Gas-Food-Lodging

Things I learned recently at my mom's new nursing home

2012-01-25T01:30:00.000-07:00

In January, all ice is slippy, even in parking lots full of old people who might drive over a woman who is lying on the slippy ice, thinking "I've fallen and I can't get up. This can't be happening to me . . . again . . . and are those stars or cartoon birds circling my head?"

And I would like to note that as far as the sandwich generation goes, I think I am the mayonnaise. Never be a condiment when you could have been a staple, right? Grease is generally the wrong choice, do you agree?

My aging parents are aging out quickly - I have been having regular conversations with my daughters that Grandma may not be around much longer. Worse still, the nightly Claire cuddle and discussion to run down the key points of her day all too often involves me spending too much time explaining things that defy explanation - heaven, death, reincarnation, how the baby Jesus fits in all this, why we need inside voices in the nursing home chapel when it has such lovely acoustics for making echos, and why the "outdoor" baby Jesus has now disappeared from the front entrance to the (Catholic run) nursing home in which we have recently installed my mother. It was actually pretty hard to explain the fake manger alone, since "no room at the Inn" seems so unlikely given the number of Holiday Inn Express locations we pass regularly. The Magi also presented some challenges, showing up at the drop off driveway late, as they did, and with non-matching head coverings.

I don't like holding someone else's teeth. Under any circumstances and regardless of how much it helps a really demanding and nutty old lady . . . I really hate touching the dentures. Fake teeth are somewhat distressing but fake gums . . . that just isn't right right. Mom had just been fairly sweet and my sister and I were feeling somewhat sympathetic when she asked us to glue her dentures back in since someone who had recently done the job had failed to use enough adhesive. I quailed at the thought. Some of my worst teen aged hangovers were those I had when I still slept at my parents house and would use the bathroom they used and have to use their sinks. I will never be able to forget what spilled powdered denture adhesive does in a sink. (Tell your kids - this is yet one more reason to go to college: so one might have the kind of job that provides dental insurance so one can have implants and not be limited to dentures. Yay, me! Yay college! Yay Law School! Yay!!!) Powdered adhesive might come out of the bottle green but it is made to look like the gums it adheres to - so the overspray of green Fasteeth powder would hit the water droplets in the sink and make little globs of pale pink fake gum tissue, glistening in the sink all day long. Possibly all week long unless someone was motivated. Hungover teenagers are not motivated to remove disgusting things from sinks, they just gag and try to move on. Or move out, and in with a boyfriend. I digress, though. My mother now uses adhesive that looks a lot more like toothpaste and that is a distinct improvement since I was not required to handle even a little bit of fake gum tissue. My sister and I shared the odious task.

I am so glad I am not a CNA.

Other Grandmas in the nursing home are jealous of my Mom's grand kids coming in so often, and frequently try to get a handhold of young girl as they run by.

Claire and Hannah are not as afraid of arthritically misshapen hands coming at their heads as I might have expected them to be. I think they know that all these other Grandmas are truly interested in getting up close and personal and so they exploit it by smiling and shouting and then pretending to be shy. When my family members pretend to be shy (or suddenly are) they get a lot closer to me. I am a little tired of just how far up my butt Hannah can stuff her head when it is time to hide. Somehow I still get surprised. But if Lord Honey tries that at the next party we go to I really will strangle him, because I am pretty well done with head up my butt syndrome - this is where I put my head after all, and my butt is not that big. I have been losing weight, people. This is a one head butt. No room at the Inn.

Time. Marching on. Thank all that is holy.

2012-01-03T01:48:00.000-07:00

By golly, is that the time? Time to sit down and consume all my remaining outlandishly overpriced and calorically overdense foods before reentry into reality tomorrow morning? Yes, it is time, apparently, since I sat down to blog with a crusty roll (less crusty than a few days ago) the last wad of pâté (I am so hoping Blogger can read pâté as pâté and not pate because, ooooh, ICK!) small slices of dilled Havarti, half a cheese danish and a chocolate caramel nut thingie (name of which escapes me but this goody will NOT escape me). And an eggnog with rum, natch. Sadly, this year I couldn't even keep up with my previously set standards for eggnog consumption because this year I was too busy to drink. Yes, strange but true, we haven't restocked our eggnog from Costco for three weeks, and that is not like us. Over the past few weeks I have countless times found myself failing to urinate when the urge occurred, only to realize that hours have passed before I finally decided I could pull that off. Now you may hate me for this, and I do apologize, but I lost four pounds in December. Before you throw something heavy at my post, do remember I am actually overweight, and fair is fair - someone has to lose pounds in any social circle because the number of pounds compounded between any group of people is a constant, shifting back and forth between the folk according to a fairly complex mathematical statement that if I revealed, you'd have to kill me, so my lips are sealed. Will you feel better when I tell you that not one person set foot in my house over the holiday season? Not one? Not my sister, my niece, my aging parents, my bestie, my other lesser but still beloved friends, not even a neighbor (they left their shit on the doorstep and ran).   So I have to eat the food now, before the break ends, because no one else did. I don't think people meant to ignore us, I think I only invited people who were unavailable, or so I like to think. My bestie was in Puerto Rico, my aging parents are too decrepit to climb three stairs to my front door and so prefer we gather as a family at my sister's house, and everyone knows people with kids don't actually have friends.

So what did we do from that point about three weeks ago until now, when I finally did three loads of laundry and put it away in the same 36 hour span rather than allowing it to mound on the window seat amongst the toys and handmade, glitter saturated Christmas decorations (glitter, as you may know, is Satan's dandruff, and remember the Satan / Santa conundrum, then add laundry and I think you'll see what I mean).   Well there was the shopping, and the wrapping, and the sickness, and the illness, and the wrapping, and the shopping, and the unwellness which delayed the shopping and the wrapping. Anyway, the aging parents decided to go for broke and check into a nursing home and a hospital simultaneously two days after we had a child with a serious illness which requires the maintaining of a constant normal blood sugar barf her way through the night, Christmas night (bringing our percentage of children who barfed on Christmas to a respectable 50% of the four children in the household). If it were me, and I were three years old, I'd be pretty upset to find vomit in my hair and my naked parents running around rapidly doing laundry and making me bathe in the middle of the night, but she handled it with all the grace a three year old can muster when she hears "good job, honey, you got it in the bucket!!"

We did have fun. We did have lovely gifts, some loud and some not, and some that brought great joy to their new owners.   We fully and finally realized just how much work my dear departed dog was doing to keep the floors clean - having now noticed that the rate of increased mopping is causing the kitchen floor tiles to buckle and rise up (the sort of uprising which leads to an all out revolution, eventually. I know other parts of the house are planning insurgencies and I am turning a blind eye to the rebels, like many a colonialist before me).

The de rigueur photo post is coming . . . the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future are coming . . . and possibly so will I when you tell me this whole rigmarole going on repeat is at least nearly one year away.

The one that got away, and other domestic failures

2011-12-15T15:24:00.000-07:00

Observe, the tri-tip roast. Notice the extra sparkles, glinting on the surface of the carefully prepared meat, perfect for a Sunday dinner? No, those sprinkles are not a new take on an old theme (glazing) or I guess maybe they are, but not intentionally. While this roasted at a fairly high heat, per a carefully chosen recipe from the Internet, natch, the Pyrex pan exploded. I wish I hadn't been out shopping, as it purportedly gave out quite an unexpected BOOM when it went, which had followed a few sessions of the smoke alarms going off as the olive oil burned off the roasted root vegetables also being prepared. Sigh. Yes, I am that good. I stayed away long enough to ensure my husband could get the oven cleaned up and order in pizza. Happy Anniversary, Lord Honey! We had actually celebrated with a date night the previous evening, so it wasn't too likely to cause marital devastation, even though we courted each other with me preparing food for him while he worked on my house for free, thus generating a perpetual expectation that I can provide a decent meal every night. Not so, but whatevs.

I don't have my tree. I took last year's Christmas cards off the mantel today. I have yet to complete the long threatened toy purge although I did at least begin. But the middle of that project leaves things in a muddle, rather, as the 17 pieces of 17 toy sets are sorted back into a harmonious grouping of like things alike, leaving roughly 1900 pieces of toys on the floor waiting to be grouped. I have not completed my Christmas shopping, and I have baked nary a treat for my neighbors.

Eggnog, it's time. Come to Mama. Bring Captain Morgan's spiced rum, please.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

2011-12-06T02:55:00.000-07:00

Perhaps I shouldn't try to pretend that my life is of Dickensian proportions in any aspect, but that phrase just seems to describe the place my head goes quite frequently. I think I might always look back on this as a time when my girls were so delightfully lovely, so amazingly situated between babyhood and childhood, so tasty they are very nearly edible, and yet, I will also look back on this month as a time of cleaning up urine with enough frequency that I think perhaps I was cut out to be a medical assistant, after all. And I always thought I couldn't do that job! Hannah is suddenly much more grown up now, shouting to all who will listen that she's got panties! and yet she is still so very much just a big version of a baby, being still so capable of treacherous body movements that are intended to harm the person who carries her. If she can arch her back like that she does NOT have limited trunk control. It takes skill to do that kind of twist out of a parent's arms while kicking maneuver, I think. I am behind in every single area of my life. Each and every one. It is true that I send out quite a few Christmas cards each year, and I will do so for 2011, but that doesn't mean I have taken the cards received in 2010 off the mantel. No, not kidding. My friend doesn't like that I run late all the time but how I am supposed to know that I need to build time in the schedule for someone to knock her bowl of Ramen noodles (with egg, for extra glue-ability) on the floor right when we needed to get out the door. How? And yet I am doing something right, because the current most common phrases spoken in our house between the two girls are "you my best friend!" replied to with "you my best friend too!" (let's ignore that it often devolves into a fight where each girls insists "NO! You MY best friend!!" emphasizing the my and completely ignoring the fact they are really in agreement but if they acknowledged that then they wouldn't have anything to fight about.)

Things of randomosity:

A dream I probably shouldn't tell you about, but I will . . .

Which had me galloping around a room, thinking I am riding a horse, then realizing I am only slapping my own ass as if I were slapping the ass of the horse I rode in on . . . and then eating my birthday cake without using my hands, possibly in the presence of a man with whom I was about to do the deed. Some of these events have roots in history, but that doesn't mean I can explain how it all came together.

Recently, at my house . . .

My husband spent the dinner hour hogging my laptop again, looking at videos posted to YouTube of seven year old girls operating track hoe / back hoe/ big machine-thingies. I wondered how he got there and he actually started with "truck crashes" and the internet just led him to the seven year olds driving, really.

Current trends . . .

Claire now asks that her YouTube video playlist (previously limited to Tom Petty, Nick Kershaw, Alice Cooper and the Red Hot Chili Peppers) now has expanded to more age appropriate selections such as "Mana Mana" and Claire can always get the "do do do do" just right.

Poop is now officially funny.

My life is out of order, so why not my blog?

2011-11-15T02:42:00.000-07:00

I should have posted Halloween's gory, sugar-laden glory, but I haven't. I should have memorialized the changes in the household as we swing into fall and settle into the "school year" which for all obvious reasons ought to be when we celebrate the New Year - but I haven't. And three posts of "significance" are in the drafts folder, moldering in their significance.

So let's just focus on this weekend past, and the development of a toddler in diapers and her metamorphosis into Undie Girl! Who wears panties! And sometimes pees through them right into her shoes but still - panties they are and panties they shall remain, regardless of how urine soaked they may be!

I know I am lucky that my child with CP is training in a normal age range, and some of my bloggy friends will read this post with envy in their hearts and I do not blame them one tiny little bit, but I think those who don't live with CP or see Hannah tip, slip and shuffle every day and the ways in which she compensates to keep herself oriented will know how her condition makes this type of skill building more challenging than it is for typically developing kids. My sister told me that she thought potty training was easy (yeah, I know) and she just waited until her kids were developmentally capable of doing each step on their own and then she just told them they were potty trained and it was done in a day. My response was something like "oh dear, I've swallowed a bug . . . 'scuse me while I cough 'til I vomit so you can't tell whether I am laughing or crying" and then I explained that I'd hoped that Hannah would potty train before the point at which her size and balance would allow her onto a grownup potty without a very real possibility of doom and bloody head injuries. So we waited a bit to push it, until her preschool teacher said she was ready to move forward. So of course she wants to do it herself, now that she knows the joys of peeing in the toilet, and so we now have worked out that she should step onto the step stool, pivot slowly and carefully and safely to face away from the toilet, pull down the panties and pants while standing on the stool, and then sit down. I particularly enjoy the stand up wipe maneuver she has created while standing on the step with her pants around her knees, and the shrieks of "Hannah do it! Hannah do it!" should I try to help her get her pants up before she tumbles to the floor with an arm that doesn't do a lot to break a fall and her knees tied together. It is nerve wracking, rather, but I haven't got another plan. Because I want her to speak to me as an adult, I show you only the photos of the approach and the about to sit down position . . . I'd just like to say it is a good place to have your sense of calm tested. And I recommend not wearing the tutu. Just sayin'.

You may not know this but I suck at mind reading, in Hannah's eyes, anyway. Invariably I am supposed to help her, or not, and I get it wrong. She manages to get her pants back up on her own with only a 15% angle droop on her affected right side. I was complimented by our OT when I described how I've been coaching Hannah on getting her pants up and down by hooking the thumb and then sliding it around to the side. But by the end of the weekend she had scratched her right leg a fair bit with the awkwardly oriented thumb sliding up and down the leg, but she did mostly handle the pants herself and I believe ultimately this will challenge and improve her right hand strength and dexterity and particularly her thumb strength in an important way - but my heart may give out before we get there if I have to watch her pull up her pants standing on that stool too many more times with her heavy little noggin (weighing more than her tiny ass, I am quite sure) just dangling out over those unforgiving tiles. I am sure there is a mathematical equation to describe the fulcrum and whatnot of head hanging forward while butt dangle backward and tug the pants with unequal force between the sides and not apply too much force that puts the whole thing in a downgoing motion. From my recollection of higher math and physics and how they become one in the end, I have gleaned that the equation looks something like O(h) x WTF + zOMG where h is Hannah and F is floor and OMG is that unreliable thumb with a curl and the directions say solve for fuckity fuck. I think I told you I don't have a math degree, right?

I like it better when she drives.

Someone is very, very, very close to reading.

The confusion and excitement and whirlwind of the last couple of months can best be demonstrated by my Fall centerpiece - consisting of three miniature ornamental ears of corn, some autumn leaves collected by the girls on our many leaf walks, and a piece of rubber dog poo, to keep things in perspective. Wanna come over for dinner?

Haiku Friday: Potty Training O My

2011-10-21T01:00:00.000-06:00

"Don't toucha mah bum!"
She screams at me angrily.
How else can I wipe?

She wipes standing up,
does not understand dripping.
I wish that she did.

Ev'rytime she pees
she asks "school bus?" hopefully.
Connection's my fault.

I told her "big girls"
got to go on the bus MORE.
She holds me to it.

So tomorrow we
must go on the city bus
as a poor second

I have to make good
or I will be made to pay.
Three year old despot.

Blame it on Harry Potter. It's appropriate.

2011-10-07T02:40:00.001-06:00

Often when I am avoiding something I busy myself in reading, which has become increasingly harder as my children develop more needs that must be met. In the last four weeks I have reread all but one of the Harry Potter books and now am working through The Tales of Beedle the Bard. When I needed one to help complete the set, and the girls and I went to the library, Claire saw that I'd found another very large Harry Potter volume, and looked me squarely in the eye and said "Daddy is not going to be pleased to see you got that, Mommy." Horrors! How can she (or he) have turned into the book police while I wasn't even looking? So just exactly why am I off the blog and in the books? I think there is something I want to write about, and think about, and process, and I am self censoring. But not for much longer, I think. It might just come bursting out soon. Stay tuned.

