OCD and me...

I have never been diagnosed as having OCD (or CDO, as the joke runs, which is the "correct" order for the letters), but that doesn't mean I haven't struggled with obsessive-compulsive behaviors throughout the years.

Three was my special number. Everything had to be done in sets of three. If I closed a door, I had to push on it three times rapidly, then repeating twice more for a total of nine pushes to make sure it was closed. If I entered a bathroom, I had to check three times, times three, behind the shower curtain to make sure no one was hiding back there. (Someone was hiding there once, hence my fear that someone would do it again.) If I drank a cup of water, I actually varied it a bit. I took three gulps that I swallowed in three swallows each, then took one last big gulp to drain the glass. I did not intentionally have three children just to follow the rule of three, but I suppose it's amusing to wonder if my subconscious had any say in that matter.

I counted everything, even when I was pretending I wasn't. The number of steps somewhere. The number of times I cracked my thumbs. The number of times I checked to make sure my alarm was set for the next day (another set of three times three). No one ever asked me about my obsessive counting, so I presume either they didn't realize it or thought I wasn't worth the effort it would have taken to form the question.

Eventually, I realized my constant counting and repetitive actions were not healthy or "normal." I somehow trained myself to not count, almost as if I was proving to myself that the world would still exist if I stopped. Trust me when I say it does actually feel as if calamity will befall any situation where I would normally count, but didn't. Eventually, I was able to get myself to stop counting all of those repetitions, although I still wind up checking to make sure a door is closed or locked more than once. I still peek at the alarm clock to make sure it is set when I know I just checked moments before and will check again later, too. I simply don't know how many times I check these days. That's got to be an improvement, right?

Anyway, I just kind of chalk this up as "normal for me" behavior, and figure if it bothers anyone else, that's their problem.

Today, I started reading a free eReader book. It's a murder mystery, specifically a thriller. I'm not normally interested in thrillers, despite my love of the mystery genre. What is intriguing me today is that the accused murderess (who I presume will later be found innocent, though I haven't read that far yet) has a severe case of OCD. Her magic number is twenty. In this book (Hostile Witness, by Rebecca Forster, in case anyone is curious), at least at the point I am up to, that character is trying to train herself to do fewer repetitions, much like I did when I was about her age.

It was a weird thing to read from the standpoint of someone who has been there, done that. Granted, this character appears to have a heck of a lot more mental issues and much less of a stable household than I had. Her OCD behaviors were extremely noticeable, and the descriptions made me wonder whether the author knows someone like that, or perhaps even lives it herself. (Or, as my stickler of a husband pointed out, perhaps it is merely the author's means to illustrate the extent of the character's compulsions.)

It made me wonder why no one ever asked me about things that must have been glaringly obvious. Or were they not obvious because I felt it was shameful and something to hide? It's not really fair to ask people who knew me then. Heck, it was about twenty years ago, and I know I struggle to even remember what I had for breakfast five minutes after I ate it some days. Why bother asking about something irrelevant that happened decades ago?

I do know I will have to finish this book, probably tonight before I am able to sleep. That's another compulsion that still gets me. If I start a book, I have to finish it immediately, if not sooner. I've had to tell my husband to get rid of books my well-meaning next-door neighbor has brought over for me once she's done with them, because I feel trapped by having to read all of them right away. (That's a bit of a shame, since my neighbor also loves the types of mysteries that are right up my alley.) I am really, truly hoping this OCD character is innocent and also able to overcome her compulsions. Heck, if I could overcome my own counting compulsions (for the most part), then so can a fictional character, dang it.

Timing is everything...

A few weeks ago, I had made up a bunch of my usual allergy-safe chocolate chip cookies. Not wanting to gain back the weight I'd lost after I stopped stuffing my face with Christmas cookies, I managed to give most of those chocolate chip goodies away. Hey, I still fit into my pants, so I know I didn't eat nearly as many as I wanted to eat.

Due to a promise I made to a friend of ours, I had taken two dozen of those delectable creations and frozen them until my husband would have the chance to bring it to him. The two work for the same company, so it was easier to make the arrangements that way. Unfortunately, they have not seen each other in ages in order to set up a time to pass off the cookies.

