So much to do, so little time!

Anxiety on the receding level means action on the mommy level. Grief is still there, depression is lurking behind (in a shadow, obviously) and anxiety still has me grinding teeth and thinking stupid thoughts while missing other thoughts of greater value, but the energy to do the things of family living is returning to our family life. Luckily, I still don't have a job, though it seems possible in the future. I keep telling friends I cannot fathom how I ever had a full-time, high-intensity job AND cared for kids and home and did all that therapy for Hannah, lived with a depressed and slow moving husband (in secret he may have been speedy, I am still not sure) and...!!!...then started on therapy for me, then spousal suicide and then more therapy for Claire, then me...then arrgghhh...then I remember that I was propped up with oxycodone from November 2010 to March 2013. And then propelled by PTSD, grief, sobriety and the need to eventually get better, then ... .... .... PRESTO! I now operate at roughly 65% and climbing of who I used to be before I married a depressed! lying! manipulative! wrongly made! sort of beautiful in a flawed but beautiful manly and deeply fucked up manly way kind of man and had children with him and eventually had all my own previous flaws and insecurities meet up with special needs! Depression of self plus spouse! Life threatened babies! Death of a parent (and beloved dog)! Life in a CAPITAL L Sense, plus regular life and fell the fuck apart. Boom. Did I mention BOOM!? So now, I figure 65% operational skills is not bad, considering. People say you need a year for grief, you need a year to get equilibrium in recovery, and obviously you need a year plus for PTSD due to its earth shattering and ass kicking nature. So sixteen months since spousal death, this is not bad, not bad at all. Except ALL. Kinda bad still, honestly, but not AS bad as before. A win!

We live to fight the good fight, and smile a little today. Knowing there are more smiles tomorrow and beyond.

In the last two weeks I have spent 40 hours or so pulling weeds, been social repeatedly on as many as four days in a row, volunteered at church, co-parented other peoples' kids as well as my own, gone to continued therapy, sorted the detritus of about the last two plus years in my homey mess and recycled or tossed quite a lot of it, and been validated for how I have cared for my daughter with a metabolic disorder and CP by people in the know who say I have done well by reducing PT and just living. I have read books to my kids and encouraged them. I have loved myself, if not fully, at least I have tried, and told myself it is OK to gain weight while I am in triple recovery, and I bought clothes for me in this size, to reconfirm my affirmation. Firm is a word that partly fits, except for when I jiggle a lot. I have prayed and meditated, though not always with feelings of peace. I have felt optimism, pessimism but less so, hope, despair (natch) but then, hope some more, belief I can truly make my journals of turmoil into a book that might help others recover from trauma and despair, doubt, and, ultimately, belief, again. We have been to the zoo, swimming lessons, the lawn mower repair shop, book club, the store (too many times to count reliably) and I almost set up the computer again to receive pix so I can catch up on holiday and event posts.

Crap, I am pooped. But also, I am having some extra coffee so I can keep going.

A few ways CP changes my parenting style

I have two kids, one with CP, and one without. After the first few years of seemingly endless PT and OT, therapy generally now comes through living for Hannah. That means my affected child copies her sister and therefore I shamelessly use my older child to help the younger one, just by hoping two handed activities look good.  Lately I have hosted a lot of play dates for both kids, and I have realized that not only do I use my kids to help each other but I am using other families' kids to encourage mine, and it works. It seems like other kids who come over think my house is the "no rules" house.  I have an indoor scooter, and kids can ride it through the house, and I kept the Flintstones style car past the normal age based time frame, and people climb on top and push each other around in creative ways. What I have been enjoying is how physical kids can get in group play and how that inspires Hannah in particular, but also keeps Claire from sitting and watching TV. Hannah got the scooter when she was three or so, as an idea from a PT, with the hope that she would use it and increase balance and strength in her affected leg. We got the three wheeled style with a wider platform. Honestly she still doesn't push off with her affected leg but she will get on it and scoot through the house at least once each time some other child takes it for a spin and leaves it lying about. A tall child who is visiting today was able to get the cereal boxes off the fridge, which us something my kids would just call to me to do for them, so even self sufficiency skills get boosted by playing with other kids. Seeing kids whose parents must be telling the kids to get it themselves (unlike me, as I seem to find it terrifying to let my kids life and pour a gallon of milk and spill it) Hannah now gets inspired to carry a stool around so she can get things. All in all, my house is a complete disaster now that people get their own things of interest but I figure it is only to Hannah's benefit to keep stretching for things above her literal and figurative reach. I am trying to work on not doing for my kids when they could do for themselves, but right now, just working on that is all I can do. It really is helpful though, when a mom of a fellow almost eight year old who is coming to sleepover texts me to say her child gets clumsy when she hits her exhaustion limit, and to know that is not really a factor of CP or small stature but one of run of the mill childhood experience.  So today, I am grateful for the village people who sometimes send their kids to me.  But also I am tired of picking up M&Ms.

