Monkey back home. He was distraught (Monkey, that is—Otto is a stoic), and so I convinced him to lie down with me for a minute. He slept for almost three hours. So.
That’s the kind of fun we’ve been having ’round here.
So while I go deal with that, perhaps you’d like to take a sartorial stroll down memory lane? I’m over at Off Our Chests today, talking beloved outfits of my past. Please don’t laugh. I mean, laugh, sure, just not AT me… too loudly.
Just like Jesus
Easter was a relatively low-key event ’round here. Thanks to my last-minute grocery store run, we had enough food to feed a small army. This isn’t my fault; given our plans to just have a quiet dinner of the four of us, and given that one of us doesn’t eat meat, my intention was to buy a few ham steaks and we’d just cook them out on the grill. But it turns out that the day before Easter, giant hunks of pig are actually cheaper than smaller, more manageable hunks of pig. Naturally, I opted for a small ham because it was more food for less money (and that’s my particular mental illness, that I am IN MY MIND always just one grocery selection away from not being able to feed my family).
And as long as we were having a bona fide ham, well, then we needed stuff to go with it to make it all official, of course. So somehow we ended up with a giant meal. Because if there’s ham, there must also be a mountain of mashed potatoes! And veggies! And a whole pineapple, which we totally forgot about and never even cut up. Whoops. We did not, however, forget about the pie. Mmmmmm… pie.
Anyway. What? Oh, right. Low-key Easter. read more…
Christ is risen, and my foot is delicious
Today we are carefully preparing for this holiest of weekends in the standard way: You know, getting up early, cajoling the children into doing yard work with us while they complain bitterly (“I hit my leg on the wheelbarrow!” “These sticks are hurting my hands!”), then realizing that tomorrow is Easter and we have no food and I have to go grocery shopping.
The usual.
Anyway, as I wandered through the supermarket, comparing prices on various hunks of delicious pig meats (Jesus probably kept kosher, which makes the Easter fixation on giant hams rather odd), I felt almost peaceful. We got a lot done this morning. And I was shopping alone, in blessed, whine-free silence.
All of this is preface to telling you that I have no idea WHY—when the cashier held up a little donation slip and asked me if I wanted to “Donate a dollar to save a baby”—the thing that fell out of my mouth was, “No thanks, I hate babies!”
I was joking. She was horrified.
I’m an ass. (Sorry, Jesus. Please accept this pie by way of apology.)
Hair, from a different angle
Chickadee is dying for me to cut off all my hair. She says she thinks it will be “cute.” Then again, she also says she thinks I should dye my gray bright pink once I do, and she currently has plans to streak her hair purple, so I’m not sure I’m relying on her for reliable hair advice.
Monkey has no opinions on hair, not really. He dislikes the actual act of having his hair cut—the sitting still! the scratchy little pieces of hair tickling his neck and nose!—but has reached a place where having scraggly hair hanging in his eyes bothers him more, so we generally keep his hair fairly short. I can’t quite get on board with that oh-so-southern thing of just buzzing your boychild’s head as soon as the weather warms up, though, so I kind of hedge my style bets and give him that floppy skater-boy cut that’s longer on top and shorter beneath.
The problem is that I tend to become hyperfocused on minor, inconsequential things because they are slightly less scary to me than larger, actually-important skills. And so we have a Hair Issue. read more…
Regrouping, and searching
I’ve reached the segment of our program where I’m finding it difficult say much, to anyone. Never mind writing about my delicate feeeeelings, Otto’s customary “How was your day?” query as we’re getting settled in bed at night is enough to render me speechless. How was my day? Ummm, Chickadee remains medically fragile and I think Monkey has another sinus infection (which you understand to mean “He says he feels fine, but he’s being a complete butthead at school and has a nasty cough, so that probably means he’s sick”), so my days mostly feel like a mad dash from here to there, cradling a dozen raw eggs in my arms, hoping that none of them drop and go splat. If everyone got everywhere they were supposed to go and no one had to go to the hospital, I guess it was an okay day.