In the meantime - Hannah has turned into someone who goes up and down some stairs without always holding onto something for support - which both delights and terrifies me. She is also now someone with whom one has conversations. Her words are still second child murky, and she doesn't have Claire's startling ability to communicate at a level years above her age, but she can be well understood - and often says things that are abstract, not related to things going on in her immediate environment, and uses words I didn't know she knew. I wish her speech were more clear, but I am so enjoying talking with her these days. She showed me a craft she'd made in preschool today - a spider made from a piece of an egg carton saying "looka mah 'pider!" "Oh, I love it Hannah" I respond and she looks at me with total delight and says "(s)pooky!"

And in other news, Claire's father told her of an idea he had for something and Claire looked at him with approval and said "that's appropriate."

My girls. I love 'em.

Please stand by . . . or, walk this way

2011-09-12T02:21:00.000-06:00

Folks, you've been mighty patient with me, and I thank you for that. I never finished boasting about Hannah's birthday. I haven't yet told you of the process of closing out our case with Early Intervention and the bittersweet farewell to the occupational therapist we had for more than two years, and the sixth bureaucratic caseworker in the same span of time. And of course, having the relationship change between our family and Michael Workman, the Angel of PT, without whose Bamboo Brace we would not be where we are today. And then I didn't get to tell you about our preparations for kindergarten for Claire, or the choice to keep Hannah in the group of the people on the younger end of her day care class - the ones who are "not quite ready" to be a Busy Bee and so will be Big Ladybugs, at least for the time being. And how this decision concerns me as it makes me wonder of the wisdom of keeping Hannah, with her late summer birthday, in the cohort that would be her regularly assigned class or might I, instead, hold her back a year so the physical disparities are not so great between her and her classmates and yet leaving her less intellectually challenged. In her preschool class, no one else knows all their letters (and has done so for eight months) and yet many others can speak more clearly about the letters they do in fact know. I haven't told you how I worry that the decision I make for this year will not bind us to a certain result in kindergarten - but the choice I make in our kindergarten year will indeed bind us for the rest of her school career. How will I get that one right?

I also haven't told you how delightful the two girls are to be around. Fart jokes aside, they have lovely manners and they are wonderfully loving to each other (excepting the odd and oddly lethal sounding disputes over the toy of the moment). I think they truly miss being in the same school even though they didn't play together on a daily basis there. Hannah was given a chance to select a sucker from a large jar as bribery for allowing a medical assistant to weigh and measure her, and she took two - so she could give one to her sister - and then wouldn't even open hers until she saw big sis later on and could present it herself. I haven't told you how joyful Claire really is - even in the roughest moments. Case in point - the new kindergarten schedule has us waking so, so, so early (compared to last month, that is) and when I went to wake her she threw her arm around my neck and said "Mommy! Mommy! Woo-woo-woo!!" (the traditional family way to praise someone about virtually anything). At 7:40 a.m.! I think she likes kindergarten.

I haven't told you how discombobulated I am to not have to consider the dog when I want to slip out the back door unnoticed, or I start to pour water in her bowl until I realize her bowl is no longer needed. We failed to adequately recognize the extraordinary effort she put into cleaning the floor, and have had to increase the mopping schedule considerably and we still are not up to Sophie's standard of cleanliness.

And finally, I haven't told of Hannah's extraordinary progress in gross motor skills generally and in foot function specifically that led her treating physician to decide that she didn't need to wear an AFO, and we'll re-evaluate in six months but it looks quite as if this is a child who might not spend her childhood in braces.

And so we say goodbye to footwear like this:

And hello to cheap footwear from Target - every girl's dream.

Walk this way, please!

Only an empty place

2011-08-24T01:02:00.000-06:00

Farewell sweet Sophie. She has been known as Soph, pumpkin, the beast, pumpkinette, muffinpie (everyone in my house can be a muffin), puppykins, pupster, Sophster, a demon of shoe eating evil, Soph-a-loaf (as a puppy she often looked like a loaf of bread while sleeping), half of "Soby" when in the middle of a roiling, rolling ball of puppyness all intertwined with her dear friend Toby (you couldn't see where the Toby began and the Sophie ended) When I said my farewell I called her my baby. And mostly I called her mine.

People have asked me lately "how are things?" and mostly I discuss how the upcoming changes in our family life are intimidating: aging out of Early Intervention, having to fly solo on making therapy choices for Hannah, Claire starting Kindergarten, having two drop off points and two pick up points for day care each day, and now I have a new change for the list - we are a family without a dog. In only the first two hours without her I had twice looked to her to see if she wanted to come out when I stepped outside. Repeatedly since Monday, when I had her put down, I have looked to where she normally camped out and I've been so startled to have seen only an empty place.

Sunday night I said my real farewell to her, when I'd carried her outside to go potty. She'd been 48 hours since her sudden onset of "idiopathic neurological inflammation" - meaning the wiring is fried in the old dog's brain - and 36 hours since we'd begun a course of steroids that should show signs of working 24-48 hours after beginning treatment. I knew then that she wasn't improving enough for me to feel it was fair to force her to stay for me. I can only imagine what it is like to suddenly develop noticeable nystagmus (rapid jerking of the eyes) and to experience having one's entire visual field jerk back and forth repeatedly, causing a pronounced head title, dizziness, clumsiness and a general utter lack of well being. After I helped her to walk and to do her business, I hunched down and cradled her shaggy head between my head and shoulder and I sobbed to her all my sorrow to send her away, all my regret that I'd not had more time for her since I'd had children, all my joy in having her in my life for fourteen years, and I told her I could let her go to Dog Heaven if she was ready.

I am glad I could give her a peaceful ending. I am glad that I didn't waffle and wait a few more days to see how she did, I am glad I had the courage to see it through and send her on her path. I wish I'd laid down near her to cuddle her sooner before the vet came. I wish I'd read Dog Heaven to her more than once that day. I wish I'd petted her more in the years since she became so old and stinky. I wish they'd all live longer, to match their families.

Even on the day I had her put down, Claire shouted at her sister to stop her from walking in the grass and getting her feet covered in dog poop and then she quickly remembered that Sophie would no longer be pooping in the yard. Since then she keeps noticing the good things about not having a dog, and then quickly adds that she misses Sophie and she is about to cry. I keep realizing how I am not yet ready to be glad I don't have a dog. I like my glass to be half full but counting my blessings in this regard is not yet on my list of things to do. It took me days to get the dog food and water bowls up off the floor and have the kibble tossed out. I keep finding myself listening for toenails going clickety clack across the floor, and for her annoying heavy panting and sharp coughing/gagging throat sounds that have become the soundtrack of my life and are now strangely absent. Last night Claire decided she wanted to give her picture of the day to Sophie, so she put it in the place where her bed was in the corner of my room. It is only an empty place.

They say it's your birthday . . . you're gonna have a good time!

2011-08-11T01:54:00.001-06:00

My baby left babyhood. Those of you who find me sentimental, well, overly sentimental, should perhaps skip this post. I am going to wax sentimental, and I won't likely wane. May I introduce my daughter, Hannah Rose? We've been working on saying "pleased to make your acquaintance" and formally shaking hands (mostly because it is a nice OT type maneuver to get that hand to turn thumb up) but also because it is fun. I remember when Claire had just been born and I asked Lord Honey if he had been practicing saying "and have you met my daughter, Claire?" in his mind, in anticipation of introducing her to someone. He was baffled that I might practice such a thing, but I was excited. I wanted to say "my daughter" far and wide and frequently. I liked that daughter so much I wanted a second child and hoped mightily to get another daughter. And fortune smiled on me, and I got this daughter.

Have you met my daughter, Hannah? Born on the eighth day of the eighth month of the eighth year, and under a lucky star. As much as we could say we were unlucky that she had this annoying metabolic disorder, and more unlucky still to have had a metabolic crisis and a stroke in her first two days of life, we were lucky that Claire's lucky and unlucky c-section birth set in motion a need to have another c-section, and that having had Hannah delivered by c-section meant she was still at the hospital when her temperature dropped and her blood sugar tested low and after feeding didn't work she was eventually given a glucose IV (coulda been faster, like oh, say, STAT, the way it was written in her chart, but still) and that administration of glucose put an end to more damage occurring then and there. So the luck and the unluck combine, the yin and the yang, the peanut butter and the jelly, and you still get a lovely girl, a lucky one, my daughter.

Some say she is lucky to have me, but I think I am luckier still to have her. Go back and look at that first picture here. Go on, I'll wait. She is airborne. She is brave and bold and funny and strong and beautiful and wicked smart. And best of all, she is mine. She says "I got you, Mommy! I got you!" I got her.

She worships her sister, and who wouldn't. Claire is so sparkly she competes with the sun. Really, she does.

Look at that muscle tone!

Admire the hand placement.

Even at a birthday party where three-year-olds get amped up on Costco cake and become increasingly irrational, who wouldn't smile with a daughter like this one? Costs of renting a bounce house facility for a private party - more than some say is appropriate for a toddler. Seeing her airborne? Priceless.

WTF W

2011-08-03T00:00:00.000-06:00

Still here, barely, and fully in flux

2011-07-23T00:47:00.001-06:00

Where Have We Been?

Eating Cupcakes, Nearly Naked

Because it is HOT and we like cupcakes.

We've been watching these people do stuff like this:

To be fair, Lord Honey found Hannah on the climbing wall after she disappeared at the door of the day care, with two feet and her good hand on the wall, so he told her to use Righty too and she did and she stayed up. Stroke victim? I don't think so.

We've been going through a rough patch, a busy patch, a heat wave, and a period of extreme change and growth. I had dental surgery to pull a tooth, implant some bone sand (that has an irritating way of coming up from the depths when I am not expecting it, and place an implant. Claire had one of her crowns become uncomfortable necessitating a trip to the emergency dentist who prescribed antibiotics that have Claire living on the potty and jamming up the works with toilet paper (and now I know why parents count out squares of paper - and it is not about saving money as they always claimed, but preventing the need for plunger use). Hannah has become an actual chatterbox, and Claire is about to start kindergarten. I fired our hippotherapy provider and Hannah ages out of Early Intervention in about two weeks. I think she is ready, but am I?

and in the midst of all that other stuff

2011-07-07T01:58:00.000-06:00

Claire is eerily like me. She asked for her treat after dinner tonight. Daddy asked what she wanted and she told him to pick something. He presented something (a nice something) and she said "Good try, but take that back. Bring me the other one." She is still planning to rule the world.

Hannah is in love with the bus. Her group is not really in full summer camp but they get to do water play two days a week at school and they have 8 field trips spread throughout the summer where they get to join the older kids, and they ride the school's bus to get there. From the first step on the bus, Hannah has been over the moon. The morning after her first trip, her first words of the day, spoken with her face up close and set to max intensity and her eyes locked to mine, were "go bus." She has said it every day since then, innumerable times. If she is introduced to someone, she says "go bus." If I offer her the phone she says "go bus." I am pretty sure she is dreaming of the bus. "Hannah go bus. Car-car go bus. Mommy go bus. Daddy go bus." Sometimes she gets hit with a wave of glee and jumps in the air while her arms flap about as she squeals "B bus!"

The girls tackled Mars.

I am, despite my new haircut, which is indeed cute,

absolutely capable of making a fool of myself in public, such as tossing toilet paper at a basket at the day care summer picnic to try to win $100 off my tuition, I didn't win, but look at that Charmin fly! I am a natural when it comes to tossing toilet paper. The statute of limitations has long since run on all those spitball incidents in grade school. Really, I am a lawyer, I know these things.

Hello, is that you?

2011-07-02T01:48:00.000-06:00

Are you still here? God help me I don't know why you are here, I haven't been. Maybe you are still here because you heard that I've gotten a little cuter lately? I can tell because the Jiffy Lube man touched my bare leg today (he pretended he was removing the paper protecting my car's interior from greasy boots) and he left a grease streak across my very white knee, as he smiled his toothless smile at me and told me how much he enjoyed giving great customer service. His gums do the talking while his fingers do the walking - I was just so impressed. It is rare that I need to use Goop to clean my legs after I run errands, but some days you just know fortune favors you. Really, I got a sassy new summer haircut, bought a couple of floral summer dresses at Target and I am CUTE! I know the man without teeth thought so because he was so willing to share his stories with me, impressing me with how-to tips on getting small animal body parts off engines (milk and tomato juice) and other things too powerful to share here in such a public forum. Well OK, he did (conspiratorially) sneak two coffee packets off the free drinks cart and tell me the secret to solving corrosion on battery terminals using only black coffee. But that is all I am going to say about that. I bet he could get those teeth back if he wanted to. And his grease looked so . . . dark . . . on my knee. Ah well, perhaps I'll just stick with the husband I have. He also thinks I am cute. I know because he pinched my derriere. And he didn't leave a stain on my new dress when he did it.

How did I get here? Letting the days go by, you say?

2011-06-17T00:42:00.000-06:00

And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here? Letting the days go by . . .

I can't stay awake anymore to blog my every thought . . . what happened to those days last year when I posted three or four times a week? Not that there are no things to post about, oh no, not here. Big stuff happens here. Ahem. Are you sitting up and taking notice? A certain toddler made a poo-poo in the potty. And this just in: farts are funny to little girls! Claire farts and then laughs maniacally, saying "I'm just a tootin' machine!" Hannah toots and says "toot" quite softly with a big smile on her face. Both know how to say excuse me, they just don't choose to. This is how I'll get them back for the flatulence of pregnancy - by memorializing their gas for all time on the internet! But more than the simple fun of farting we are seeing exponential growth in communication and understanding with Hannah and depth of analysis in Claire. I don't quite get how Hannah learned to copy her sister pretending to be asleep while she gets taken out of a car seat, but just like her sister, only the smile gives her away. How could a child whose body works unevenly learn to falsely hold all her limbs slack until I have her tucked onto my shoulder to carry her in and then she giggles to tell me the game is over. We seem to be in one of those spells where the whole world changes moment by moment, each little girl learning something new about every 15 minutes. Frankly, I am a bit dizzy with all this activity.

In the last few days I have had to explain super heroes, plumbers, super hero plumbers, people who beg for money, homelessness, why brothers kill brothers (we watched the Lion King) and I've spent quite some time on how to pronounce S. No wonder I am so tired! We found ourselves sort of narrating the Lion King movie to explain things to Claire and to help Hannah keep any attention on it (actually it is OK if she is attending to other things, but I know she is tracking some of what she sees because she frequently mentions "bad guys" and I have to assume this comes from the movies. I hope so, anyhow.)

. . . brothers don't always kill their brothers. It's just that particular brother who is bad. No, that is not why I don't talk to your uncle much. No, I don't think either of your brothers will do anything like that to each other.

. . . it was a misunderstanding. He didn't mean to break his Mama's heart and go away.

. . . and here the rains are coming so now the plants come back, and then the animals that eat plants. See, now the prey have come back and the lions can eat their friends . . . well, the lions can eat. Pass the popcorn, honey!

. . .

I am unnerved by many rather grownup behaviors that keep turning up around here . . .

Hannah took her first turn through the house in her big sister's toy high heels without crashing to the ground. Her skinny little legs looked rather adult and Lord Honey took note that the shoes were high enough to tighten her calf muscles. I am not entirely certain this is what her physical therapist meant when he said he preferred it if Hannah used a variety of types of footwear.

Claire keeps putting scantily clad Barbies on top of the toy piano.

In two months Claire starts kindergarten.

How did I get here?

Haiku Friday: Home Ec. Dropout Blues

2011-06-10T23:58:00.000-06:00

The matching dresses
so dainty and fresh last month
now have unmatched stains

crushing discontent
inverse of those ladies on
TV commercials

I do not smile when
laundry soap makes things sparkle
instead I just sigh

and hope that one day
I'll not dress the girls in silk
when they eat chocolate.

And I'll never know
the secrets of the happy
laundress who loves soap

WTF Wednesday: The boys in the band

2011-06-09T00:03:00.000-06:00

Ah now, Hannah, let's sit down and read this Touch and Feel book, HIgh Five, with Julius and his Friends. You can read and do OT at the same time, wheeeeee.

Whoa WTF is that guy?

A bad guy you say? I think so too.