Good news for clumsy people everywhere

Where have I been, and where is my brain? Firstly, celebrating the great good news that the 5 second rule for eating food off the floor is indeed valid. H is clumsy, given her lack of right sided motor skills, but then again, C and I drop our fair share of food on the floor. When both kids were still at Kids Kampus, I agreed with the 5 second rule wholeheartedly since my blessed daycare seemed to mop the floors once an hour or so. Since I was often there I was in the know about their cleaning efforts, as I came at random times to either meet an Early Intervention caseworker or to pickup and return my child. My house, though, has rarely been cleaned as frequently. OK, never. Whatever. And now, thanks to PTSD (thank you MCADD and Lord Honey, not) my house is never clean enough that I would think eating off my floors a great idea. So news reports this week of a study testing the five second rule and finding it valid were welcome here. Check NPR or Google it, the news is in, picking up food quickly really does make it safer.  Hooray for us! H has absolutely no fear of eating food she drops, and since we became dog free a couple years ago when Sophie went to Dog  Heaven, I stopped being quite so worried about what the floor might harbor that could sicken or kill a person who might eat the odd unwrapped chocolate or piece of cheese that dropped. Let's skip right over the deer poo in my yard, literally and figuratively, OK? Like in the Lego movie, Everything is Awesome! We can retrieve each Samoa and jelly bean and stuff it in, provided we are quick about it. Is it wrong to feel so happy about being slovenly and clumsy? I say no. In my never ending quest for affirming optimism, I say ... Yay!

Secondly, I have been internet sleuthing literacy and Common Core and related stuff, not because my kids are failing, but because the homework they get just makes me ... wonder.

Thirdly, the time just gets away from me. When I ask aloud where the time goes, C generally says that an old man takes it and almost never gives it back. I think this goes back to me telling her something random about Father Time, and maybe her seeing weirdly drawn cartoons of the new year as a baby and such. Lawyers sometimes file a Motion to Enlarge Time, which I have always wanted to file but I could never figure out on whom I might serve the motion. Maybe later this week . . .

Less gloom, more zoom!

In less gloomy Gas Food Lodging news, both girls did a painting for the school talent show.  Each girl wanted to paint something near and dear to her heart, so Hannah painted a picture of her favorite stuffed pony, Sharley.

Claire painted her cousin engaged in her "all Katniss, all the time" favorite activity.

At the talent show I felt blessedly grateful that neither of my children plays the clarinet or drums, and had a very strange conversation with a very conservative friend about her daughter's hula hoop skills and the lack of a future in hula hooping although pole dancing might be lucrative in the health and fitness realm.

Hannah is suddenly very attached to her Daddy shirt which still smells faintly of her father and which she can roll up, cuddle, and seemingly animate with emotions and interest. "No, Daddy shirt wants to go, too!" I put the brakes on Daddy shirt going into the store, and thought it best he not attend church, though he will be allowed to stay in the car.

At church today, as we took communion, Hannah chewed the host after dipping it in the chalice, and her response to the phrase "the blood of Christ, the cup of salvation" . . . was "oh, juicy."

We went tubing with a friend, and Claire did not love it as much as Hannah did. Hannah loved it a lot. Fortunately for me we got a picture of the joy that did not include my mountainous er, um, mountains, which remain larger than Hannah's head and dominate most pictures.