Today, I decided enough was enough. A few weeks was long enough to suffer with the knowledge that there was chocolate in my house. I decided I would ask my husband to purchase some new allergy-safe chocolate chips this weekend, and I would simply bake our friend's family some new cookies when I had the chance.

I sent my husband a quick text message to let him know I had gotten into the frozen confections. His reply let me know he had just today talked to our friend and made arrangements to hand off the cookies. Oops.

Oh, well. At least I didn't eat all of them. I'm still hoping I can convince my husband to purchase some more chocolate chips sometime soon. Darned if I'll promise to give anyone a certain number of cookies ever again though!

A post-lunch Rooster...

Yesterday, after lunch, Rooster grabbed her bucket (a dishpan we keep in her room at all times due to the fickleness of her belly and my desire to make it easy to clean up if she pukes) and headed to the bathroom. She was sobbing that her lower belly felt "really yucky."

After about ten minutes of absolutely nothing happening, she said she felt fine, and that was that. She ate fine the rest of the day. She played with her siblings as if nothing had happened. We kept her on a normal diet, figuring that if she was getting the stomach virus that had hit our household, we'd prefer to know before she went to bed for the night. (Cleaning up pukey sheets at two o'clock in the morning is not one of my preferred activities.) For all intents and purposes, she was fine.

Fast-forward to today. Rooster woke up fine, acted fine all morning, then had the same lunch she did yesterday (Sun-butter on her usual bread and an apple on the side). Shortly after lunch, she grabbed her bucket again and high-tailed it to the bathroom. She once again had about ten minutes of saying her belly felt "yucky" without anything happening. She's been fine ever since.

Pig and I are totally baffled.

Was the sandwich contaminated with anything to which she is allergic? Did she eat lunch too soon after her morning snack? Was it the new vitamin D drops we just started her on a few days ago? (Recent bloodwork showed she was vitamin D deficient. As per her gastroenterologist, we found a supplement for her to try.) Is she actually dealing with an extremely mild version of the stomach virus? If so, then why did it occur at only that same time on both days? Is it because she had eaten a single grape a day for a couple of days before then? Lower tummy issues might be connected to something she ate a day or two prior, and grapes in the past have been noted as potentially bothering her belly.

I truly hate belly issues with kidlets, especially with a kidlet who has such a fickle belly.

So we're going to try and figure out how to make this recurring tummy pain go away. She did not have a grape today or yesterday, so those few grapes should, in theory, be out of her system by now. We shall skip Rooster's vitamin D tomorrow morning and send her to school with the same exact lunch as these past two days. We shall let the school nurse know how Rooster's been reacting. We shall wait and see. I hate waiting to find out if there is a connection, but I really don't know what else to do.

I just want my daughter to feel fine twenty-four hours a day. Is this too much to ask?

Is today really "happy"?

"Happy Memorial Day, everyone!" I do not think I will ever understand that quote. Today does not strike me as "happy" when remembering those men and women who died in the service of our country. Then again, I'm not one to attend a funeral and kick up my heels.

I doubt those who currently serve in the Armed Forces would consider today a happy day either, although I cannot speak for them in that regard. Many of them are still mourning those with whom they served. I imagine that a number of them are wondering if their own lives will be remembered on some Memorial Day in the future. That is a sobering thought.

Memorial Day is to remember and honor those who lost their lives. They died. It is irrelevant whether or not we agreed with their reasons for enlisting. It does not matter whether we thought the national policies behind their wars were acceptable or atrocious. Heck, it does not even matter whether those members of the Armed forces were horrible excuses for human beings or the most outstanding, morally upright people who ever walked the face of this earth. All of that is irrelevant. Those men and women gave their lives in the service of our country. They gave the ultimate sacrifice so that those of us left behind could have our barbecues, pool parties, and beach trips this weekend.

I am grateful for those men and women. I am honored to be joining our country in remembering those who gave their lives to protect ideals they may not have even followed. I feel shamed that so many of our veterans, many of whom are still young enough to get carded, are suffering so much these days. (A number of sources I have seen state that on average, eighteen veterans commit suicide every day. My heart just breaks when I hear that people who have put their lives on the line are not being offered the services they need to cope with everything they have seen, heard, and experienced during their years of service.)