H, a fan of A, B, and C and a nice B-A-T-H

2011-05-30T02:18:00.000-06:00

This post made it into the drafts folder about six weeks ago and never got further out than that. See what I mean about being a blogger who doesn't blog?

Doesn't she look all fresh and dewy? And yes, she is the same color as the bathtub, I can't really deny that. OK, there is a drool driblet on her chin. There often is. My husband is in denial. I tell him it is no longer age appropriate to drool, this means something else other than baby-ish-ness. She is two years, nine months and three weeks of age, roughly. We'll talk about this later, along with the lisp she has developed when she says "s" sounds. However, I don't think there is another child in her day care class who has complete mastery of the alphabet - upper and lower case, as she has for three months. So bite me, stroke, drool, and the horse you rode in on because we are here to kick your whoseewhatsee (this is a family blog, except when I feel like saying something more colorful). Please get some popcorn and enjoy the show.

Hello my lovelies!

2011-05-23T21:04:00.000-06:00

I owe you guys, big time. I have been a bad, bad blogger. A good blogger may be many things, but most importantly - she blogs. At least she shows up and posts appealing pictures. A few of you have kindly, as requested, sent me the post that got away (it was very big, very juicy, really outstanding in every way - just like the fish that got away . . . except I didn't see it skipping off into the sunset waving the finger) and the nice thing to do would have been to say thank you by actually putting the post back up. But since the last time I posted I have attended many weddings (three), had work keep me in the office until after 10:30 one night last week, I have taken the girls out for fun and wholesome activities involving fresh air, live music, and food from many cultures of the world (we had one meal with food from the cuisine of El Salvador, Thailand, Vietnam, and Sudan) and we became so unfortunately full that we had to skip the churros (Basque churros, not Mexican churros) and the baklava of Bosnia (that really and truly was unfortunate as Bosnians really do know something very special about pastry). So I have excuses, and they are many and varied. But you didn't come here for excuses. Let's give give you a look at what you really came here for.

reasons to log off yesterday

2011-05-13T23:24:00.002-06:00

Blogger ate my post about Hannah's second round of constraint casting. If anyone has it in their Google reader, will you send it to me? Mo left a funny comment and that is all I have to go on . . .

These headlines were on the Yahoo home page.

     How to make an autonomous, acrobatic spider robot for your kids

     Spiders will be the newest astronauts aboard the ISS

     Watch a hummingbird-shaped spy drone flutter around, steal your secrets

Mind you, these headline followed a story about a woman convicted of murdering her infant daughter in a kitchen appliance (the type that cooks food quickly). I can't actually let those words appear on my blog. Can. Not. She was drunk and doesn't remember.

Eoster: behold the power of a candy filled egg accompanied by plastic tat in large quantities

2011-05-04T02:38:00.000-06:00

It may have begun as a Pagan celebration. Bells might fly from Rome to give French kids chocolate. I will possibly go to hell for giving out Easter cards with a cartoon style drawn bunny handing Christ on the cross a decorated oeuf saying "have an egg, you'll feel better." I suspected the Peeps and Hallmark folks had a hand in blowing this whole thing out of proportion. I don't know why I fell for it for all those years before I had kids but now I know: Easter was created by occupational therapists.

Claire and Hannah give an Easter shout out to their Peeps

2011-04-24T12:43:00.000-06:00

WTF Wednesday: Proof that in America, you can be whoever you want to be

2011-04-20T23:06:00.005-06:00

Melissa and Doug: You only pose as granola crunching toymakers. You are actually evil. What gives?

2011-04-13T23:14:00.002-06:00

Dear Melissa and Doug:

I have always thought of you as sweet, kind toymakers. Almost as sweet as Benny Hill's character in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, ready to fight evil, and most importantly, ready to save the children. Recently I was given some of your higher end puzzles, by another mother of a special needs child. I planned to use them and use them well, and when we'd gotten all I could get out of them I would pass them on to our Early Intervention Occupational Therapist who could give them to those less fortunate. Now, though, since I have uncovered your dastardly plans, I may have to consign these puzzles to the heap of toys requiring a ritual burning. Here is the puzzle in question. It looks nice, doesn't it?

Not only can a child put the pieces together, stimulating cognitive learning and giving parents an ideal tool with which to teach multiple concepts, all while appealing to a child's love of "things that go." And this is no ordinary puzzle. When the child has all the pieces in place, each of these vehicles' lights and sirens activate, giving a close and fairly realistic approximation of the actual sound these vehicles make in operation.

See the lights? Imagine the sound of the sirens. Now imagine the sound of the sirens at night. At 2:00 a.m., with decibel levels capable of waking a soundly sleeping two year old. At a distance of two rooms away from said sleeping child. And 15 feet from a naked and sleepy mother who was simply creeping through the house to get a quiet glass of water. A quiet glass, I said. In the kitchen. Not in the living room, where the puzzle was by itself, with nary a puzzle piece in place, nary a one. And no inquisitive child in sight, in fact, no one but the softly creeping mother in sight because all the lights were off and the house was quiet, as often happens during the night, when children sleep, and mothers sleepily stumble about in a dark and quiet house, not expecting either realistic lights or sirens in her fucking living room. When she is naked in the dining room and wasn't hoping for a visit from either the police or the ambulance service. And when she was under the belief that the realistic lights and sirens would only activate when the final piece of the puzzle was put in place.

Melissa and Doug, the final piece is in place, now. Just tell me where you live.

I taught her to splash in puddles, in the name of physical therapy, of course

2011-04-11T02:41:00.000-06:00

I've been reflecting a lot on where we are two years out from the CP diagnosis. CP awareness Day was "celebrated" a few weeks ago. I meant to post, I intended to post, hell I even drafted a partial post. Right now I am absolutely stunned by where we are today. Two years ago, we had just had the diagnosis confirmed. We started working on getting Hannah to sit up on her own and to roll over, and we started using the Bamboo Brace.

One year ago, just before Easter, Hannah started to crawl, and then crawled her way through a wet and chilly Easter Egg hunt, because "ooh, shiny!" is hard wired into any girl brain, damaged or not. See for yourself:

A few weeks later she was walking.

And the baby that looked like this, once:

Turned into this child:

Most importantly, her joy knows no bounds.

Hannah had her Early Intervention biannual testing last week, and managed to now score within in the average range of all areas tested, and in the above average range for . . . are you ready? . . . fine motor skills. Take that stroke, you asshat! Really what these results mean is that the testing instrument is not particularly well suited to make assessments about smarts kids with hemiplegia, and that testing of two year olds generally is not incredibly accurate. Obviously my daughter is indeed smart and well suited to live in Lake Woebegone, where everyone is above average.

Who gave you the right to have Shaun's hair?

2011-04-02T01:31:00.000-06:00

Huh, I say? Shaun White's hair? Huh, you say? That was pretty well my reaction, also. I pay for this hair color and I can have whatever I want, or so my stylist says. Frankly I was befuddled that the grocery store clerk sweeping the floors felt so free to say any such thing to me at all, after I processed that he was actually speaking to me. How does my hair at all resemble that of the carrot top snowboarder, who by the way, is so last Olympics? Other people have actually complemented my recent coloring job, so I am not actually worried, just baffled. So now you have an idea of how I look these days, I bet you'd like to know how I am. So would I . . . but I am still baffled. And struggling, a bit. More than a bit. Trying to reconcile things that cannot be reconciled in my mind, therefore, since I didn't know how to talk about it here, I stopped talking at all. But I promise to get back online tomorrow and have kittens pooping rainbows just to show that things are indeed hunky dory, and if you are either Claire or Hannah, they are.

I meant to introduce this concept under a new feature of WTF Wednesday, since I seem to have lost my enthusiasm for Friday Haiku, and Wednesdays are in general, baffling, but Friday will do to introduce my new feature, since this Friday happens to be April Fool's Day. Here's what I mean:

In Celebration of the Irish Clear Hound

2011-03-18T01:34:00.000-06:00

First, put on these beer goggles.

Meet Sparky, My Irish Clear Hound. I'm not sure how old she is but she sure is plucky!

Everyone should relieve themselves before the big event, to avoid unnecessary stops.

Places, everybody.

Stay close to your loved ones once all the fun begins.

Ready, set, go!

Be yourself and have fun.

Dance like there's no one looking.

Really show your spirit.

I hope you all had as much fun this week as I did meeting up with others who share my affection for this breed of dog. I recommend the Clear Hound to anyone. No mess, no fuss, no shedding. They are totally hypo-allergenic and they never make a sound. Training is easy-peasy with these beauties, who were originally bred for their incredibly stealthy stalking skills while hunting, but who really make excellent family pets as well. They are rare, and sometimes hard to find, but worth the effort, and they are surprisingly inexpensive compared to other exclusive new breeds. Happy St. Patrick's Day folks!

A-B-C, easy as 1-2-3, simple as do-re-mi, baby you and me

2011-03-14T14:14:00.001-06:00

Note how she tries to take the camera with Righy? That's my girl. When you have a beverage in your hand, just get what you want with the other. I's no big deal, when you are Hannah the Bold.

Only six months to get back up on that horse again

2011-03-14T02:04:00.000-06:00

Six months after Hannah got this hobby horse for her birthday she was finally willing to take a little ride in the basement. Right after she tried to stick some keys in an outlet. Age two is evertyhing we could have hoped for.

and her little world turned upside down

2011-03-04T08:51:00.000-07:00

This came as a surprise:

things I'll regret saying in front of Claire

2011-02-27T15:51:00.002-07:00

"That is totally freaking me out."

I said it a few weeks ago when Lord Honey played a YouTube video clip of dancing babies who also break dance, ride skateboards down flights of stairs, and roller blade. All wearing things just short of wife beater t-shirts and gold necklaces, and with moves to match the clothes, so I was justifiably freaked out. I knew immediately it was a bad idea because she found ways to use the phrase appropriately within minutes. She stopped saying it eventually and I was somewhat relieved that she was less freaked out.

Yesterday, as we drove away from the home of her future husband who was celebrating his fifth birthday in style, Claire used the phrase again.

Mommy: Did you have a good time at the party? Is Logan your boyfriend today?
Claire: He is my boyfriend every day.
Mommy: You don't say that on the days when he hits you, or when he won't let you hug him at school.
Claire: I always love him, Mommy.
Mommy: Well, I don't think you should marry him if he hits you.

Claire: Well, sometimes he hits me because I freak out.
Mommy: Why do you freak out, Claire? I don't understand.

Claire: Sometimes I think he is going to hit me and I just freak out, and then he does hit me.

I am now officially freaked out, myself.

Good things in dance class, February 2011

2011-02-25T19:29:00.001-07:00

Claire wins the race, along with everybody else

2011-02-17T16:37:00.001-07:00

Despite Claire's superior reasoning and logic, she has not yet realized the fallacy behind everybody getting a first place medal. No matter, it is enough that she got a medal, didn't fall, and only hit one gate a little tiny bit.

Joy.

My day care can beat up your day care. After the race they fed us pizza and sodas and the proud and excited parents took a lot of pictures and froze our butts off.

This is the young man Claire intends to marry. I think he shows every sign of having a soul patch and being underemployed while he skis his way through his twenties and thirties, but Claire sees her prince. Except she loves him less on the days he doesn't let her hug him, and then insists that he will not be coming to her birthday.

Twinkle Twinkle, little two year old. Now quit making me cry!

2011-02-10T01:18:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure what happened at book club last night except my friends got Hannah all lit up on chocolate peanut clusters right before we left but in the car on the way home she was singing something over and over and I just couldn't get what it might be. Hannah's only song so far has been a song I think her Daddy came up with "Mommy, Mommy woo woo woo" or any permutation with Mama, Hannah, Daddy, or Car-Car (Claire). I asked Claire what Hannah was singing (she sometimes speaks Hannahese) and she didn't understand it either. Hannah's longest sentence so far has been about 4 words and most generally she uses one or two word commands (as you see at the end of her video when she says "I see! I see!!") AFter we said good night to the moon on our way in the door it finally it hit me that she was singing that perennial preschool favorite Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and my heart skipped a beat and then quickly filled with joy. Claire was just a few months younger when I captured her singing the same song, just a few days before Hannah was born. I double dog dare you not to cry, people. Double dog dare.

One man's super and the other's good

2011-02-03T19:00:00.000-07:00

Claire often has a lot on her mind. Some is unfathomable. Some is hogswallop. All of it is interesting.

Claire: Daddy will you write a four on my arm
Daddy: Why?
Claire: So I can tell which one is my forearm.

Claire: Look Mama, I am not stepping cracks so I am not breaking your back.
Mommy: You're killing me, though.
Claire: I'm not killing you, it's a joke. Silly Mama.

scene: we two are all cuddled up in her bed and her face is buried in my chest when she coughs suddenly, without time to cover her mouth
Claire: I coughed on your nursies!
Mommy: That's OK, honey.
Claire: Mommy, you can cough in my bed, and fart in my bed, and burp in my bed, and you can cough in my room, and burp in my room, and fart in my room.
Mommy: Thanks.
Claire: But Daddy can't.

Claire: Can I make up a song for you Mommy?

Mommy: Sure, honey.

I love my mommy, she's so cute

La la la la la la la

I love my mommy, I love her nursies

they're so cute

Mommy Mommy woo woo woo

and I won't sneak out of my room

and I won't sneak out of my room
and I won't sneak out of my bed at night at all

Claire: I tell lots of funny jokes and sometimes I lie.

Claire's most favorite song is Tom Petty's The Waiting. She sings along where she can get the words, and despite having kids' songs and school songs and wildly inappropriate songs and the songs I sing to her down cold, with Tom Petty she gets a bit mixed up with lines like "yeah I mightta chased a couple women around, oh all it ever got me was down" and really I am not entirely sure what she thinks that line is but I was sort of surprised to hear her singing the line I used to title this post. It should sound vaguely familiar . . . remember the song you sang at school?

Make new friends, but keep the old

one is silver and the other gold

Definitely a glass half full kind of girl.

Edited with updates:

Claire: Do I have to go away from you when I am all growed up?

Mommy: No darling girl, you don't have to but when you are older you might want to go away from me, not because you don't love me but because you want to go out and experience the world. Like going to college, or travelling, or being with other people you love.

Claire: Like skiing?

Mommy: Yes.

Claire: If I am a ski teacher how many monies will I have?

Mommy: Not enough to go away from me.

Claire: Mommy?

Mommy: Yes pumpkin.
Claire: When I am all growed up you won't have to get the groceries. I'll do that for you. Because I don't ever want to go away from you. I had a dream I got the groceries for you.
Mommy: I love you.

One more thing that is all my fault.

2011-01-30T02:07:00.000-07:00

I put away the Childrens' Ibuprofen. And the Children's Tylenol. It is all my fault. that Hannah got sick again.

Every time I put away the purple stuff, within three days someone gets sick. I tell myself it isn't so, that only coincidence could produce this result. But time and time again I scoff in the face of anecdotal evidence and I put away the fever reducing medicines, only to have someone develop a fever in pretty short order. I don't really believe in this kind of magical thinking. My mother does, I know, and I've felt some pull toward it in my life certainly, but of course it makes no sense at all. When I was a much more angsty young woman in my teens and early twenties, driving at night, I would always notice when for some reason streetlights would turn off as I drove under the light they cast. I'd notice the pattern and then be unable to not notice. I'd wonder if my ions were wrongly polarized or fate had a plan. I would think back to when I'd learned that one developmental stage of childhood has a child wonder if she or he is the center of the universe - that they are the only real part and everything else is just a construct. Certainly I was relieved to know I wasn't alone to have had these thoughts as a child, and toasted my good fortune in not being mentally ill or stuck in that phase (I probably toasted with quite a lot of cheap beer). Perhaps I even drunkenly discussed existentialism, even though I hate philosophy. I might have had deep thoughts, or just thought I did. But how is it that now, at forty three and well encumbered with relationships with people that really bring home the concept that real is indeed real, how do I now believe that whenever I put away the Ibuprofen, my kids will need it again? And even if I could make myself sick with my thoughts how am I making my children get strep or viral illness?