Put out the sun, dismantle the moon, tear up all the flowers

The bloom is off the rose of love.  Or so it seems when your Valentine killed himself one year ago. How did I mark the anniversary of being notified of my husband's suicide? I had a couple kids over for a sleepover and let the four younguns trash the house.  How did I mark the anniversary of the Valentine's Day I had last year, when I was tearing about buying pills and clothes for my kids to wear to their father's funeral?  I had a cookie decorating and craft party for my daughters and friends, and let the five younguns trash the house. Despite my fifty dollars worth of icing, cookies, new scissors and rolls of tape, they ended the affair not with things of pink but with making Fairy Soup by grinding grass and bits of plants with rocks into a wooden bowl of water on the front porch.  And I let the bowl stay there, to attract the odd Fairy who might happen by. I hope she might put the bloom back on the rose. Maybe even plant the rose.  And when we got good and exhausted, the next day, to mark the anniversary of the funeral, we stayed in our pajamas and hung out, and hung on, and we rested.  Enough grieving. I've been a widow for one year, and the book sucks, so now I need to add some new chapters,

Goodness, that was a lot of extra

I keep hoping my energy is on an upswing, and my mood right behind that, but then it swings back down.  I don't need to tell you this, but do try to never get hit by a personal life Tsunami, because it really is an ass kicker to come back from in so so so many ways.  I am tired of not being who I used to be, tired of being tired, tired of having to lie down and read something soothing after paying a bill or taking a phone call or having a thought.

Today, I am tired by the normal!  Progress!!  Still tired by other stuff too, abnormal as it may be and always will be, but I did more this week for parenting purposes and did not 1) lose my sobriety, 2) lose my faith, or 3) actually let the house get any dirtier.  Success!  The things I did this week that were extra were making a yarn wig for Raggedy Ann (tips to follow), making a poster for my daughter to be Star of the Week at Kindergarten (turns out in my mid 40s I still can't cut out a star free hand, but now I have Google and I can find a template to use, lickety split), attend and assist at 2! class parties, decorate the front porch (I did not however, carve pumpkins, and I tell myself that PTSD means I shouldn't use a knife that sharp while I still have this shaky hands thing going on. Spilled cofffee is one thing, knicked knuckles is entirely another). And like mt depressed people who weigh too much, I ate as many Reeses PB cups as I could, and a smattering of other stuff, so of course I am tired.  Perfect for that extra hour of sleep.

Friday Haiku - This is Halloween Hangover Town

We were late to school
So was everybody else
Sugar is tiring.

School parties were fun
and the Parade was more so
Wonder Woman rocks

Raggedy Ann flops
Now I can make a yarn wig!
But I am wiped out.

Another "first" day
to be gotten through with grief.
I did it, barely.

Bouncing to beat CP

What do you think, did intervention work on this stroke survivor? Do you see hemiplegia or a little girl having fun? Yeah, I thought so too.  (heart swelling)

I've been meaning to write about this for ages but got far too busy with whining about my head.  However, after suggesting it to someone I figured it was time to share. We started going to this bounce place more than two years ago with the Angel of PT,  Michael Workman, creator of the Bamboo Brace, and our PT spirit guide. Actually it terrified me back when Hannah was a new walker and quite unsteady, but I was assured she needed a place where she could safely fall down, and he was right. Not only did it give her a safe fall, but it gave her a whole lot more, especially one more place where she could do what all the other kids were doing, and just have fun.

When we stopped going with our PT, after aging out of Early Intervention, we just kept going for fun. Especially during the day, during open bounce, when bigger kids were in school, Hannah could bounce on the trampoline floor, and crawl on the floor, and climb the ladder of the inflatable slide using her affected arm to assist her in climbing up, and mostly she just had a great time without knowledge that I considered it therapeutic intervention.

Between divine intervention, Early Intervention, and me taking a lot of time to do stuff like this with Hannah on a regular basis, she just is not all that impaired.  Sure her leg and arm are still smaller in mass and less effective than her unaffected side, but she can do way, way, way more than she can't, and she is mainstreamed at school.  We are hitting occupational therapy the hardest now, and I don't know what we'll be doing to get those gains, but flailing her arms while she jumps seems to have strengthened her shoulder and upper arm enough that she doesn't flex her wrist and currently doesn't need that brace anymore.  I'd like to see her not favor that hand but she does a lot of two handed play, because her upper body is strong enough to move the arm naturally, so that weaker hand is not relegated to waiting all the time.