Is this a happy day? No, I really do not think it is. I believe it is a day for reflection and gratitude. To those members of the Armed Forces who are currently serving our country, and to those Veterans who have retired from active service, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. To those men and women who never came back, who gave up their lives in the service of our country, I offer you my most sincere thanks and the promise that I will teach my children about why Memorial Day exists. You shall not be forgotten.

Neverending caulking...

My bathroom and I have a love/hate relationship with one another. I love that it's been redone, but I hate how it still demands that I fix things that should, in my opinion, not need fixing. The battle over the bathtub caulk has been annoying me for a good long while now, and I'm starting to think this is a battle I am never going to win.

I have caulked my bathtub more times than I can count. Granted, several of those times occurred before we had our bathroom redone. The hideously ugly pink tiles (circa 1950) that graced the walls hid an abundance of mildew that continuously grew up and out through the caulk. Every time this happened, I would scrape it all out, bleach like crazy, then re-caulk. After a while, my husband convinced me the problem was further in the walls than I could bleach, so I gave up the fight. Shortly thereafter, we had the bathroom redone. I'm going to count that as a win against the mildew, even if I had nothing to do with it.

I loved our new bathroom. It looked fantastic. I was scrubbing it down far more often than necessary simply because I wanted to keep that "shiny new bathroom" feel to it. Then I started noticing the telltale mildew signs in the caulk once more. Further investigation revealed that two layers of caulk had been installed by our contractor, and the two layers did not fully overlap. There were several bubbled gaps where you could still see caulk, but you were really seeing the bottom layer. The top layer was not covering the lower level. Water got between the layers and spawned mildew. I was not amused.

After several attempts at bleaching out the little bubbles of mildew, I realized that it was fully into the caulk and it was never going to get better. I chose to scrape out the caulk and redo it so that it would not go into the walls like we had in the old bathroom setup. What I neglected to do, apparently, was put bleach into the wall underneath where the caulk was, so it came back. (Note to self: Vinegar does not kill mildew the same way that bleach does. So much for that attempt at disinfecting the area behind the caulk.)

So here I am again, trying to redo the caulk in the bathroom. I redid it last weekend, waited the twenty-four hours listed on the container before exposing it to moisture, and discovered it still had not cured. Okay, fine. So I waited three days after my next attempt, just to be sure. It seemed fine for a couple of days, then started melting away again last night. I spent this morning scraping out the still-wet caulk, cleaning the area, letting it dry out, and re-caulking only to have my son's shower wet it once more. (I did put up plastic to prevent it from getting wet, but he was encouraging the plastic to billow upwards at him, so the water splashed up from underneath.

Caulking is rapidly turning into a daily occurrence around here. I'm ready to throw in the figurative towel. It's unbelievable that I'm losing a battle with an inanimate object whose sole role in life is to get dry.

Four more days...

In four more days, I will have been blogging for a year. I know that no balloons will fall from the sky, no doves will be released, and no one is going to put my photo on a big banner to celebrate this year. I'm okay with that. I wouldn't mind a celebratory piece of chocolate, but that's about the extent of my partying over something that exists solely in cyberspace.

Contemplating this year, I've come to realize that I'm often completely baffled about what subjects should be discussed in this blog. Most of my readers are friends and family members, which means I need to be cautious about mentioning interactions with any of them. What I might consider to be an amusing story might actually hurt someone's feelings, and my friends and family all know where I live to hunt me down and make me pay. I'd rather not risk that. I figure I can get away with kidlet-based stories because my kidlets don't read my blog. (And it will stay that way as long as I can manage it!)

There are days when I find myself writing a blanket letter to a random group of people, insane drivers being my most common target, because it's easier for me to imagine actually talking down to them instead of being blatantly ignored by them. Yes, I am aware that some people mock those of us who write "letters" like that. No, I am not overly concerned with their distaste over such a style of writing. Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, no matter how wrong they might be.