I live in a one hundred year old home. Nothing about my kitchen is spacious. My counters do not need piles of things that never go away. OK a knife block, a hodge podge of long handled utensils crammed in a somewhat attractive but mismatched jar. The phone. The pile of baby bottle parts and binkies that will finally go away soon. Hannah's carnitine, and syringes to measure it. My vitamins and supplements, lest I ignore them for months at a time. I don't need medicine for potential use to remain out and at the ready. We don't need it everyday. We possibly need it for five days at a time, longer when the girls split their illnesses up rather than share them. I don't want the bottles to live there. So I hired the most powerful sorceresses I could find to cast a banishment spell with their sparkly pink wands. It better work. I'm keeping the bottles on the counter until next month, though, just in case.

Day three and counting

2011-01-25T15:15:00.002-07:00

House date (I hate star dates, space bores me silly, except in Galaxy Quest): January 25, 2011

Today is day three of Hannah's third illness in two and a half weeks. We started a few weeks ago with the delightful virus with a gastro bonus feature, had five days of normal eating and living, then Hannah's first bout with strep throat, probably courtesy of big sister who gets strep if someone talks about it, and after six days on antibiotics she got sick AGAIN. Like God, she was supposed to rest on the seventh day but maybe because she can't read yet, she did not get the memo. This would be your basic streaming nose and eyes, coughing (OK, hacking), high fever kind of virus. Bonus feature add on: hands, lips, and nose turning blue when she either is cold or feels cold despite actually being 105 degrees. Lest you think I am a crappy mother, I will tell you I asked Metabolics about the blue hands the first time it happened, when she was not actually even sick, and they sent me to Neurology, who said it was not CP related since it hit more than her affected side and so it must be metabolic, who again denied coverage. My regular old garden variety pediatrician says it is vascular and inexplicable and not to fret. A win for the GP! Inexplicable! Woo-hoo! But I digress . . . The strep was sort of anticlimactic, Hannah had a fever but never considered reducing her food, she was too busy catching up from the previous weekend. Strep was small potatoes in her mind. We were concerned she could get sick again without having even finished the pink stuff but a check yesterday says no UTI, no ear infection, just a suspected bone chilling, lung shattering, neck baking, snot making virus. On the upside, the only body fluid currently distributed about my face and shirt are all snot or spit/snot related. Hannah is napping right now, and just coughed so hard she said "Owie!" in her sleep, which is cute but distressing. So far, in order to get her to consume enough calories to fuel this fever I have used the following: Polycose added to milk or in juice (a blend of secret not sweet sugars that have both quick and longer acting molecules to add calories) which is new to us, I have served almost all of her most favorite foods (many of which elicited no response at all, including pot stickers) I have squirted syringes of liquid in her mouth while sleeping as well as inserted bottles of milk until she remembers she doesn't want it, I gave her home-made buttercream frosting (hardly painful for me at all) and tonight I will try The Soup of Healing and the Rice of Togetherness (egg drop soup from my favorite Chinese place, which I swear really does have healing properties, and we need the rice of togetherness because if Lord Honey fails once more to understand my dosing instructions about Hannah and fever reducing medicines this family will have a reduction in force, effective immediately). I just remembered marshmallows, and that I could perhaps offer her two big fat ones right before bed so I could feel I could safely sleep though the night. I might make some brownies and frost them with buttercream frosting. For lunch I made tea sandwiches (she wolfed them down the last time I made them for a party) and she managed to eat one third of the triangle which was 1/4 of a full sized sandwich minus crusts. Success! But I will please Claire with my tea sandwich efforts, and that is worth something.

So a colleague in my office emailed me to ask how Hannah was and I gave her the update. She wrote back how the coughing could make a parent feel so helpless. I told her how empowered I felt when I got the child to eat nearly 1/12th of a sandwich. She thought it sounded like I'd have Hannah mended soon. I pondered whether I knew anything at all about any of this. I decided I felt more like a fat old Idaho salmon, trying to get upstream to do my duty but not having a fucking clue how to work fish ladders when I don't have hands or feet.

After trying to draw you out of your shells I had planned to be bitingly funny, poignant, witty, maybe even worth forwarding. Oops! Someone is calling "Mooooommmmyyyyy" so I must fly.

Edited: updating with the news that she can now cough enough to lose her lunch. Lovely!

Hello, I love you, won't you tell me your name?

2011-01-23T01:59:00.001-07:00

My darling readers, lurkers, and wanna be friends. Own up now - who are you? Who, who, who who? OK, my music references just dated me but I was not old enough to get high when those songs came out, I swear it. I only inhaled in a room full of older people. And it doesn't matter since I work for the man, hell, I AM the (wo)man. Those songs hung around for a while, though, so they pop back up in my late night mind, interspersed with The Knack and The Cars and the The Fall and XTC and some crazy LA punk rock that I am sure you all know and love, like X, Fear, Black Flag, the Flesheaters. Lyrics still go by in my mind that would possibly unhinge both my mother and my daughter simultaneously. Heh-heh, no one needs to know these things but you guys . . .

And really, who is the 28th Follower? Sir? Are you here because you saw that I knit, albeit slowly? I am about to finish projects that are more than a year old, more aged than many fine cheeses, sure, just keep a look out for it.

Some of you have joined during a time when, if you were amongst my first followers I would stalk your blog, would have commented away and tried to make you Follow me forever, but now? My small hope is to try to leave a comment for anyone who leaves me one (unless Arby's post is overly conservative that day and then I could come back later because he has to still love me as he wants me in the arms of Jesus and he can't stay away). Someday I will answer my own comments here, because that always feels so much like a cosy cuppa tea sort of moment. The dark reality is I can't always figure out how to find your blog in the follower zone - sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. I never I said I had tech skills, I only promised doom, despair, hilarity, sickness and health. And debris sweeping shoes.

So if you want to engage a little more, feel free (but leave directions, OK?)

She's my tiny dancer

2011-01-17T00:22:00.000-07:00

I can't write too much about this or I risk bawling my eyes out with pride, joy and all that stuff (my poor daughters do NOT understand why I cry when I am happy but I imagine they'll begin to understand after they get through puberty).

One of the reasons I hoped to have girls was the idea of taking Mommy-Daughter dance classes, after a dear friend of mine told me of her fond memories of taking dance with her mom. My mom would never have done such a thing with us, first because she tips over a lot (see a pattern?), second because she was too busy going to church to do a lot of activities with us, and lastly because it would have cost more money than she cared to spend. I did a few of these classes with Claire when I was on maternity leave with Hannah and then Claire was able to get dance classes at her day care, and now it seems the parent/child class options are limited to kids under age three or so. The Angel of PT recommended that I get Hannah into a dance class and I thought it would be a great fit because Hannah is really motivated by music, likes to dance when we play music or dance videos for her on YouTube, and I thought she'd pick up on how much I enjoyed it and that would help get her off to a great start. It may be a little harder to get her Dad to fill in for me as needed compared to sending him to parent/tot class at The Little Gym but I thought having a non-therapy based movement experience would be worth any hassles or price. It was a little harder to find a Saturday class with space and at a location that would work, but we signed up at the University of Utah's Virginia Tanner Creative Dance program. At first I was encouraged to sign up for the dancers with disabilities class (a wider age range of kids with all manner of disabilities for a reduced price of just $25!!!) but I was sure she'd benefit more from being in the regular class with all peers her own age. I struggle with putting her in situations where she might feel like the thing she is asked to do is out of her skill level, and I've seen that she just won't do what she is not comfortable with, such as using the bars at the Little Gym, but I thought dance would require less use of her right hand while providing more opportunities for other kinds of learning, since she loves music and dance so much already.

The tutu was my idea since modern dance only requires comfortable clothes but I suspected many other girls (and boys as it turned out) would have tutus. She has never willingly let me put it on before just for fun, and didn't before class, but once she got the idea of it she kept it on all day. We immediately liked the environment, and I was delighted that she showed no inclination to shyness or refusing to follow directions at the outset.

Huge success!

Checking out the studio

Each new activity involves the kids coming back to the carpet for a little circle time while the teacher introduces the next activity

Hannah volunteered ("ME!") to be the student to demonstrate the "snow blanket" moves

Why yes, I can stand on my right foot.

What's next? I'm ready.

The only bad experiences were that three times when all the kids were dancing (running) about, someone would either crash into her or come close to it and she easily toppled over but she just looked surprised and got up and kept going. When the kids were asked to go to the ballet barre and hang on like a monkey she wouldn't even try that, since I think she knows she can't hang from her weaker hand, and during some circuits of the room she would cut a few steps and jump in ahead of the leader. When we were flapping like a bird she didn't use her arms like wings but actually, I'm not sure all the other kids did either, I guess it takes experience to apply your imagination in the way you use your body. But mostly, she was willing to do follow the leader (a skill I didn't realize was included but which may come in handy), she could two hand the props we used like scarves, or pom-poms, she listened during the story at the end, and she actually volunteered two different times to be the student to model the next activity with the teacher. Holy cow did that do my heart good - to see that her confidence was right up there with all the other kids. Multiple kids had moments of crying or a case of the "I wanna" blues, but Hannah was cheerful and responsive and carefully observing everything around her. She is probably less verbal than most of her peers but since her receptive language is so awesome that when the teacher said "who wants to tiptoe around the bubble circle?" then Hannah could easily get in a "ME!" ahead of all the others. One unexpected bonus was all the clapping - that fisted hand doesn't really want to open for things like clapping, but it might - either to applaud another dancer or to keep time with the piano meant she used her right arm far more than I would have counted on and certainly enough to build muscle strength. And thank all that is holy, not one person asked me about her gait or her hand taping or anything that would make me cry. Win! The one and only difficulty we had was getting her to leave the place, which required trickery, bribery, a distraction with a drink from the water fountain, and a pine cone offered to her by one of the dads from our class, who she'd been flirting with earlier.

I am ashamed to have to tell you that my efforts at the tiptoe steps, getting up and down off the floor repeatedly, and spinning left me with sore calf muscles. If a toddler dance class makes you sore, you probably need to work on your fitness level yourself, but still . . . WIN! She shoots, she scores! We'll be back.

She's better, we're better, wouldn't you like to be better too?

2011-01-12T23:43:00.000-07:00

So Hannah did in fact need to go to the hospital Sunday evening when she got up from a nap, turned purple with cold, then cooked up a 104 degree temp in the blink of an eye, and I knew that dehydration needed to be beaten. Only two little results on a big broad metabolic panel showed anything funky going on, which would be stopped by the dextrose IV solution we were given. I was sort of concerned by the size of the IV bag, and that if we had to wait to absorb all of that then I had not brought enough changes of clothing with me. Ultimately they had us fluff up with dextrose/saline, using maybe a tenth of the bag, and the ER sent us away to follow up with the metabolic clinic the next day, which upon seeing Hannah seemed frankly surprised I was concerned, pronounced her as healthy as a person with MCADD and raging diarrhea could be, gave no answer whatsoever as to why the child sometimes turns purple and sent us packing. Back at home we changed clothes a lot and tested the retention capacity of size 4 Kirkland diapers (poor when challenged by power pooping) I have resumed my role as forensic scatologist looking for anything remotely turdlike in the diapers of disaster so we could at least tell ourselves the er, um, end?, was in sight. It was. A lot. We saw a lot of that tiny behind, the laundry room, and diaper Genie. And I spent some time wondering why diarrhea is spelled that way: doesn't the extra "r" seem excessive? Is that the point? It is meant to be a run-on word?

Today Hannah made a big turnaround and begged to go to school, so I took her in midday and she spent the evening cheerfully being herself with extra verve - I think she is pleased to again be capable of knocking her big sister down (she lost only 1 pound of her 25.5). I am rewarding myself with an early bed and a new book. For you - I hope for peace and an absence of runny poo.

It's four o' clock and all is well enough to go to bed for three hours

2011-01-09T04:42:00.000-07:00

People, what are you dreaming about? Send some this way, will you? I've been up all night so far, dozing holding Hannah, and now that I feel she has enough blood sugar to get her through until she wakes, of course I am so awake I need a blog and a snack. I don't feel entirely comfortable taking a sleep aid in case the human vomit comet fires up the engines. It's funny how every time Hannah has any risk factors for an MCADD metabolic crisis all thoughts of the ass face of stroke or CP or cloudy indistinct brain damage all fly right out of my head and I am paralyzed with fear that I won't guess correctly and Hannah will expire because I didn't take her to the ER. However, the two times I've been to the ER in the middle of the night she did stop puking by 2:00 a.m. but we were held hostage until at least 6:00 only to get sent home. Once they utterly failed to follow the emergency protocol outlined in her emergency letter (written by the genetic metabolic docs at that very hospital) and the second time they only failed to follow about 30% of the protocol. Each time I felt I may have jumped the gun, that if I'd waited two hours I'd see that she would start to keep fluids down on her own if given in small doses, and as long as I kept at her she'd be fine and not spend one more night as hospital baby but instead just as baby down for an evening but well cuddled in the arms of Mama. And yet the smaller she is, the shorter period of time she can safely fast so things only get better for us with the passage of time. But now I don't have breast milk to give her, not that the hospital wanted me to last time because "milk is not easily digestible." Last time we were told we could go home when she could keep down Pedialyte, which tastes like ass (purple ass, but still ass) and I gave folks a lecture about how it was unreasonable to expect that a child who doesn't like the taste of ass should be asked to consume it after vomiting her guts out and that breast milk was actually made for her and not by Monsanto and was more digestible than anything else available to her. I'm pretty sure that got me an "uncooperative wacko mom" note in the file but I did actually later lodge a complaint and request for additional training after the nurse who discharged us advised me to give my daughter nothing but apple juice for at least 36 hours. I had reminded her of my daughter's specific diagnosis and how diarrhea could be as devastating as vomiting for her risk of hypoglycemia and she said even breast milk was just a really bad idea for anyone who had suffered from vomiting. When I talked to the on call genetics doc the next day he wisely (I thought) told me that a physician he trained under said "no human condition is improved by hunger." I've begged the docs we see to give me greater guidance about how to know Hannah's sugar is dangerously low, and are they sure I shouldn't test her sugars, and all of that and what they keep sticking to is how she looks/acts/presents when other indications are she may be low. Once they said she could go as low as about half her normal intake for a while but not for too long (isn't that nicely specific) and they tell me to keep cake decorating gel on hand to squish inside her cheek if I think we are in danger and need time to transport to get her an IV. Didn't I tell you this disorder was strange? So after one barf before dinner, a happy perky child running about later, three changes of bed linens and two for my shirt/bra, I just sat in the nursery chair with her nestled happily on me on the giganto extra large boppy on my lap, and we dozed on and off and had sips of apple juice and Gatorade and she kept telling me off for trying to sing the wrong songs or telling her to sleep. She has ten ounces of liquids containing sugar on board and hasn't hurled for more than two hours. My neck and back are screaming in pain but she is now snoring peacefully, back in a clean crib and smelling only faintly of vomit, and I have hung my hat entirely on how she kept reaching about to pat my cheek, forcefully insisted I sing the Hannah songs only and pulling back to look me in the eye in the dim glow of the night light over the diaper pail (that makes it sound more romantic, right? Like moonlight on a river but somehow more fundamental) with BOTH hands on my cheeks and smiled delightedly at getting to go to sleep on Mommy over and over and over. I'll keep you posted, please send positive thoughts of clean laundry and a dearth of extra bodily fluids.