The Bamboo Brace was the beginning of this, but the bouncing kept it going, we think. We bounce at Jump Around Utah in Salt Lake City.  The owner sometimes laughs when we come in for half an hour before closing, just to get a little gross/fine motor skills work in on the fly, but every time we drop in we are glad we did.  Somehow, we have arrived at a time and place where I can come in with the kids I have with me and just sit down and look at the internet while they play independently. Yep, my child with CP plays independently and successfully in a rough play environment.  Did I picture myself saying that three years ago?  No.

Bouncing is for everybody.  My family and kids' friends can go for a playdate/babysitting event and work up a sweat while getting the ya-yas out.  A friend whose twin boy was eight months behind his sister in learning to walk made huge advancements when his big sister started bouncing with him on their trampoline, so I feel bouncing is indeed universally beneficial to build strength and balance but especially for those of us whose kids are otherwise limited in activities they would naturally do, I can't think of anything better. When my PT explained it to me, he described these benefits: fast movement on a soft surface builds muscle strength, challenges and therefore builds balance, develops the vestibular system which is important for our kiddos with impaired sensation so they better learn where their bodies are in space and relative to other stuff, and learning how to fall.  And, as you saw in Hannah's video, how to bounce back up.

This is not a sponsored post.  I would do a sponsored post, for the right people, but this is just a shout out to some very real folks and places that made our battle with stroke and cerebral palsy a battle we could fight.

K, camping is hard, right?

It was a lovely, family oriented holiday weekend, but it has taken the whole week to recover. Because I was painting a wee picture I chose not to apply sunscreen when the sun finally came out, as I preferred not to get my hands all gummed up with goo that might smear the watercolor pencil. As I result, I love my painting but my face got so burned that my eyes puffed up, one more so than the other and leaving my right cheek extending forward enough to show up in my vision in a manner akin to an extra nose. So I look wacky in the way that I feel inside! Yay, me!

The vista looked like this from our camp.  I didn't include the large number of sheep who paraded back and forth through the valley multiple times a day, guided by medium sized dogs we decided must have been Not So Great Pyrenees since they looked Pyreneesey but were not great in size.

Looking down on the sheep reminded me that people who don't approve of low cost grazing on public lands sometimes call them land maggots, but I enjoyed their chorus of simple conversation.  Hannah said, "I would like to go to the sheeps, please" and was disappointed that the sheeps didn't want her to examine them. It was lovely, relaxing, time out of time, but oh my goodness I AM TIRED.

Let's talk about PTSD, let's talk about you and me

That title has a tune in my head, just so you know. You can imagine your own to fit it you don't like mine. When I was more myself, and sometimes now, I sing in my head and sometimes aloud, though you wouldn't really be happy to hear it.

No one expects the Spanish Inquisition, and no one expects a train wreck in their personal lives. That dissappointingly inadequate what to expect when you're expecting book doesn't cover special needs in the way lives are ultimately experienced, no one expects a spouse's suicide or chronic and destructive lying, and when those things happen it is rather distressing, to say the least.  Did unexpected life events come when you were unprepared, and did you feel powerless to deal? Then you have trauma.  Do you relive it, get your ass kicked by it over and over in your head and heart and body, and find yourself lost in a loop of crap? Then you may have PTSD.  I didn't feel OK about accepting that diagnosis last year before my life took a turn for the worse in February.  I thought PTSD was for Veterans, police, etc., and people would think it was bullshit if I said I couldn't function because I feared losing my child if she didn't eat, but once I had even more trauma on a whole new level of awful, and stopped medicating myself with oxycodone, now I do really know it was real PTSD before and it got bigger and badder than ever this year. Among the many things I avoid that remind me of the worst things, talking about the worst things rates pretty high up there, but dumping some out seems to be part of getting well, and if it helps any of you, then let's get better together, 'cause staying lost in a mental health mire of nightmarishness is a lousy option for any of us. Self medicating was always a poor choice and is no longer an option for me.