Ultimately, I'm selfish. I want to write about subjects that interest me, and I want to know anyone who reads my words will agree completely with me, even if I say the moon is made out of eggplant and artichokes. (You mean it's not? Oh, right. Blue cheese. Sorry. My bad.)

The subjects that concern me the most never show up here at all. I refuse to write about them. (Family and friends know where I live, remember?) There are days when I am sitting in front of my laptop, fingers poised over the keys, and I am physically unable to come up with an idea to write about that does not touch upon a subject that I am trying to protect. I am vaguely amused that what is supposed to be a picture of my life as a stay-at-home mother looks more like a puzzle in which half of the pieces are lost behind the couch somewhere.

Regardless, they are my puzzle pieces that are missing, my written ideas that are going to be contemplated, and my kidlets who are going to one day throw a conniption because Mom was crass enough to write about why they got the nickname of "Farticus." (Actually, I think that one is fairly easy to guess without explanations.) This is ultimately still life as I know it, and I am looking forward to a new year of blogging ahead of me.

So much for a six-day weekend stay-cation...

The past couple of days have been exhausting, both emotionally and physically. This led to me not blogging during them, so for the two of you who actually read this, I offer up my apologies. Sorry, but life happens.

To summarize those past two days, well, I was pretty darn tired from not sleeping while my husband suffered from a stomach bug that hit him Tuesday morning, which was probably what hit me late Sunday. Then we met with a new realtor last night so we could put the house back on the market. The sign went up this afternoon, just an hour or so before my son proved he had contracted the stomach bug.

I hope the realtor washed his hands thoroughly after he left here last night.

At the moment, my son is resting and I am trying to calm down my own stomach. Every time someone in my family gets sick, I feel quite ill, too. So if I don't blog on here for a few more days, please note it is because this stupid virus still has not run its course through our family...and I hope my daughters manage to avoid contracting it, dang it!

Wish us luck...

That's one reason to have to reschedule...

My long-suffering husband apparently did not really want to have to meet with a new realtor tonight. In fact, he went out of his way to contract a stomach bug in order to avoid having that meeting altogether.

The nerve of some people.

I mean, he could have just told me he wanted to reschedule. He could have "forgotten" to schedule the appointment in the first place. Instead, he chose to be miserably ill for most of today. Heck, at one point, I almost called for an ambulance for him. I really don't know what he was thinking.

Seriously though, I'm sure my husband would have preferred to be healthy and take that first step towards getting our house back on the market. I know I would have preferred him healthy regardless of whether or not we had plans. Besides, if I'm going to have him home from work, I don't want it to be because of a stomach bug! Stupid viruses.

Actually, that's not really fair to the viruses. Those suckers must be pretty darn smart to survive and take out so many people in a given population.

This particular virus, according to the school nurse, appears to be targeting the adults in the community. The kidlets might have a stomacheache that comes and goes, but the adults get the full-out can't (or shouldn't) eat for forty-eight hours, vomitting, diarrhea, or both. What kind of sick and twisted virus wants the adults to be miserable while the kidlets run amok and spread the virus all over the place? Truth be told, I'm actually praying that holds true for our family. If Rooster gets a stomach bug, it takes her about a month to get back to normal. I really hope my kidlets stay healthy.

Besides, we have a new appointment with a realtor to try and keep. Let's hope no one else wants us to cancel that appointment as much as my husband did!

An open letter to any woman about to give birth...

Dear Mommy-to-be,

May your water break only in a location that makes it easy for someone else to clean up. And may you have someone on hand to do that task.

May your labor be long enough for your birthing partner to join you, but short enough that it doesn't seem like it will go on forever. I promise you that no birth takes forever. It just might seem like it at the time.

May you and your little one(s) remain healthy throughout your birthing experience. And if problems should arise, may the correct people be there to help you through it.

May the anesthesiologist arrive with plenty of time to spare so that you don't feel like murdering that extremely late son-of-a-motherless-goat upon his or her arrival. And if you choose to not have any medicine to help ease your pain, may you be able to relax enough that you don't tire yourself out too quickly.

May you never feel tempted to throttle the zillions of people who keep checking to see how far dilated you are.

May you have a kind and supportive group of people surrounding you. And if you send them all away from you because they are driving you crazy, may you enjoy whatever solace you are able to find.