2010, bullet by bullet

2011-01-03T01:20:00.000-07:00

Numbers to explain the year in review:

Health category:

therapy sessions for my daughter:

PT - about 45
OT - about 35
Hippotherapy - about 20
bonus play time at Little Gym - about 30

Doctor visits for daughter - 10 ish
Doctor visits for me - skip that
times my children went under general anesthesia because dentists don't do "light" sedation on people under 30 pounds - 2
kinds of brain damage identified in immediate family - more than, one for hell's sake
physical therapy sessions for me:

neck related - 10
broken butt related - 8

physical therapy sessions where I went to cheer my mom on - 3
number of times she didn't remember my name correctly, before therapy - 2
number of times she said she didn't want to do therapy - a bunch
number of times she did it anyway - enough that she gets an A++ for effort, and will be released home in a few days, having achieved more strength than she had pre-stroke
number of times I've felt inspired to chuck in the legal job and become a PT - a whole bunch
Jazzercise classes attended: 50 or so
Pounds lost - about 20
Months not spent doing regular exercise - 6
Bra size letters down - let's just rate this as moving in the right direction. If I were one of those medical weird ass types (as in "patient denies pain" WTF?) I'd say the bra size is downgoing
Number of times I creatively visualized punching "STROKE" right in its stupid ass face while doing a punch move in a Jazzercise routine - at least 150
Number of times punches made me feel infinitesimally better - 150

twenty zillion - number of times I had to explain to someone what Hannah's hand braces and taping methods are, how different methods work, separately and together, and what a cast is doing on a perfectly good arm
a few - number of times the above made me cry when I really didn't want to
a whole bunch more than a few - number of times I did the explanation without tears because I rock. Well she rocks, and I have been practicing.

Wealth category:

Raises - none
Expenses - up, up and away
Vacations I paid for without charging the whole thing - one big honkin' trip to Disneyland, in my minivan, because I am that cool
Bankruptcies, job losses, unpaid bills (debt floating on credit cards excluded) - zero. We'll call this a win, because fortune didn't frown on me here, and the credit card debt far predates 2010, so it doesn't really count as an annual statistic, right?

Happiness category:

Belly laugher now identified: Hannah is a belly laugher. She also hits people a lot and honks your nose while looking you right in the eyes to watch how you react. Claire was very much a smiley baby but Hannah is more of a laugh out loud baby, and I have to say both traits are quite pleasant in one's offspring.
Husband has not been killed by me or anyone else. This is probably good.
I can't say I didn't try, because I really did. But it made me tired.
Claire says I am the best Mommy in town, and she loves me a lot. She loves me "forty-three" - I think she arrived at this number based on my age, which is the biggest number she has spent any time pondering. I'm trying to teach her about eleventy zillion but she hasn't grasped that concept yet. Both children seem quite fond of me but Hannah only recognizes two and five, so she doesn't quantify her affection for me, but I think, in the fullness of time, she will.
Debris removal shoes may be available soon.

2011, bring it on. You only scare me a little bit with your potential ass-kicking. It's just a flesh wound.

Happy Christmas to you, and may your days be merry and include debris removal shoes

2010-12-26T13:26:00.000-07:00

Not every girl gets so lucky at Christmas, but as you have guessed - I am special! See for yourself, the best gift of the season:

To all of you who follow the ups and downs of my life and stories - thank you! I hope your holiday was lovely and joyous and full of happy times with family and friends, with the promise of more to come. I'll be back soon.

Can a girl really get past a stroke? Well, yes.

2010-12-15T00:22:00.000-07:00

I know I've been woefully absent again. By the way, butt not officially broken, but I did re-injure it when, after my mother had a stroke and was hospitalized last week and was then to be released, my sister texted me "come to St. Mark's - hurry" and I fell right the fuck down again, on my dining room floor as I stood in my stocking feet and read the message. My sister wanted me to hurry, but I didn't really mean to hurry that much. Oh well, my odds are better than my mom's. She is much better now than the last few days after episode number two, and will be sent to an acute care rehab tomorrow for a make or break stint of therapy. If she makes the effort, she'll make it home, and if she doesn't, then she'll never go back into her cocoon of safety and comfort. So I'll post more about it when I get the chance, but I wanted to share these pix of Hannah Rose, stroke survivor. In the last two days she has run through the house wife a play knife in each hand, practiced walking with both hands in her pockets, practiced walking with her eyes closed and while covering her head with a bucket. Here's hoping my mom can learn from her granddaughter.

"Let me tell you about your butt" is a crappy pickup line

2010-12-10T00:57:00.000-07:00

My butt is broken, or at least looks, feels, and acts that way. On the advice of my physical therapists (a fun family has physical therapists for both adults and children) I had an x-ray of my pelvis today, to determine if my tragic fall caused a fancy schmancy injury - the pelvic avulsion fracture. This type of injury occurs most often in athletes, and ya'll know how athletic I am. I am at least athletic enough to be suspected of being able to wrench my own body heroically to save my precious baby from a smash to the head, and in so doing create enough torque to break bone. It is true that I saved her very well, her coat was not even wet after our crash to the pavement. I am powerful, but secretive. Deeply secretive. I was hiding the answers even from myself, and then I got professional help. The physical therapists don't want to treat me anymore until we rule out a higher level of injury. I think they are bored because the depth of the color of the leg length bruise is waning but that is a different post.

I asked the radiology clinic staff if I could speak to the radiologist or technician myself, to learn about my results, since the x-ray gets developed pretty much instantaneously. No, they could not speak to me about my butt. HIPAA prevents disclosure of private information. Even to me. My ass is officially top secret, strictly a need to know topic. Hopefully tomorrow, in the fullness of time, the radiologist will share the information with my regular doctor, who will hopefully have time to call me before the office closes for its Christmas party. So more people can know the secrets of my ass. Including me.

Thing 1, Thing 2

2010-12-06T00:12:00.006-07:00

Sisters are doing it for themselves . . .

2010-12-04T00:52:00.000-07:00

Hell's bells, I don't know where the time has gone. Mo specifically asked me to write about the results of constraint therapy for Hannah, and so I will, but first I'll give my excuses for why I am so very absent. I had meant to blog from Disneyland, but I was really in a lot of pain after oral surgery to extract a tooth and begin an implant process, so every time my kids were down and I could rest I didn't feel like getting on the computer. On the night before Thanksgiving, I slipped on ice carrying Hannah, two glass bowls and the school photos, all of which needed protecting and so I torqued my body in the air to not land on Hannah and thereby tore my hamstring. When folks picked us up and dusted us off the baby wasn't even damp. I win! I really seriously injured myself though, so now when I get my kids down in the evening I need to lie down and try to elevate my hamstring/thigh above my heart to reduce swelling (not easy). So, I beg your pardon if I normally comment on your blog, or if I normally give you something to read, and I've been letting you down. I look forward to things getting better in six to eight weeks. Yeah. Good times.

Hannah did three and a half weeks of constraint casting. The half week was added because I wanted someone professional to take the cast off, because my daughter is a smart cookie and if we do this again in six months I didn't want her to remember that I could take her cast off, I wanted it to be done by a therapist. We definitely see improvement in the use of her affected hand/arm. I would absolutely recommend this therapeutic approach. Hannah was upset but less so than I expected. I was a bit wound up for a while before the cast was put on because I thought she might cry for days and we would wimp out and give in and take it off. She really was fine at the outset, but she did have difficulty sleeping, and staying asleep, largely because the cast literally weighed ten percent of her tiny body weight. Those of you with bigger kids might not have this issue. My treating therapists have a child wear the cast and simply go about their daily lives, we didn't do the six hours of special OT that make up the basis of some programs in other parts of the country, so this was probably a lot easier. Hannah's biggest challenge was with eating, she simply would not use her right hand to put food in her mouth and she seemed indignant that she would be fed like a baby, but she did let us feed her. I was flexible about letting her use her binky more than we had, since I've been trying to reduce use and encourage more speech, but she foxed me by getting her day care minions to put her binky in her mouth. After a morning therapy session I dropped her at the day care and stayed to eat lunch with her so of course I fed her. Her little friends gathered around us to monitor the mom in their midst. I kept the binky clipped to her shirt so she'd have to use her right hand to get her binky in her mouth. When she would try to do it the movement really exposed that supination is something that we really need to work on but she developed a work around. I saw her look at her two favorite boys, and say "binky" and they both leapt in and tried to be the one to get the binky first and get it in her mouth. Minions! At age two! She has since moved to the next up aged class and now is at the bottom of the pecking order, where the toddlers take her binky out of her mouth and say "binky in your pocket, Hannah!"

Results: extraordinary. the first week after removing the cast we were in Disneyland so I couldn't observe much in the way of the results because Hannah was not often in a place where she might pick up smaller items. I did buy some toys to encourage bilateral tasks - cookies in little plastic "jars" and things of that nature and we worked on those in the car. Now that we are home, I can see more of what she is doing with her affected hand. What is most noticeable is that she uses her hand much more automatically, or when necessary, she uses her hand to hold the thing she picked up first then picks up a second item with her good hand. She is much quicker to use her right hand to balance a cup or bottle, or hold a bowl of Cheetos while she feeds herself with her good hand.

Go Righty, go, get that foam number.

Long time no blog

2010-11-22T02:33:00.000-07:00

In the last two weeks since I managed to write a post I have:

had Hannah's first constraint cast removed, after 3 1/2 weeks and having only cried when people asked me about it if they were people I knew and who loved me but I never once cried to a stranger (this pleases me to no end)
tears may have come to my eyes when my daughter clubbed me with the cast in my sore jaw
finished getting ready for the iconic family trip to Disneyland in the minivan, six family members and my best friend, who I think will now no longer travel with my whole brood. I'm going with her.
had a tooth extracted ( I think when body parts are taken from you you should get paid, not the other way round)
had some other guys' squashed up sand like bone and a titanium implant placed in the hole described above, having been told going out of town with my decayed tooth holding a a bridge was "ticking time bomb"
gone to Disneyland with my family and my best friend, who is a Disney expert and who makes every trip more fun, even when my jaw was throbbing and I'd periodically find not two but three different child applied stains on my clothing in all the usual suspect areas representing food and other fluids roughly equally (I just did the laundry) and I still had a fantastic time
had two sick kids at Disney (you should buy stock in Kroger grape flavor children's ibuprofen - just a little tip from me to you)
did not divorce my husband or at least send him packing for a most aggravating incident
took some lovely pictures of my kids at the beach, which was one of my goals and which the children obviously loved, and which was the source of the friction that made me want to divorce my husband and I think I'll just stop with that there and throw in a little pixie dust

after pulling in last night around 3:00 a.m. the garage door worked well enough to let my friend's car out and let us park the van. We put the kids in the bed, came back to get stuff and found the garage door would not open or close. Since I would access back of the van through the back, this presented some difficulty. We were held captive but I did get a lift to the store from my husband's ex-wife, then I got a ride home with my groceries from a dear friend who lives hear me, and when I got home the job was nearly done, so only $175 later we are now allowed to leave the house using our own vehicles.
After the last two weeks, putting a turkey in oven sounds easy

She said it, she finally said it!

2010-11-06T00:25:00.001-06:00

My favorite PT, the Angel of PT as we call him, taught Hannah to say "I do!" We can say "who loves butter?!?" "I do!" she says. Who loves Mama? Who loves doggie? " I do, I do!"

Tonight, during our nighttime cuddles while I put her to sleep, when she gets all generally squirmy and excited at first because she has her Mama's undivided attention and then snuggles happily into the breasts of comfort and joy, I said "I love you" and she repeated it. She really did it. It sounds like "I yuvyou" and it made my heart melt.
I love you too, honey.

Occupational therapy - constraint casting at three weeks

2010-11-05T17:27:00.001-06:00

Halloween part two

2010-11-05T01:21:00.000-06:00

This seems like old news but I can't stand skipping the pictures so here we go. If you noticed the Belle dresses on the girls at their costume parade party at school from the post last week, you might notice a lot of glitter. Did I mention there was a lot of glitter? Glitter doesn't really stick very well to fabric, but it is really effective on baby skin. In the time it took me to hold Hannah through the magic show, I must have gotten three glitter chunks in my right eye. Hannah's binky was covered in glitter, which was probably made by melamine eating slaves in China, and is likely to affect Hannah's future girl children in some horrific way. I knew that day that three days later it was likely the dresses would have some unfortunate accident that would cause them to be ruined (I thought it might involve tomato soup on Halloween, after trick or treating). Rain made Claire willing to change her plan and wear the candy costumes from our last parade entry, and Hannah likes to copy Claire so we went to a party and then trick or treating in other costumes. And some glitter turned up in my eyebrow, again.

Lord Honey beat me in the hands free donut eating contest. Because I love you, I will let you see this picture of me in half a convict costume, thinking that the donut will distract you from the size of my rack in that polyester, horizontally striped shirt.

The girls collected buckets of candy in a short time, Lord Honey carrying Hannah through the rain to save my neck and back. I'm glad that one is behind me, and the dresses are out in the can. I only "lost" them, in case they ask. Whew. Hey, is that glitter in your eye or are you crying?

Tulip, Welcome to Holland. Holland, meet Tulip.

2010-11-05T00:58:00.003-06:00

We'd had some trouble getting Rocky to hold still once we changed dates/handlers. Our OT had us working more on developing protective movements such as getting one's arms out in front or to the side as necessary, and that was beneficial work, but since Rocky stopped stopping consistently, we weren't getting as much work done with grasping objects. So, we switched to Tulip, and lo and behold, yet another cute young man showed up to volunteer as the side walker. See the results for yourself.

Boys! Tasty! He is all mine.

She knows all her colors!

I can move objects with my mind! Er, um, right hand.

The walk of triumph.

Look out Holland, we have some tromping through your flowers to do. Heh.

Halloween part one and Irony with a capital I

2010-10-31T02:50:00.000-06:00

A local dance company puts on a production of Thriller every year, which is so popular that many people go annually. When I was at the Shriner's hospital for a cast checkup/OT session with Hannah, I overheard that the professional performance company would be putting on a brief version of Thriller for families, patients and employees of the hospital. I wasn't sure Hannah could appreciate zombies, mummies, and chainsaw wielding maniacs, but since Claire wants to be a dancer when she grows up, I thought she could look past the scores and head straight to the dancing, so in my quest to be uber super mom, I dropped Hannah back to day care and pinched Claire for a surprise mommy/daughter bonding experience, even though I was between court calendars, and even though the bit preschool costume parade was to follow later in the day, giving me plenty of places to be inadequate and run late. We loved it. I was stunned by my ability to get this shot, given the wretched delay on my wee small digital camera.

I did love the bride of Frankenstein number, although I think the joke was utterly lost on Claire.

Now I'd seen this performance the previous week on a mom's night out with the day care staff and parents, and I knew that sometimes they picked out audience members for a little participation. I'd been talking to this mom earlier while our respective therapists worked with our kids, my OT doing stuff with Hannah and a PT and orthotist working with her son, who had one leg considerably shorter than the other with a dangly turned foot. AFter a long discussion on hair color, the talk turned to our kids, and I learned that her son, not 9 or ten or so, had suffered his injuries in a lawnmower accident when he was two. Mom herself had been operating a tractor mower on their farm in Colorado, had just told all three children to stay away from her machine as she couldn't see them as she turned, and the boy ran up and got dragged under. Since they lived on a farm at the back of beyond, they drove in towards the coming ambulance, in their fastest vehicle, a Camaro they were restoring but which had no seat belts, at 160 m.p.h. while she held her sons intestines and tried to keep them on the inside and while the tourniquet on his leg was failing. They met the ambulance, he was airlifted to Denver, and has since made excellent progress, generally getting a new prosthetic leg every six months or so at Shriners. Our conversation was cut off by our therapists wanting our attention, and so when I came back after my kid swap, there she was with the two sons she brought, sitting dead center in the "big" room where the dance concert would be presented. I knew when the masked men with boxes containing knives and chainsaws came out, someone would be called on to participate and I hoped it would not be me, leaving little Claire on her own. In one of those twists of fate, that in the end seem inevitable, the dancers chose that mom to come sit on their boxes.

And then they proceeded to pretend to cut off her foot, while her son looked on, laughing himself silly.

Happy Halloween!

Monkey see, monkey feed princess wearing a big clunky cast

2010-10-30T01:42:00.000-06:00

Hey, that monkey can get his hand in a cup to grab snacks, and I, a princess, cannot. I will make him do my bidding, or off with his head.

Snarf, snarf, snarf.

One at a time please, it is more fitting.

You may eat my crumbs, Monkey boy.