What I didn't know about PTSD before would fill a large academic volume, and getting to know it on a personal level, it is full of assholery and deserves a poke in the eye, just in case you wondered.  I imagine the shrinks know that it is the result of self preservation mechanisms gone awry.  Much like an allergic reaction though, when you feel anaphylaxis you really have to wonder what good histamines are in doses that can kill. I am tired of intrusive thoughts, tired of a racing heart and pounding ears, tired of my arms going numb and tingly when I feel anxious, or even when I talk on the phone about anything of any importance.  I am tired of hostage dreams, I am tired of the fear I feel when I see a car that looks like my husband's (and I know where his is as it is disabled and in my back yard but it still scares me) and I am tired of wondering when I won't be so tired of these and oh so many other things that upset my apple cart hourly.  So now you know why I stay home and watch Downton Abbey on Amazon and don't take calls and texts and emails even from the people who love me and want to help. I don't really like having to explain how sick I am almost as much as I don't like how sick I am.

Sobriety is my most joyful thing, next to my lovely girls.  Sobriety gives me hope over PTSD, oddly, even though the power triumvirate of PTSD, anxiety and depression led to my addiction.  I feel my best doing outreach at my treatment community, and the most like who I used to be, but I know ifI don't kick some PTSD butt then I won't win the war.  So, let's get crackin'.  Let's talk about PTSD and women and mothers and parents and survivors of the unimaginable.

I will be staying home for a while, not working, as I find that my energy level tanks much earlier than before, and no one will think I am sober if they see how much my hands shake.  Frankly, if people knew how busy my mind is recalling memories, avoiding memories, and keeping myself from screaming then they wouldn't think I could pay attention to much else anyhow.  So I will be back and talk about this more, here, where it is safe.  Thank you.

I now have half as many drafts as published posts. Anyone else hitting the confessional with me?

Self censorship is an obvious choice when you are spilling your guts on the interwebs, but I think I have passed all points of reason in this, now that I have 300-ish published posts and nearly 150 drafts.What gives, people? If you know me in life as well as in 'net, you might think I often can't shut up, and yet, I became a secret keeper in the last three years.  Very soon, I will publish a post that tells you a a bit about why, and just what those secrets were, but for now... how kind of any of you to read this blog at all when I am so silent. I always find my stats quite entertaining when I see I had 500 hits in a month and I managed to post only once in that time.  And are all of you getting emails from business opportunities to grow your blog with giveaways or let someone write for you? At least my blog's email doesn't get spam for Viagra giveaways and feminine lubricant advertising.

Randomosity . . . why does Disney Junior Sprout have ads for things such as I just mentioned? Am I part of the problem for mentioning them on my blog?  How have you explained to your kids what those ads are for?  I thought I would be all "there are no bad questions, little one, let me explain" when it came to Birds, Bees, and Ribbed you-know-whatsies but it turns out I am a 'fraidy cat and run for cover when unmentionables are mentioned in front of my kids, as soon as they say "What..." and I say . . ."um, SQUIRREL!" and then I chase said furry creature until they follow me.

Back to my absenteeism and censorship, I need to knock that off. Blogging here was once a very real part of my sanity.  Having recently lost the vestiges of my sanity, I need every tool in my toolkit to keep hold of the shreds of said tenuous grasp on mental health.

Sometimes when I Google my blog to find it for someone (one of the about 10 total real life people I have shown this headspace) I come across the BlogHer description of my blog, which says something like "a generally light hearted" blog about parenting.

I hope you can tough it out for a bit when light hearted veers into the long dark tea time of my soul. It is always darkest before the dawn, but joy cometh in the morning, yada yada yada, and I will ultimately prevail. Don't say I didn't warn you, though.

Daughters! Sugar, spice, and everything nice!

I have two.  Just got online, looked at my stats, and found that someone was looking at a post from four years ago, a Friday Haiku for Claire the Magnificent.  Four years ago!! 2009!  Before a number of things made me come unglued altogether . . . and so here she is, still Magnificent.