May you be able to forget any and all birthing horror stories that well-meaning sick and twisted individuals have inflicted upon you in the weeks preceding your own delivery.

May your birthing partner not eat anything delicious in front of you while you are not allowed to eat anything more than ice chips. You have my permission to kick them out of the room for such an offense.

May no one on hand speak in a patronizing tone as if this is an everyday occurrence. Your little angel will only be born once. It's irrelevant if this is the twentieth baby they've seen enter this world since their shift started.

May you not accidentally flash an unsuspecting member of the janitorial staff. And know that if you do, you certainly weren't the first to do so, nor will you be the last.

May you need few, if any stitches. And if you should need enough that you feel you are starting to look like Frankenstein's monster, may they heal quickly, smoothly, and with little-to-no scar tissue.

May your birthing partner not pass out upon seeing the placenta. Come to think of it, let there be no passing out or panicking for any of the ickiness that is affiliated with the birth of a child. This especially holds true for your doctor or midwife.

May you have enough energy left over to hold your precious new bundle once the hard part is over.

May any hospital bills not start appearing until after your baby lets you sleep through the night regularly.

And last, but certainly not least, may the two of you have many happy, healthy years together.

May God bless you as you take this next step on this rollercoaster ride that is parenthood.

Sincerely,

Murphy Brawn

To sell with a given realtor, or not to sell. That is the question...

Well, tomorrow's the big day to panic...or not. I guess it depends on how it all goes. We're having a new realtor over to take a look at the house to see what he suggests in terms of putting the house back on the market.

Theoretically, he might tell us to list the house at less than what we paid for it. Sorry, but we can't do that. We need to at least break even in order to go ahead with purchasing a larger, more expensive house with a better interest rate. It's a great time to buy, to be sure. It's not the best time to want to sell.
Even if we get what we paid for the house, we're still down a ton of money that we put into it over the past decade. So much for "Redo your bathroom. You will totally make that money back when you sell!" Yeah, sure we will.

Well, at least we don't have to sell. We want to sell. That gives us a little bit of leeway, and a heck of a lot more power than many sellers have these days. This is what I keep telling myself. I'm not sure if I believe me yet.

Tomorrow evening, we will be meeting with a realtor who did actually show our house to a client when we had been on the market last year. Our realtor at the time almost drove me crazy (well, crazier than normal) with his hyper commentary on how good this guy was. Our realtor embarrassed the heck out of me by telling me he had called and left a zillion messages on this other guy's cell phone to hear what the client thought. Obviously, that client did not buy our house. I can't say I blame that realtor for not showing any other clients our house after being hounded almost to death by our realtor. We'll see tomorrow if he will make a good match with us when it comes to him putting our house back on the market.

Worse case scenario, we leave tomorrow night's meeting with mutually veiled hostility. Best case scenario, we sign with him. Only time will tell. Wish us luck.

Does it still count as electronic babysitting when it's the adults who want to use the electronic stuff?

On weekends, it's apparent we want nothing more than to plunk ourselves down, turn on the electronic equipment (T.V., Wii, laptop, etc.), and rot our brains.

Unfortunately, we're the grownups, so that's not always possible.

Take today, for example. Both Pig and I wanted nothing more than to sit at our laptops and play the silly online game to which we are addicted. What we did, however, was tons of chores and errands. Pig took Rooster to get bloodwork done while I scoured the bathtub and scraped out the mildewed caulk. I took Horse and Pig Jr. to Horse's piano lesson and worked with Pig Jr. to complete his (sadly overdue) thank-you cards for his birthday gifts. While we were out, Pig fed Rooster lunch, then ran out with her to deposit some checks in the bank and head to a store to pick up new caulk for me to use this afternoon. We arrived home before they did, so I fed the three of us lunch by the time the two of them made it home. Then I bleached the bathtub yet again (I really don't like mildew growing up from behind the caulk, which was the reason I needed to re-caulk the stupid tub in the first place. No amount of regular bathroom cleaning makes that look pretty.) before going into the kitchen to do the breakfast and lunch dishes which had piled up during our various tasks. Pig went out to do yardwork while I caulked the now-dry bathtub.