Bored now. We are not pleased.

Constraint therapy, the middle

2010-10-24T02:31:00.000-06:00

Hannah is still winning. Mama still whining. Nobody got a black eye from being clubbed with the cast yet. Success!

We have seen Hannah do many things with her right hand that she would never have done had lefty been available to her. Obviously the real measure of the technique's success will come when we see what stays with her later, but she is racking up experiences of Righty getting out there and doing things so I am sure neuronal pathways are being laid for future experiences to further the neuronal transmission, and so on. Lord Honey tried to get me to do something the other day and I said "no, I'm rewiring" because I was holding Hannah and doing something or other getting Righty in the game. We've been using the Lauri peg board shape sorter, and I think Hannah knows all her colors and shapes, the tricky bit is picking up a dropped shape that hits the floor, while getting one off the sofa is fairly accurate. The first few days she wouldn't try, she might just club it with her cast, and now she'll work at it, usually til she gets it. She is turning pages more in books we read, which I've been moving her hand to do for 18 months, but now I tell her to turn it and turn it she will (board books, obviously). She normally carries Ken around, but Barbies are heavy enough that you have to hug them, our better doll figures are the Playmobil people and the wooden doll family members you get at the crunchy toy stores who can be grabbed around the body or at least the feet by a hand as small as Hannah's. Our real failure is food, she will not make an effort to self feed with Righty. At first I could get sandwich chunks in there but now she squawks to be fed like a baby bird, and it makes her angry to be fed at the day care, possibly she doesn't want to look babyish with her friends? So I told them to bribe her with chocolate milk, because I am full of awesome parenting techniques like that. Sometimes I get a broccoli floret in her fist and she'll eat that, if it is well buttered. She can't hold her bottle, and her sippy cups are all too big. We get some success with the sippies with handles and she holds it with Righty and rests the weight on her casted arm, since it is so much stronger.

If anyone gets here just about to do this, or is thinking of it, get in touch with me and I'll give some tips if I can, and maybe a care package like sweet Mo sent. See the beads, Mo? I wish I had more shirts with big sleeves, but baby's big sister is only slightly bigger so we struggle even to find jammies and shirts.

Right now, I'm glad we are doing it, but when she lies about draped across furniture looking wiped out from carrying ten percent extra body weight all day, I really look forward to taking the durn thing off. And I am glad no one has a black eye. Knock on wood. The girl has a wicked left hook

Constraint therapy, the beginning

2010-10-19T21:26:00.001-06:00

Universe 1, Ginger 0, Hannah Eleventy zillion

Just when will I learn to trust my child? So my tension over constraint therapy has been building and building, while of course, she hears me discuss the concept but doesn't really know what is about to hit her, and I try to keep my conversation about it when around her all upbeat and light. She flailed and screamed while the cast was applied, had quite a good wail afterwards as she tried waving around an arm that was suddenly much heavier and bulkier than normal, then sat down to do OT with Tara, who had just applied the cast. As we left, Tara got a thank you, two hugs, kisses, and a wave bye-bye with Righty. Then we ate lunch at Shriners' cafeteria and she was doing so well, I took her to her day care so her day could be as normal as possible. What gives??

I wish they would have told me a few things of interest: have on hand shirts with bigger than average sleeves, or extra short sleeve t-shirts. Have on hand some larger than average pajama options, gives tips on how to convince a two year old that "no clubbing" means no hitting mommy in the head with the cast while sporting a smile on her face.

So these pix are from Friday and Saturday and tonight we finally caught her in her armchair, already I need to update and show off some more as we watch Hannah pick things up with her right hand. When she tires of using her hand, she just lies down on top of what she wants and grabs it with her mouth - whether it be a cookie, a binky, or a used Cheeto. She is obviously fatigued though, since I think we added ten percent to her body weight and stuck it all in one place, so she has to lie down a lot, and she is eating at least ten percent more food to carry that extra ten percent in weight.

As I said, I should just trust Hannah to rise to the occasion and not be so worried. Here she is about 48 hours into constraint therapy trying to get her balloon string with Righty - there are more successful attempts that I filmed but I don't have the patience to upload longer videos to YouTube. Obviously, once again, Hannah is a raging success at everything she puts her hand to.

Ability Found, for ability lost - pulling a The David Cook for charity

2010-10-18T14:27:00.015-06:00

The history of why I do this is found here and here. Aunt Becky at Mommy Loves Vodka had herself quite a lot of fun tricking the Google SEO algorithm into putting her blog at the top of the list for searches for John Mayer, on account of him being douchey and all, so, having had all that fun, she challenged her readers to do something similar for charity, harnessing the power of the interwebs to promote awareness of charities that matter.

Ability Found is local to me, but assists people far beyond Salt Lake City.

Ability Found provides the opportunity for everyone who is disabled to receive the right equipment to become productive members of society.These disabilities include conditions such as cerebral palsy, spina bifida, multiple sclerosis, stroke, cancer, spinal cord injuries, gene abnormalities, hydrocephalus, amputations, diabetes, congenital impairments, heart disease, and lung disease. The medical and rehabilitation equipment we purchase is vital to our clients being involved in society and includes power wheelchairs, power scooters, manual wheelchairs with custom seating, handicapped vans, walkers, gait trainers, standing frames, bath equipment, continence supplies, braces hospital beds and pressure relieving mattresses.

I personally vouch for Ability Found because my daughter's favorite PT, commonly called The Angel of PT at my house, Michael J. Workman, is one of the key service providers who matches up people with equipment they need. Michael J. Workman, a god among physical therapists, is also the inventor of the Bamboo Brace, for which I credit much of my daughter's extraordinary progress battling CP and the effects of an infantile stroke. Michael and others like him go to a person's home or work environment, assesses the need of the individual, and looks for the right equipment to give a person greater freedom. How sweet is that? And they give their stuff to people for free! Ability Found was started by a family whose son was severely injured due to a lack of oxygen at birth, and thy turned their experience with tragedy into one of hope, when they realized the needs that so many have that might be helped with medical equipment. It all runs on donations, and Ability Found can be found right here, so you can check it out and give 'til it hurts.

To Lord Honey, on his forty first birthday

2010-10-15T09:03:00.001-06:00

We love you, Big Muffin.

Claire, this season

2010-10-13T23:13:00.002-06:00

This is how she looks when she looks up at me, always full of love, unless she is giving me the stinkeye. Mostly she says I am the best Mommy in town. Recently she said "Mama, this sandwich is overcooked." Later, she affirmed I was still the best Mama in town. I was relieved.

I shamelessly use Claire to stimulate Hannah into crawling and doing upper body weight bearing through the blanket tunnel, because it appears to me that she is also enjoying herself.

Claire has an accomplished stinkeye. You'll will never be unable to tell what this child is feeling. Thinking, she might be able to hide, but strong emotions? You'll know.

She likes to be the little Mommy sometimes, helping her baby sister. Sometimes this means grabbing Hannah by her hoodie and pulling her down, but that certainly keeps Hannah from sneaking into the street while I get things out of the car.

This day of face painting in late summer was a preview of the child she would become, when she graduated to the Butterfly class in her day care. For the record, Butterflies learn to lie on the first day (teachers deny this, parents agree) stop taking naps, describe those kids who fall asleep during "quiet time" (a movie watched while wearing a blanket) with actual scorn, and are ever more adept at drama. Butterflies need a bandaid for all injuries, bleeding or not, and know everything.

I thought this day would never come.

2010-10-07T01:27:00.003-06:00

When she would like her cowboy hat, and autumnal weather would finally arrive so I could dress the girls in their new clothes. Yes, that is a purple corduroy dress with a horse print. Yes it is. Wait 'til you see the jeans.

Monday Attitude, courtesy of red heads with hats

2010-10-05T01:24:00.000-06:00

The SQUIRREL! in my head: brain injury, you can bite me. Oh, you did.

2010-09-27T23:12:00.002-06:00

I started this post at the beginning of September. I have moved it forward in my drafts folder since September 1st. Getting this out is why I said I'd post all month, although I didn't. But even though I've not resolved all my issues, the load gets lighter day by day, just because I was going to tell you this. Aren't you effective little therapists, you! You should be charging more. Hey, those pants look great on you!

So, Hannah had a stroke. We thought she had anoxic brain damage as a result of her metabolic crash two days after her birth. To avoid the "MCADD babies can't be allowed to fast" issue, we waited until August 27 to get her MRI, and the findings are twofold: a stroke occurred sometime in the past, and also something akin to anoxic brain injury but not looking very textbooky, so much so that the neurologist couldn't fully interpret it and referred me to the neuroradiologist who did the analysis. It is still freaking me out. Like the dogs in Up, and their immediate reaction upon even thinking of small furry bushy tailed chattering creatures, I find myself shrieking (only on the inside) STROKE!!! My thoughts race from MY BABY HAD A STROKE (in all caps) to oh my God how can she be so cute! So determined! So smart! So joyful, and frankly, so pleased to be her. How can anything be bad with a child like that? STROKE! Did you see her just use her right hand? Watch her run! See her joy level? That kid is pleased with herself. STROKE!

I went on antidepressants approaching a year ago - my infant was diagnosed with cerebral palsy, I work full time, and getting her up and moving was taking a huge toll on me, and I couldn't keep my shit together at all. I hate to cry that much, and especially in front of either child as I hate to make either of them think they make me cry, and I hate crying anyway because it gives me incurable headaches and then I'm just not me. I switched to a different antidepressant when I stopped nursing/pumping altogether and it is a better fit for me, and I am eternally grateful such things exist to push me through, besides my love of cheese and candy. Now that I finally got an MRI of my my baby's brain, and found out she had an actual stroke, I am back to the beginning of the grieving and the anger and I am now obsessively thinking all the time "wow, see her learn that new thing. STROKE!! " This bouncing back and forth between thoughts of such extremes is wiping me out. But look at her walking, running, using to learn her hand, MY BABY HAD A STROKE and on and on in a cycle of HORROR! JOY! HORROR! JOY! I feel like I might be getting a taste of the manic depressive lifestyle as my mind cycles wildly with "my life is better now than it's ever been" and MY BABY HAD A STROKE. Let's just say I am fond of Xanax, and glad I am no longer pumping and unable to take such a gift as a muscle relaxer. Someone whose blog I like to read mentioned thinking of trying some therapy to deal with anxiety. I've never done therapy because I know if I talk about what is on my mind I will cry for an hour and get a whanging headache and I just can't see how it will help me. If my fellow blogger gets benefits from this, it will help me reconsider my position, maybe, but if I have now found four hours in a week to get to Jazzercise how could I possibly give those hours up for a crying headache, when instead, (turn on your inner Bee Gees soundtrack) "you should be dancing YEAH! Whatcha doin' on yer back?? Yeah-ah-ah Whatcha doin' on your back?? Yeah-ah-ah! You should be dancin', YEAH!!"

In my heart of hearts I think it is completely legitimate to feel cheated and angry and everything else. I feel many of these feelings because my daughter, my dear sweet daughter who only deserves the good in life, is afflicted with CP, the after effects of a stroke, and so on, and I am angry, jealous, overwhelmed and simultaneously filled with joy over every small accomplishment and blessed not to have lost her and frankly sometimes I feel completely whacked out because I am SO UP and SO DOWN at the same time. It is doing my head in. I think we have to forgive ourselves for these feelings we don't like, give them recognition and don't blame ourselves because feelings are feelings and you have to feel them, and you can't beat yourself up over it because you remember those feelings and cry at stoplights. And since I started this post, at the beginning of the month, even as I moved it forward and forward in the drafts folder, I have cried less, and felt more joy. WHOMP! upside my head, because that all makes so much sense.

Hannah is going through this amazing blossoming transitional phase as she now goes with the big babies, the twos, at day care and spends all day walking on the slidy shifty wood chip playground, and interacting now with the kids her age instead of the ones who were at the barely walking stage, and she is an absolute delight to behold. She understands everything I say, and while I was on the verge of doing a speech eval, but dreading having any more damn therapy, in the last two weeks she has said at least twenty new words, many of which she continues to use, and tried out sounds of others. She'll say "Hi Mama!" (a two word sentence!!) or "Hi Dada" or "Hi doggie" and today said "thank you" to someone she doesn't even know particularly well. Tonight she pointed to the fruit bowl and said apple and after we all shared an apple and the girls wanted Cheetos, I held out a Cheeto (natural Cheetos only, here) and said "say Cheeto, Hannah!" - she did and it was clear as a bell. I praised her and handed her a Cheeto and she said "thank you." She loves to use her right hand when I cue her to and have me praise her. She stuffs asparagus spears in her hand and waives them around for praise. She gets all smiley and flirty, and when I'm not making her use her right hand she is still more two handed all the time, sometimes just to get me to praise her. She is amazing and then I get this neurological news - I've not actually met with the doc yet as she was off the whole next week, and when she had time for a short call, she told me the results were too complex for her to interpret and I should speak to the neuroradiologist. I think I will follow Jo's advice and just not call him. This big damn bag of HIGHs and LOWs cycling in my head all day long is plenty of fun, I'm not sure I want an expert to give doom and gloom, when I can just work with my glorious daughter and enjoy her. I'm kind of more manic and nervous than ever, trying to be uber special needs mom, and kind of my happiest ever to see my results with my girls. They are some effective little charmers. It is like a Hallmark special here all the time, what with the learning and giggle fits and the sister kisses and hugs, and the joy they show to be with each other. Every time one kisses the other to cheer her up from some injury or pratfall I think my heart will burst with joy. Even Hannah, despite all the selfishness of being two, will go hug Claire if she has fallen (but she wisely does not when it is obvious Claire is overreacting, which I find hysterical). Claire, who is a very astute observer, has picked up on my cues and watches Hannah and praises her for using her right hand - very specifically -"Hannah, you put your necklace on using Righty! Good job Hannah!" And at least once a day, Claire tells me I am the best mom in town. I think they like me! Right now, they really like me!

I know it won't always be so blissful. My wise big sister tells me the good gets better and the hard gets harder, and I know I'll be shattered when they start doing the things I did (Lord help us all) and Hannah won't necessarily escape some surgeries and procedures to keep her progress progressing, but just look at the videos I've posted here and tell me I shouldn't wear rose colored lenses. And then, SQUIRREL.

.

I dropped a bra size, I dropped a bra size!

2010-09-26T01:45:00.002-06:00

You should read the subject line with a "neener neener" tone in your mind.

This may be one of those TMI posts for some, if so, just skip it. I know CaryAnne will be proud of me, being an actual Weight Watchers employee and all, and everyone who loves me will just be pleased that if I can ever get ginormous to reduce to just plain big, well my neck and back will be a good deal happier.   Claire, who is skinny and bony and needs a good cushion, will likely disappointed because she likes me squashy, but there's a long way to go before I lose my cushiony qualities.

Talking with moms about our birth stories, our nursing or failure to nurse stories, our bodies post baby and all of that leave us with pretty much one conclusion: this shit is hard! I've struggled with weight for a life time, had breasts since age 11, never knew what a training bra was, until my 13 year old friends got them, and generally wished for decades that I was less voluptuous. I'd tell you about the time I nearly squashed a tata in the refrigerator door, but I don't know if all ya'll know me well enough to believe it. That was when I was about 16. When I was of a normal weight in college but well endowed, I ruined countless shirts not just by catching food but by setting them down on a dirty table or bar. I had my babies late and much heavier, when my breasts had already begun their race to my lap. Claire was so little at birth, she really lacked the muscle strength to nurse, so I pumped and she had an NG tube and every day, with the occupational therapists and lactation specialists, we practiced and practiced. Long after I got her home, she finally got the hang of nursing without a breast shield, a certain Boppy at a certain angle, and someone, myself or a friend if one was nearby priming the nipple with drops of milk from a syringe of previously pumped milk. We never got to full time nursing and I went back to work, having made sure my supply would always outstrip demand, I filled my sister's deep freeze and my own with bags of milk. She nursed for nine months and gave up, I pumped for six more., and she had three more months of defrosted milk to tide her over. My size dropped between nursing and the next pregnancy, as did my nipples themselves, so I expected it would happen the second time around.   Again, I got a hospital baby with an NG tube, pumped myself into a frenzy (no Katy, I was never that mother, I was the mother people took from) and again stockpiled milk while trying to teach a lazy baby to nurse, despite the relative ease of bottle feeding. I lost thirty pounds in thirty days because of all the fun and illness right after Hannah's birth, and still the durned things got fluffier still. This one quit nursing at four months, and because I felt guilt over Hannah's metabolic disorder and feeling she needed the best I could provide, I pumped until she was 18 months old. I expected my nursies to shrink, again. Nope.