Not only Magnificent but wonderful altogether, and keeping me grounded and happy.  Here's to Claire, who is almost a second grader with the ability to read "Middle Grade" books and the wisdom to know how much she enjoys that ability. My mini-me in all the very best ways. And brave, and strong, and true.  My hero!

Who is miserable now?

So while I was away from this space, the physical space around me was altered by maturing and growing children.  Hannah is headed to Kindergarten soon, totally mainstream. Claire now wears clothes sized nearly to her age, Hannah, though still stick figure skinny, could actually get out of the big toddler car seat and into a 35 pound rated booster . . . but worse than that, is the vocabulary growth.  Claire made a witty joke about the womb when she heard Hannah morph the r in room.  Granted she is all for a low grade knock-knock joke as well, but when I recently offered her a bit of my cheese toast, she, observing my fruit salad topped with whip-its delight said "my eyes are on the cream." WTF? When first she said "what the heck is going on?" I blamed her environment and heaved more than one sigh of relief that the phrase came from a wretched popular children's movie.  Last week I promptly lost all my helicopter parent cred by showing her YouTube shorts of songs from Les Mis, which she now begs for daily.  Mommy can we watch Red and Black? And then Do You Hear the People Sing? Sure I say, until I hit upon a making of the movie clip, and got stuck when the costume director explained the color choices for prostitutes coordinating with the imprisoned slaves.  Oh yeah, Mommy, nicely played.  Now explain prostitutes, slavery and metaphor.  When I told Claire that Fantine sold her body I said she sold her hair and her . . . teeth.  True!  She did!  And some other stuff.  And then I had to decide that I wasn't ready to show them Les Mis yet. I don't know which character she would emulate (Javert?) but I don't want to find out.

WTF Wednesday: If she could see or use her hands she might kill me for this

My aging mother is aging out, and on an exit plan now, I am afraid.  She won't be with us much longer.  I was tucking her in at the nursing home and as she slept I noticed this heart shaped age spot.  Like everyone she had good fortune and bad in her 83 years, but I think this is proof positive that her life was marked by love - she was madly in love with my father, and after a few years of painful loneliness when she was widowed with three young children, she had the great good luck to have met my stepfather, who has loved her well for what will be 40 years come July, if that anniversary comes.  Not everyone gets one great love, but my mom got two.  Love leaves it mark, always and indelibly. 

Hello from the land of running in place, borrowing from Peter to pay Paul, and sucking at life

I must have 5 posts in the works, ready to go when I manage to upload photos of videos from the new iPad but someone how the "git 'er done!" phase just never comes to pass.  Why is that?  Is it the old folks in the nursing home?  Is it answering Claire's questions like why doesn't Grandma turn her head  (because she stopped doing it and now she can't)?  Is it getting too distracted with delight and laughter when Hannah says things like "that is stinky, indeed!"  I thought February would bring a modicum of peace and at least a less frenzied pace and I was wrong, on all accounts.  My husband thinks I am nuts to put Hannah (and Claire, obviously) in swimming lessons if it means he has to get up on Saturday, no matter how many times I tell him that the use of her hand starts in the strength of her shoulder and getting her to a full stroke in swimming would be huge in PT and OT ways.  And I still have to combat the badness of my cute idea as a baby to let her play with receipts from all my shopping because she would crunch them in both hands and stuff them in the bag and tear them and so on - only to find out all that register paper is loaded with BPA.  After carefully putting my breastmilk in BPA free bottles she will still get breasts at age 8 because I gave her receipts to use to stimulate her hand.  Best OT tip of the week - buy half price Valentines for next year, and to play with this year so you can more half price sets to get the child tearing things apart at the perforations, and hanging window clings.  (but don't say crap to me if they were all made from melamine eating child slaves in China)

One last thing to say before bed, besides that I don't know anything about the Oscars because I only saw 5 kids movies all year and Puss in Boots and Harry Potter were snubbed, so I skipped an Oscars party to stay home, read to the girls and bedgthem to wear clothes, and work a pile of files from work . . .  are you ready . . . . are you sure . . . .Girl Scout cookies are in on Monday! 

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

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.

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

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. 

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

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

"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.