I would have much preferred to play my stupid game. I'm sure Pig would have, too. But we didn't, at least not while there were chores to be done.

The kidlets probably would have wanted to sit and watch movies all day, or to play on their electronic gadget of choice. Instead, they made up these crazy story lines and ran around talking about spies, secret codes, and having to hold meetings to discuss their findings. They dropped these games the second Pig decided to take a break and fight some monsters on a Wii game.

So here we are now, all five of us enthralled by something electronic. The kidlets are all watching Pig play on the Wii while I clown around on the computer. (To be fair to me, I am in the kitchen making dinner right now, too. Mommies always have to multitask. Daddies...not so much.) It's been a long day, so I think we all are happy to be messing around with technology.

Neither Pig nor I have needed a babysitter in decades, but I find it odd that we're thrilled to accept an electronic one.

A season finale, complete with eye-rolling by yours truly...

I made the mistake of watching a season finale online today. It was for a television show that had interested me for a few weeks now. Turns out, it was quite enlightening, but not for the reasons I thought.

Instead of watching a TV show, I entertained myself with pointing out all of the errors the characters made when they should have known better. In theory, some of those characters were supposed to be highly intelligent. Uh-huh. Sure they were.

First of all, if a person walks into a room where they find somebody with a weapon sticking out of their bleeding wounds, they always seem to pull the weapon out, get their fingerprints on it, then watch them bleed to death from the artery they've just unleashed. Whatever happened to calling 9-1-1, trying to keep the person calm, and keeping whatever has impaled them in them so that whole bleed-out thing doesn't happen? Besides, you can do more damage pulling that sucker out than leaving it in, so unless the person on the other end of the 9-1-1 call tells you to remove it, don't!

Secondly, if you are going to have a team of highly intelligent people supposedly steal a cell phone, you have them turn it off (or at least silence it) so people dialing that number won't be able to locate it when they are in the same room and trying to prove you stole the dang phone in the first place.

Third of all, if you are a person who does not want to be fingerprinted because that would connect you to a past you are avoiding, never, ever eat anything or drink anything provided to you by people who have the power to arrest you. They're just taking your fingerprints off the fork, cup, et cetera. And why accept a high-profile position when you're trying to avoid being located anyway? That's just asking for trouble.

Come to think of it, I had to be fingerprinted before being allowed to teach in a school district back in the pre-kidlet days. A lot of different jobs seem to require fingerprinting. Do lawyers have to ever be fingerprinted? Because if so, those writers really need to do some more research. Either that, or they have to have a really clever workaround for how their lawyer managed to avoid being fingerprinted. Given their lawyer forgot to not touch a murder weapon and foods offered by the police, I'd say she's not bright enough to avoid the whole fingerprinting thing in the first place.

Also, it is not a good idea to try and clean up a crime scene to prevent anyone from realizing you were there. It is always better to contact the proper authorities, or the actual murderer will, well, get away with murder because you've eliminated all of the evidence. And when you get caught, because you will get caught, then you look guilty. Technically, you are guilty. You've tampered with evidence. However, you'll look like you are guilty of murder. Of course, on television, you will likely get away with that crime even when police know you did it. In real life, I'd like to think you'd get in trouble.

I also found it odd that someone highly intelligent and well-versed in law would make someone promise something in a manner that allowed for all sorts of loopholes. I mean seriously. "I promise not to murder so-and-so." Any fool can tell the first thing that person is going to do is find someone else to do the murdering.

Despite all of those eye-rolling moments when I wondered what the writers were thinking, I did enjoy that season finale. Either my standards are slipping or the story line was more interesting than I'd like to admit.

Kidlets and shoe shopping

I have learned the hard way. I have taken my kidlets to shoe stores that are known for, shall we say, their affordability. Note to self: There's a reason those shoes are cheap. You get what you pay for, and in this case, that's certainly not much!

In the past, when going to a store I shall dub "Cheapskates," we have received less than stellar service. The one employee visible in the store is running him- or herself ragged darting from one group of customers to another and then up to the register. Invariably, when I make the request for the employee to check what size my kidlets need, it is done improperly.