I actually have an exercise bra in a cup size that shall remain nameless, since the letter is further through the alphabet than I thought possible for clothing sizes. Meanwhile, my neck injury of 13 years ago has reared its ugly head, given the weight of the pump bottles, the nursing, the holding of 20+ pound people, the crawling on my hands and knees to help Hannah get crawling, and the fact that all lawyers/women/office workers tend to hold tension in their necks and shoulders.  I've taken a million pills, I went back to PT and got some new ideas, went back to Jazzercise (where I get a few of those backhanded compliments about how great I am at it, which I am sure come when it must surprise them to see a fat woman outdance them, and don't come from pure meanness) and although I haven't really cut calories as I should I have dropped a few pounds.

And blissfully, a bra size. I nearly kissed the sales clerk who helped me today. I bought two. One cotton, one not. I nearly boasted at a child's birthday party this evening but I managed to find some self control and shut my pie-hole. But here I am, telling you! The whole internet! You couldn't call them tiny, but I am so pleased I'm going to now eat an entire Totino's pizza with extra cheese. Heh-heh.

Friday Haiku: Autumnal randomness

2010-09-25T00:27:00.004-06:00

Glorious autumn
the search for some new brown shoes
still I bought the black

I've kitted the girls
in case the temps drop quickly
need to knit mittens

Apples are crisper
peaches are much more luscious
I'm dreaming of soups

Feeling such a rush
to enjoy summer's pleasures
before coming in

How Now, Butter Cow? Nearly Wordless Wednesday

2010-09-22T23:21:00.001-06:00

Butter sculptures . . .

Pig racing . . .

A sea lion show, homemade fabric arts on display, funnel cake, Navajo tacos, fresh lemonade, and old style fudge and lollipops, a showing of the best of cocks and hens (poultry!!), plus a walk through the cattle barns to see Dairy cows with their "nursies" completed the outing. And a good time was had by all.

The shoes that keep on giving, the angel of PT, and why I blog anonymously

2010-09-20T01:24:00.010-06:00

These shoes came to Utah from Virginia, courtesy of sweet Oia, who uses a right AFO and is a year older than Hannah. Don't they look cute? Hannah loves her new shoes - I think they are much lighter and more flexible than those we got with the AFO, and suddenly the size fives were just a little small. Voila! We broke out these, which were sent to us months ago by Mo, and just waiting for Hannah to fluff up and need them. I had to modify the strap on the left since at the time Oia wore these she had a left AFO too, but I started the job and stuffed the toe with cotton (Hannah stuffs it with wood chips every day at school) then where I messed up the strap I took it to Eric at Shriners' who fixed it up in three minutes with a cushiony strap on the bottom that takes up some of the extra room in the shoe, and we are off and flying. Mo, you did right by us! Maybe we can work out something where every now and then I buy you a new pair and you keep sending me your right AFO modified older sets? Now, got any snow boots? The Angel of PT says they way I keep Hannah going gangbusters in winter is to carve out snow steps and have her climb up to get to slide down.

Observe the shoes in action.

I think I've mentioned before that our most influential PT, the one who we met first when our CP journey began, who created the Bamboo Brace that I think has been enormously beneficial in Hannah's development, should properly be referred to as The Angel of PT. Not only does he work privately as a PT (how I got him), takes Early Intervention cases (he moved me to his caseload when another child aged out, saving me mucho dinero), runs the Spina Bifida clinic at the local pediatric hospital, and is a wheelchair fitting specialist, but he also works for Ability Found, a non profit organization bringing people and assistive equipment together. I mentioned to Michael that my mother was in poor health and having decided to stay in her home of 37 years, she needed two power chairs, one for each level of her house. He offered to see her and help determine what needs she had and what chair would best suit her and her environment, and that he could help her find a gently used chair at much less cost than a new piece of equipment, or if what they really wanted was not yet available he'd loan her a chair until he got he what she really wanted. Like many querulous old folk, she wanted help NOW and with him being busy (he is) and her being busy (being retired and old) he told her if she insisted that she had to see him on Thursday morning last week, he could only do so by bumping my Hannah's appointment. She didn't bat an eye and said yes, she'd take Hannah's slot. And she never called to thank me for giving up Hannah's spot so she could pursue her own needs.

You can be like Mo, who sends her daughter's shoes to a stranger from the Internet, you can be like the Angel of PT who runs himself ragged being all things to all people and making a huge difference in literally hundreds of people's lives, particularly for my family, or you can be my mom, whose needs are always the most important.

The video you see above is of Hannah, playing in the park in Oia's old shoes after our make up visit with Mike that he squeezed into his Friday schedule because he felt bad bumping Hannah for my batty old mother. He was too nice to say anything other than that he had a nice time meeting my parents. I said she was an old bat for not even feeling bad about bumping my baby's PT time. And that, my friends, is why I blog anonymously. I will be less bitter and annoyed later, but as Nanci Griffith sings "Maybe tomorrow, but not today!!"

Hippotherapy #12 - and it happened on Wordless Wednesday

2010-09-16T01:01:00.007-06:00

Claire meets the milestones of deceit and manipulation

2010-09-15T23:39:00.002-06:00

See this hair bow? The first time I asked where it came from she said her teacher gave it to her because she missed her when she moved to the next class up. The next day, when I asked where it was, she said she'd given it back to the girl who owned it, and went on to say she had said "you're welcome" when the girl thanked her for returning stolen property. To be fair, it probably was lost in the east playground, like many other treasures, but I suspect she knew all along who would want it back. Oddly enough, the wood chips in said playground do indeed give up treasure, as the lost detritus of hundreds of children periodically rises to the surface. I can stand the Princess rings she brings home but frankly the severed transformer arms, dirty hair clips, and random small wheels sort of bother me.

Claire's drawn figures now have faces.

Even when they are drawn upside down.

Meet Cleta.

Claire assures me Cleta is nice, although she may resemble a somewhat droll angel of death.

Tattoos for the Terrible Twos, like they need more attitude

2010-09-14T23:36:00.000-06:00

If you squint you might see the remains of a pink and purple butterfly on Hannah's inner arm - tattooed on with airbrushed paint at the local street fair last weekend. The point of putting it on her inner arm is to inspire her to twist her arm to see it, because evidently supination is difficult for folks with her condition. The other idea is to use an interesting watch, worn on the inner arm, but we haven't gone far with that technique as no watch is small enough to put on Hannah and Claire keeps taking the watch we did get but have yet to find a pokey tool to size it down.

Now don't all go running off using this idea until you check out the paint. I did the tattoo on a whim, and although I would have liked it to last I was also secretly pleased that it came off in case it turned out to be melamine and BPA-laced made in China paint. I am a little gun shy about my "creative" therapy ideas after finding out that the receipts I'd been saving and using for about nine months to encourage opening and closing her hand were likely a bigger load of BPA than all the baby bottles we didn't use because I at least knew to avoid them. (Google BPA in receipts to get a gutful of data) The only bright spot in the great OT receipt fiasco at my house is that Starbucks typically has very low or no BPA so a lot of our receipts were clean. Ahem. My machiato addiction may be bleeding my checking account dry but at least it is not poisoning the baby. Yet.

Rocky, the man with the plan

2010-09-13T23:20:00.002-06:00

Here he is in all his glory, the horse you've all been waiting for, the mover and shaker that has my baby moving and shaking.

Now enjoy seeing what working with Rocky has done for us. Remember this girl has hemiplegia - one side of the body affected by the cerebral palsy. Can you tell? This horse should be in the therapy hall of fame.

Grace in Small Things

2010-09-12T00:47:00.000-06:00

Many months ago I wrote a Grace in Small Things post about baby knees.

Little lamby girl now has little girl legs. NOT BABY LEGS. Yikes!

What I meant to say was . . .

2010-09-11T15:03:00.005-06:00

I joined "Bloggers Unite" which exists to raise consciousness about issues, having bloggers share their thoughts with others about things that matter, like the day for premature babies (check) or babies without shelter or Haiti or a million other things of consequence that deserve reflection. Whatever. I meant to get this up on September 8, a day to celebrate and encourage literacy, and I missed that, but today I'll dash this off, to tell you to thank your parents, teachers and all that is holy that you can read my words. Any words. Any words at all, because you have a gift that many lack, and a lifetime without literacy is a lifetime without books. Need I say more? Who cares, I will. I wouldn't be the woman I am today without the girls I read as a child -in Anne of Green Gables, the works of Laura Ingalls Wilder, the migrant farm workers' children in Lois Lenski's books, the depth and breadth of my understanding of people from all economic classes, in other periods of history, action in the face of adversity or learning how to love and be loved.

Last week, in court, I saw a man who wasn't given much in the way of gifts with which to start, and he may have squandered what he had with drugs and alcohol and poor choices. You might see him begging, or perhaps he is too proud to beg, but he lives off LDS Bishops' assistance, food stamps when not incarcerated, and a part time job at the local LDS charitable store that exists to teach job skills and self reliance skills to help folks get out into the workplace. He is over fifty, convicted of felonies, tattooed, and illiterate. Where exactly can he work, to pay the fines and restitution he owes? The court wondered had he any assets to pay the costs he caused to another. He has no upper teeth, why would he have material assets like a car? When asked if he was entitled to other benefits, VA or social security, admitted he was denied for disability and had probably never worked enough to pay in to the retirement option. He did two terms in the National Guard but was discharged when they realized he was illiterate, so it was proven he cheated to get in, so his discharge means no benefits whatsoever.

What might have made his life different, richer, more rewarding, and worth maintaining?

Literacy would have been a great start.

We can't take it for granted.

Haiku Friday: farewell, stealer of pies and hearts

2010-09-10T23:32:00.006-06:00

Mr. Tobias
a dog with a joyful heart
left us yesterday

My best friend, bereft
sent him on to dog heaven
away from cancer.

He stole many hearts
he comforted and loved us
and stole our baked goods.

He knew how to love
better than many people.
His heart knew real joy.

We'll miss you, Toby.

Is empty tub syndrome like empty nest syndrome? But more soggy?

2010-09-09T23:24:00.006-06:00

So the other day Claire stayed at her friend's house for a sleepover. Her first ever. (I didn't think sleepovers started this early but this is a close friend) I was a little disturbed to have only one little one to chase, but she had no such hangups, no desire to talk to me on the phone to say goodnight, and was far more interested in hanging up and getting back to play, and so she did. No calls in the middle of the night, just a very tired preschooler the next day.

Hannah had her first bath alone since the days she was so small she was bathed in the sink.

She liked playing with Claire's bathtub Ariel Barbie, and said "Ariel" - thus proving she wants another Disney vacation. And when we said show us your bright clean teeth, she did this:

Wordless Wednesday: Might as well dance

2010-09-08T00:14:00.003-06:00

And then she waved goodbye

2010-09-07T09:56:00.002-06:00

With her right hand. I hope if I write these things down it will burn forever in my mind's eye - as I never have the camera when Hallmark card moment comes calling. Claire and her Daddy and Hannah were walking out to the car to head to day care, and Hannah wanted to wave goodbye to me, but found her strong hand occupied with her juice cup, so she thought about stuffing her cup under her weak arm to free her hand to wave, and I called out "wave with Righty," and she did, and I clapped, and she smiled and all is almost right with the world. And when I got inside and called out my goodbyes, I cried again. Again! Right with the world would be she never had to work so hard to get there, but holy shit is that girl amazing me, every, every day. Jo, dear Jo, commented here - the MRI of Hannah's brain is not a map of her future. It doesn't say anything about her learning to wave goodbye or blow kisses with her right hand, or extraordinary flirting skills. On these points, that damn test is curiously silent.

Sometimes

2010-09-06T23:11:00.001-06:00

Somtimes she explores on her own

Sometimes she likes to supervise

Sometimes she likes to mkae sure Daddy stays on task

Sometimes she just likes to run

Grace in Small Things

2010-09-05T23:54:00.002-06:00

1. Hannah grows stronger every day.
2. I need only wait about three more days to talk to the neurologist about the results of Hannah's MRI last week. I know it is worse than I thought it would be, and instead I just look at who Hannah is and what she is doing, but I will be glad to have this conversation and move on.
3. Temperature changes means I can dress the girls in new clothes!
4. I am pleased I have let this weekend's Gymboree sale slip right past me.
5. Claire can write her name, and mine.

And then she pushed the other button in the elevator

2010-09-04T23:42:00.014-06:00

Lately, as Hannah has experienced just an explosion of social behavior and skills she never possessed, and never flaunted before, she has now started to do things regular ol' babies do. I was sort of pleased when she started trying to get out of the car seat on her own during arrivals and departures. I was pleased she was taking initiative. Like reaching up to touch a pan on the stove! We had a perfect outcome, it was hot but not blistering and didn't cause any injury and she learned the word hot and has not been seen trying that again. These new skills also include using excessive flirtiness and smiles to get her way. She hits you if you anger her. She runs away when you call her, laughing maniacally. She can also do all of these things:

Copy big sister

Climb up on stuff

Not refuse to do things with her right hand (full disclosure, I stuck the ball in her hand, but her ability to keep or dump an object is vastly improved)

Weight bearing on her affected arm during play

And be wicked fast at doing things that Claire never did, like pushing the call button in the elevator at the Children's Museum, summoning staff to our aid in the blink of an eye.

Friday Haiku: The Real New Year

2010-09-03T23:48:00.002-06:00

I have always felt
that autumn marks the new year
and new beginnings

I remember shoes
clothes that were too warm to wear
and all new school books

the hope I'd be new
and better at fitting in
having folks like me

it was more fun next
at college and then grad school
where I was then liked

Act predictably
and get the lay of the land
for the months to come

Pull out clothes to layer
Plan to do the winter chores
Goodbye to summer

Oh, each September
more new than the last winter
Spring ahead, fall back.

Hannah's first recorded use of a remote control

2010-09-02T01:12:00.005-06:00

Obviously if you are blessed with a child who is this appealing, posting daily is much, much easier.

I bought each girl a toy that is operated with a remote control, thinking it would encourage Hannah to use two thumbs to press the buttons simultaneously. I figured she'd watch Claire and try the same thing, but not so. She shrieked and carried on as though this sheep meant business, until tonight, when she finally grabbed the remote from her sister and gave it her all. My uncooperative camera missed the shots of her really trying to get her thumb on the button, but you see the intent and the interest. My heart swelled with pride, tears welled up in my eyes, and I realized I'll have to get her a Wii if I want to get her out of the daily crawl of the blanket tunnel.

Still Life with Laundry - minus the goose poo

2010-09-01T23:40:00.007-06:00

In honor of how full my head is these days, I decided to join in NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month) this month. I've made a commitment to post every day for a month. Think of it as a Roman vomitorium if you will, since my head is all spinny and full of stuff and it needs to come out, and now you get to see it, so maybe I'll see less of it myself. The theme of September for NaBloPoMo is Art. I don't think I'll really get in any trouble should I stray from the topic, but at least we'll begin that way. Art.

Still life with laundry. Notice the clean baby pants.