Inbetween driving children to more doctors’ appointments than I ever realized were even possible, arguing with our insurance company, and filling out paperwork for everything from summer camp to next year’s high school schedule, I choose to focus on the things I actually have some power over. Because that’s HEALTHY, sort of.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the suckage I cannot change, the courage to find a decent hairstyle, and the wisdom not to schedule that stylist appointment while the kids need a ride somewhere. Amen. read more…
But I might start singing, here
I tried really hard not to burst out into mournful song during my post at Off Our Chests this week, but I have to warn you that my girl is growing up and it’s making me a little sentimental. Okay, a lot sentimental. Okay, FINE; I’m a gibbering mess. (I keep telling her to just please be UGLIER and LESS AWESOME, but she refuses to listen.)
In addition to that craziness, y’all know I’m insanely proud to be involved with The Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism, and as part of their “Slice of Life” series for Autism Acceptance Month, today they’re featuring an interview with Monkey. (I may have had to bribe him with pie to get his cooperation.)
As for me, it turns out I am far less interesting than my kids, so that’s all I have for you today.
Go hug an Aspie!
Apparently it’s World Autism Awareness Day, which is important if you live under a rock and have never known anyone with autism. Anyone? Anyone?? Bueller…??
Obviously, I’m aware of autism… oh, pretty much all the time. So I’m going to celebrate today by doing the same stuff I do all the time. I’m a rebel that way.
For you, though, maybe you’d like to check out this nice little interview with me over at SheKnows, all about how—for our family—diagnosis wasn’t hard or scary, but the start of things getting better. And I don’t know if you know this, but my Monkey is really the very best one ever.
Measured in metric awesome
Our long national nightmare known as the prolonged agony of Science Fair has come to a close for the year.
Not that I’m not a fan of Science Fair. I think it’s great. I just think it’s LONG. From the time the kids start their projects in… I think it’s October?… until the final fair at the end of March is just… a lot of time for a type-A nerdling to worry about her project. Not that I’m naming any names. Not that there was a child threatening to head to the exhibit hall WITH HER PUKE BUCKET if she was still sick, or anything. AHEM.
So you may remember that the Regional Fair was a real nail-biter this year, but ultimately Chickie took home the big prize, and all was well. I figured this would give her some confidence, heading into the State Fair, but that’s only because I forgot who I was dealing with. Because every new level of the Fair is an opportunity to FREAK OUT! read more…
The good, the bad, and the furry
I bet you have no idea how much I like my dog, on account of I hardly ever talk about her. Haaaaaaaaaaaa!
The dog is a constant source of amusement. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. She’s just funny. Plus, she doesn’t have the stomach bug! Or any chronic diseases or developmental impairments! Basically, up until recently, the very worst thing about her is that she thinks a good way to remind you to feed her is to weave around your feet and step directly in front of you until you fall over. Now everyone in the house associates a twisted ankle with KIBBLE O’CLOCK, thanks to her.
She’s a 12-pound jester, providing comic relief amidst the chaos.
Well, I still love her, but I’m afraid she’s crossed the line. read more…
I’m pretty sure I’m being punk’d
The sucky thing about a prolonged run of bad luck is that, well, it sucks. It’s stressful and people get sick of listening to you whine (I assume; when I reach the point where I’m actually tired of whining, I pretty much figure that anyone who’s been subjected to it is probably fantasizing about smothering me in my sleep) and I much prefer that idyllic life we used to have where cartoon bluebirds sat on my shoulders as I pranced through the daisies.
Okay, fine. We don’t have any daisies. Grant me a little poetic license in my time of woe, OKAY?
But the GREAT thing about a prolonged run of bad luck is that, if you are me (and I happen to be me!), continued problems tend to lose their ability to upset you. Why, if you are me, they start to just become HILARIOUS. Because stress makes me laugh. (Exhibit A: uncontrolled giggling while furniture shopping.)
So when the pediatrician told me this morning that, “Yeah, this stomach bug that’s been going around lasts about a week,” and Chickadee said “I’M NOT MISSING STATE SCIENCE FAIR!”, I just chuckled and told her to bring a bucket. read more…