Cheapskates employees always ignore widths, and make up an answer without checking when asked. In one case, we were told Rooster absolutely did not need wide-width shoes, and at the next visit, the same employee said she absolutely needed them. Those two visits were a whole whopping two weeks apart. (One time had no sale, and the other had one of those buy one, get one sales.) It's not like my kidlet's feet suddenly expanded. We've had the employees only measure one foot occasionally, too. I seriously doubt they've had any training about how to use the silly metal tool they are using to size my kidlets' feet. Cheapskates employees also tried to convince us to purchase regular width shoes simply because they were out of stock of the wide-width ones. The key word here was "tried." With my mega-wide boat feet, I am fully aware of what happens to one's toes when one tries to cram them into shoes that are too narrow. Darned if I'm going to do that to my kidlets because someone failed to stock Cheapskates properly.

And don't get me started on the horrible choices for my kidlets. There are almost no practical shoes. Seriously, when do toddlers in a size eight shoe need to wear heels? We are lucky if we have two choices from which to select in the size we need for any given kidlet.

This morning, when Pig Jr. put on his sneakers prior to us taking his sisters to school, he said his shoes were too tight. Sure enough, they were. I had just checked his toes in them a short while ago, and he still had some room left then, so he must have hit a foot growth spurt. I decided since I had him home for a doctor's appointment today anyway, we would hit the mall on the way back home and I would splurge on some decent sneakers from "Expensive Shoes R Us."

Upon entering the store, the employee very carefully measured my son's feet, including the width. He made sure my son was standing properly on the measuring thingy and double-checked each foot's measurement. His pronouncement was that eleven wide was the size my son is currently wearing. Pig Jr. gleefully stared at all the shoes on the wall while I discussed which ones came in wide sizes. After giving him the option of five different sneaker types (Wow...choices!) from the row I selected that looked as if they would hold up to our daily walk to and from school, Pig Jr. picked one. I asked the employee to see if they had any in an eleven wide, and he suggested we look at the half-size up, to give my son's feet room to grow. Wait. Employees care about a kidlet's feet having room to grow? Huzzah!

After successfully locating the desired sneakers, the employee put them on Pig Jr. and had him stand to feel where his feet were inside the shoes. He had my son both walk and run around the store while wearing the new shoes. He sat my son down to wiggle the sneakers back and forth in all directions to see if they fit properly. He asked my son questions about how the new sneakers felt on his feet, and asked me if it looked like he was walking and running comfortably. Wait. An employee is actually trusting my opinion about my kidlet because I have spent more time watching him walk and run than he has? Bonus points to him!

I might have just shelled out fifty bucks for a pair of sneakers my son is likely to outgrow before he starts kindergarten in September, but it was worth it to receive that level of service and to know my son was being treated properly when it came to being fitted for shoes. Expensive Shoes R Us, where have you been all my life?

I foresee as many visits as possible to that store in the future.

Ten times smarter...

As I was stumbling around in my pre-caffeine stupor this morning, I overheard my daughters starting to squabble. Normally, I do not like to interfere unless I either have a headache or believe it is going to come to blows between the two of them. Neither was actually the case today, but one of the comments I overheard irked the heck out of me.

Horse informed Rooster that she (Horse) was ten times smarter than her (Rooster). Yeah, I don't think so, honey.

First of all, all three of my kidlets are quite intelligent. Granted, they each have their own strengths and weaknesses. Rooster and Horse both learned how to jump within just a few days of each other, and they are three years apart. The same happened with learning to ride their bicycles. I've also been told that Rooster is one of the smartest people around when it comes to figuring out how to demand, and receive, attention in pretty much any possible scenario. Horse was always advanced in academics. Her teachers have consistently raved about her knowledge and skills. And let's not forget about my son. Pig Jr. tested on a second grade level in math skills even though he is still in preschool.

You just cannot compare the three to each other on the same level since they have multiple years between each of them, in addition to different areas of strengths. But trust this bragging mother when I say they are all quite smart in their own ways. (And if you don't trust me on that one, then what the heck are you doing reading this blog anyway?)