Susie homemaker tip of the day: if any of you let your toddler fall on a goose poo, simply place a plastic bag on the car seat to minimize seepage, and use Oxi-clean spray on the stain. Voila! Lord Honey and I had quite a dispute about whether or not we could wash Hannah's one and only pair of closed toed shoes, made by a manufacturer for use with orthotics, and Lord Honey's choice was to throw the shoe in the washer. I freaked about potentially ruining my best shoe option and the only one that can go to hippotherapy with a brace, and opted to hand wash the sole in the sink with Oxi-clean, figuring that poo is poo, and if I can wash baby poo, I can wash goose poo. It is, after all, organic. Lord Honey wondered why I let Hannah wander about the goose poo despite her penchant for sitting down without notice, but I thought it a good OT activity where I would stuff a large piece of bread in Righty and let her pull chunks off with Lefty. In my mind, I make every daily opportunity for two handedness something noteworthy. And since I now found out that one of my self created OT activities for Hannah, which involves saving all receipts and giving them to her to scrunch, toss, place on Mommy, and use to practice opening and closing her right hand, is now an activity worthy of OSHA scrutiny, since apparently most receipts contain high levels of BPA. So having removed BPA from every cheap plastic cup or bottle my girls drink out of, I have instead exposed them and jeopardized their future offspring by by encouraging their play with Mommy's little scrunchy papers. Arrgghh.

Enjoy the still life. More to come this month.

Friday Haiku: a day in the life of Hannah

2010-08-29T00:51:00.003-06:00

We started early
at the hospital at six
and a got a pager

buzzed by nurse, checked in
Next, medical imaging
to look at her brain.

Glad she had Versed
the MRI is so loud
and I was scared.

We saw dentist next
general anesthesia
was given her twice.

She came though quite well
sassy and not at all sick
she slept on me well.

Tears ran down my face
dropped on the sleeping baby
she kept on resting.

Dentist gave high marks
Neurology on Monday
but I could not wait

Regular doc said
(who could access the records)
Hannah had a stroke.

Twas not anoxic
brain injury, but more harm
and now I know it.

Today she ran more
used her right hand with more skill
and she always will.

But still, it hurts.

Smell the glove Wordless Wedenesday

2010-08-25T23:34:00.000-06:00

Dear Hannah, little love

2010-08-24T23:27:00.001-06:00

My darling girl, I have not yet made a habit of writing to you yet, or to your sister, and I should be doing so. I have filled my time with telling others of your exploits but I will make an effort to periodically record a moment of reflection for you, just about you, just to tell you of my love for you.

Two years ago today I sprung you from the hospital. For a little while I wondered if I'd get to, or if I'd end up taking you back over and over. As it turned out, your metabolic disorder, though terrifying to me at the outset, has been much less of a worry, while an absolutely unfair brain injury has plagued the two of us much more. I was worried we'd be getting IVs all the time, and then, after finding you didn't move as I expected you would, I started looking for reasons why, and after the diagnosis of hemiplegia at eight months, now we are constantly on the move getting you to every kind of therapy we think might help you really get on the move on your own. I'm sorry to keep you going so much, but I think you'll thank me later, or I wouldn't be so insistent.

My dear, you are fantastic. All your therapists are pleased with you, saying your the best at this or that they have ever seen for a girl with your level of CP. You are praised for the many ways you overcome or work around the disability caused by the brain injury you have, but more importantly, you are enjoyed by all who meet you. You may not like your first meeting with some folks, for others you do, but in the end, when you love someone or just feel like charming a receptionist, you sparkle and shine like the most brilliantly cut diamond. The volunteers at the center where we do hippotherapy thank me for letting them work with you, they enjoy you so much. I am fairly certain they fight over who gets to assist you.

Your winning personality shines through your every action. You've been practicing flirting for ages now, but now you are a star performer. I am delighted with you, my darling girl. You are the icing on my cake.

The yinyanginess of bittersweetyness

2010-08-22T01:23:00.009-06:00

My little mind is all a jumble. We had the joy and excitement of Hannah's second birthday, which marks a major milestone not only in her transition from baby to toddler but also in that she has not been hospitalized for an MCADD related illness since her release from the hospital after her birth. We have made two nighttime rushes to the pediatric ER, but were held captive only a few hours and turned away. I'm proud! I'm successful! I don't suck! We've also now had the two year anniversary of her metabolic crash, a date which I believe marks the fatal drop of oxygen that bought us the CP of which we are so very, very fond. I spent that day, last week, hiding it from the world but I felt myself counting down the hours to the time two years ago when they charted she had signs of hypoglycemia, the time I know they did the first blood draw, tried to give her formula, drew the next blood for testing, and then waiting 45 more minutes to test again and place the glucose IV that saved her life. And where was I? In and out of the nursery between bouts of vomiting and diarrhea, but still, trusting in the nurses to pull it all together. We didn't get the MCADD diagnosis for days and there would be no way for the docs to know and anticipate that waiting on that glucose level would be catastrophic because of her MCADD, but still, in the textbooks, they say you always treat hypoglycemia in a newborn. Always. I wonder and I ask why, and I kick myself a bit and feel really angry with the universe because I actually love nurses and don't really want to blame them, since I actually credit them for getting people well. I know they waited for the nurse who is the best at newborn IVs. I wish they had given me second best on a faster timeline. I hate that Hannah has to battle to walk, to learn to use her hand, will have her good hand immobilized so we can motivate her weak one, will maybe need botox or surgeries, and mostly that instead of just enjoying her, every moment is a moment I should be teaching and encouraging her use of her body, even as I know my family has far fewer burdens than many others carry. I'm still pissed off.

And then here is Hannah, in all her Hannah-ish glory, who is making enormous progress in all her therapies and charming all her therapists and as far as I can tell having a pretty good time. She just learned to say her name as "Hnana" with her sweet girlish voice. She'll tap her chest and say it quietly, and smile at me, if I touch my own and say "Mama." She is so obviously delighted with her increasing mobility and strength. She runs! Somewhat crookedly and drunkard like, but she is moving quickly. I love to see her walk over to the window seat, and casually lift one foot halfway, standing as if balancing is no chore and her feet can just sit around looking dainty and girlish while she gets a toy or shares a laugh with her sister. She'll move into the group of kids closer to her age at day care in two weeks, possibly skipping the not quite twos and head for her age group, who passed her by when she didn't walk on schedule. Her therapists all agree on this for her cognitive and social development, and to show her a model of her movements on kids who are on target, and I do agree, except the part of me that says she is small, and light, and tippy, and will maybe have setbacks with growth spurts and therapies that will have her coming to school in casts or getting uncomfortable treatments. And then the day care administrator showed me the kids who she'd be with, who will be her kindergarten cohort, and I watched a girl maybe 8 months older than Hannah fly up the curved ladder of a jungle gym and felt my heart sink. She will do that, but not with her hand as it is now, not yet.

So I'm all mixed up. I'm up as can be and I'm down in the depths. Every time I sit with her and spend a moment on working on her opening and closing her hand, I see how far she's come. She likes to feed me blueberries with righty. I have to lick a squashed piece of fruit out of a questionably clean hand but she is learning to turn her hand up, so I eat the berries and it pleases her. I'm up, and light as air, and Hannah is a joy forever, and I'm dark, and guilty, and not even as guilty as I am mad that she carries these burdens. What should be a normal little MRI and a doubled up dental procedure for her will be a day of general anesthesia for her on Friday (I waited this long so I could keep her at home the day before and not admit her as a precaution to emptying her system of food before a sedative - Hannah will never have easy peasy outpatient surgery) and it literally took something like thirty phone calls and emails to get it scheduled only to have it all nearly dashed when no one wanted to be responsible to move her from one floor of a pediatric hospital to another. But today I heard that the dental suite scheduler pulled some kind of miracle together and I'll be bringing her sweet rolls so my baby doesn't go under twice just because "that isn't the way it's done, ma'am." An office administrator angel in disguise. Perhaps she'll let me sit by her and knit while the dental work gets done.

I wish my camera could do justice to the loveliness of this girl. She has learned so much about how to communicate, I think she doesn't talk much because she doesn't need to, but today she said car and moon on our evening walk. But better still, she can fairly talk with her eyes, her beautiful eyes and joyful smile. When she is awake.

This childhood of my darlings passes so quickly, too quickly. Bittersweet is the right description "more sweet than bitter, bitter than sweet." I want her bigger and stronger and yet to stay so perfectly sized to be held in my arms with her head tucked under my chin. It must cause mothers physical pain when their grown children can't fold up onto them anymore. I don't know how I'll stand it except taking comfort that I got them along in the world that far even when some of the battles were harder fought than was really fair.

Recent hippotherapy triumphs

2010-08-20T00:43:00.009-06:00

Be so cute everyone wants to work with you. Do some ab extensions.

Reach across midline to get a ring, without being verbally cued to use Righty.

Slide the ring down the therapist's arm to much praise and adoration.

And trot!

And be very pleased with yourself!

Use two hands to carry the horse's treat bowl.

Thank Rocky for a great day.

They say its your birthday . . . you're gonna have a good time

2010-08-12T09:43:00.000-06:00

Wordless Wednesday: tiny pirates

2010-08-11T23:58:00.000-06:00

Fifth disease, because six is too many and four is not enough

2010-08-05T00:01:00.004-06:00

Well, we need not have feared what Claire would learn watching Grease and hearing the entire crowd singalong, because the night was scuttled by the contracting of the fifth of classic childhood illnesses diagnosed by a distinctive rash, fifth disease, also know as "slap cheek disease" which sounds a little more like something I'd like to inflict. This is how Claire looked coming home from day care:

Normally Claire looks like this:

As Claire mended, I was felled, then Hannah, who was spotty from head to toe. I actually had one evening where I took to my bed then had the bonus symptom saved for adults, with aching arthritic joints that normally feel quite spry, like hips and elbows. So we lost days of work, days of day care fun, therapy and Little Gym sessions, took a lot of pain meds and fever reducers and generally had an ass kicking time. And a big who-hoo to that week, don't think you'll be getting some whiz bang Friday Haiku, because I have to get ready for an upcoming holiday celebrating the baby turning two. Bite me, stupid week. Wait, is that begging for trouble? Let's agree to detente, shall we? It's just a flesh wound and we'll call it a draw.

Sing a song of sixpence, and heroin, and studs

2010-07-29T00:20:00.000-06:00

My daughter Claire never stops talking. Or singing. My husband has an addiction to YouTube and plays videos through pretty much every meal, and after until I tell him to stop and do something else. You expect Claire to sing a song of sixpence, or other children's ditties, at age four. You expect her to sing a few verses of her parents' favorites or her favorites (although I never picked up much from Wagner's Ring cycle, but my parents weren't very cool). Currently, Tom Petty's The Waiting is her favorite song, and she has yet to catch on that every time she asks her dad to play that on the laptop that he makes her wait. On Saturday in the car we played most of the soundtrack to Oh Brother Where Art Thou going to and from Hannah's hippotherapy, and not unsurprisingly, she declared Big Rock Candy Mountain her new second most favorite song. But the current song you most hear from her is the Mighty Mighty Bosstones' Royal Oil, which I am fairly certain is about heroin. I find it somewhat disconcerting that she is popping around the house singing "sleep down in the soil, nothing comes from nothing comes from royal oil."

For reasons no one can really explain, all little girls love the film Grease. Maybe a young hot John Travolta explains it, but I digress. Claire's little friend who is roughly her age has Grease and MamaMia and loves to watch her movies and sing along. I imagine we are celebrating an anniversary of the film, but a theatre in our area will be showing Grease the Sing Along movie, and so along with my friends, and Claire's friend we are planning to take Claire to see the film. I don't really expect her to follow the story entirely, but we have in the past shown her the video on YouTube of We Go Together and she thought it delightful, so I agreed to take her because I thought she'd be highly entertained by a theatre full of people singing along to every song (I will). So, to help her know the songs better so she could join in, we decided to school her in some of the numbers she didn't already have familiarity with. First up, Lord Honey picks You're the One That I Want, which begins with Olivia Newton John saying "tell me about it, stud." Immediately Claire says "his name is Stud!". I try to downplay things, tell her it is just a nickname, like when I call Daddy "Muffin." Next we played Summer Nights, and my face turned a funny shade of pink watching the hip thrusts. Lord Honey offered to play Look at Me, I'm Sandra Dee and I had to put a stop to it.

I'm telling myself she'll focus on the popcorn.

Life in a Day: YouTube and you

2010-07-25T00:32:00.004-06:00

YouTube asked everyone on earth to document their lives on July 24, and submit the film to YouTube for editing to become part of the largest documentary ever. Our entry, if we submit it, will be Hannah doing hippotherapy at the National Ability Center. We'll skip the part about how the fireworks we set off in the evening (not because we lurve Pioneer Day but because we love to set stuff on fire) really scared the bejesus out of Hannah. I swear she liked a home fireworks display on the 4th, I swear she did. Somehow, though, Lord Honey bought the screamer package, so every single fountain came with whistles and wails that brought my child to a screaming halt. One thing I can say, she has good reaction time, and is adept at clinging to a parent in times of trouble. If I ever need to carry her out of a burning building, I'll have both hands free, cuz that kid will be well attached.

What did you record for posterity, and will you send it in?

Friday haiku - Pie and Beer Day

2010-07-24T00:19:00.004-06:00

Utah's holiday
to praise the birth of statehood
and Brigham Young's find.

Mormons celebrate
and call it Pioneer Day
I pick Pie and Beer

The real pioneers
pushed handcarts across the plains
I'll be pushing peas

In chicken pot pie
follow it with chocolate cream
and Hefeweizen

Hippo Session 5

2010-07-20T00:32:00.001-06:00

Posted over here at Grace in Small Things you can see a video of Hannah riding on hands and knees on her horse. Absolutely amazing stuff. I can't even write about it without sobbing, so you are getting some pretty short posts on the topic.

Hippo session number 4

2010-07-20T00:21:00.000-06:00

Wordless Wednesday, Cheeto style

2010-07-14T00:45:00.001-06:00

The talkies! Made up of walkies and dancies!

2010-07-11T00:34:00.009-06:00

If you go here, can you see it?

And here

Enjoy this one

More to come, now that I have a plan.

A Cheeto by any other name would taste as sweet

2010-07-10T01:00:00.005-06:00

Hannah the Extraordinary, younger sister of Claire the Magnificent, did something quite noteworthy this week. Some might think it mundane, or average. Some might think the shine of the moment dulled by the cheesy residue. Some might even think the event not so significant because it was a Natural Cheeto, and therefore lacking in artificial dyes so the proof was not smeared throughout the house for all to see.

Hannah. Ate. A Cheeto. From. Her. Right. Hand.

Is it the horse? Is it a developmental stage she would have achieved on her own? Who cares? She still finds the greatest indignity in my attempts to make her use her right hand to deliver the disc of peace to her mouth, and she doesn't always like it when I stuff toys in her hand, but her hand is more open than ever before. She held sticks in each hand in music class, and rhythm eggs although that was more short lived, and all her OTs this week thought she did better/more with her right hand than they had ever seen.

A Cheeto was consumed, and the heavens shone down upon us.

Friday haiku - have I pleased the internet Gods?

2010-07-10T00:00:00.007-06:00

Now I'm trying hard
to gain back Blogger's respect.
Let the movies play!

I spilled olive oil
with a touch of balsamic
from my caprese

Sandwich to touchpad
a ritual sacrifice
will it be enough?

Grace in Small and Big things - 44

2010-07-08T01:42:00.006-06:00

I've been having a terrible time getting videos to post on Blogger lately. If you want to see some of we've been up to, try viewing some short movies on my GiST blog and go here:

In order to get back into the swing of posting minutia plus, or perhaps we call that uberminutia, I'll go back to the small stuff.

1. Claire said to me today "Mama, you crack me up."
2. If you look at my page on GiST you can see videos of the early crawling, the early walking, the advanced walking, the dancing and flirting with musicians (I am in so much trouble), and the walking with such confidence that she refuses to hold my hand, despite all the peril. Peril! Everywhere! Disregard that peril!
3. I don't know if it is the hippotherapy or just general improvement that would have happened anyway, but Hannah is holding her right hand open more, using it to help open a toy or carry an object of desire.
4. My bad neck is improving thanks to Jazzercise and PT, and I am proud of myself for making an effort.
5. Antibiotics are improving double ear infections in both girls. Thank all that is holy for Amoxicillan and all its little friends.