Besides, if Horse thinks she is ten times smarter than her sister, perhaps I should be worrying about her math skills.

Ultimately, however smart my kidlets might be, it really boils down to the genetic hand they were dealt. Nobody has a real choice in how smart they are. Granted, there are things you can do to help you work to your potential, but ultimately it's not up to you what that potential might be. I can't even take any credit for my kidlets' DNA since I had no choice in the matter either. I got what I got, and they got what they got, and that's all there is to it.

The girls' bickering stopped when I jumped into the debate to fluff my hair in front of them. I declared I was better than everyone because my hair was such a cool shade of brown. While they snickered, I pointed out that I knew it sounded silly, especially since I had no say in my hair color. They jumped in to add other things I have no say on, such as a need to wear glasses and being a girl. I agreed, and mentioned that people have just as much say in how smart they are as they do in all those other things. They seemed to get the picture pretty quickly. Maybe that's just because they are both ten times smarter than I am...

Kindergarten Parent Orientation--Third time's the charm

I should be considered a pro by now. I've already survived going to Kindergarten Parent Orientation twice so far. I can't say I'm looking forward to my third time sitting through the same spiel, but at least I'm prepared this time. Heck, if they get stuck somewhere in their speeches, I could probably prompt them from the audience.

I know I have to show up in order to sign up my youngest for his visitation to a kindergarten classroom in June. Realistically speaking, I know the purpose of that visit is to basically evaluate the kidlets so that they do not put twenty off-the-wall, hopped-up-on-goofballs, could-not-sit-down-if-their-lives-depended-on-it kidlets all in one classroom. However, we've just gone through a pretty intense evaluation process and we know where my son will be: in an inclusion classroom with an aide (and an air conditioner!). We still have to go through this process anyway.

This time, I plan on going to this parent meeting well-prepared. Translation: I'm going to bring a book to read during the boring parts. First, if memory serves, we will have to sit through a rather boring introduction by Principal Input. That should be good for at least one chapter in my book. If Vice-Principal Input speaks, I might actually listen to her, but I'll keep the book out, just in case.

If Nurse Caring speaks, I'll drop everything to pay attention. I know her speech already. She will remind us to keep our kidlets home from school if they are sick, and tell us that kidlets this age share every single germ known to mankind. If she feels like it, she might even mention to keep a sharp eye out for head lice, since that is going around the community. Regardless of how well I know her talks, Nurse Caring has done so much for my kidlets over the past few years, I would walk through fire if it would help her. (Come to think of it, me walking through fire on school property would only add to her workload, since I am not nearly skilled enough to avoid burns. Scratch the walking through fire idea.)

I plan on reading again during the PTO's rambling plea for membership next year. Sorry, but it wasn't interesting the first two times I heard it, and I already plan on paying my dues to become a member anyway. They don't have to get me to agree to anything. In fact, the shorter their spiel, the more I would be likely to encourage other parents to join.

I seem to recall the large group splitting into four-ish smaller groups to sit with a kindergarten teacher after that and hear her spiel. I'll listen to that, particularly because it will either be the teacher I want for my son or because I will want to kiss up to the ones I'm not overly fond of just in case my son gets assigned to them. I could probably attempt to read during their discussion of the red, yellow, and green cards they use to help maintain order, but in a smaller group setting, I don't want to get in trouble. (Can they give parents a red card for not paying attention at those things?)

After that, I'll likely bolt for the door to head home. I hope they can forgive me if my eyes are glazed over at that point, but after three times of hearing the same speeches over and over again, I've hit my limit.

The dreaded IEP meeting...

I did not sleep much last night. I could not stop thinking about Pig Jr.'s IEP meeting this morning. If dread were an Olympic sport, I would have medalled in it. A number of days ago, I had received his latest evaluation from the school district, and it sounded as if he was going to lose all of the services the school currently provides. I figured this was going to be an uphill battle to fight for what Pig Jr. needs. That sort of fight was not something I looked forward to having, although I was willing to do what it takes.

Pig Jr. accompanied me to the IEP meeting after we dropped his sisters off in their respective lines outside of the school. He did not have to get dropped off for another half hour, and I figured that would give me an excuse to leave the dreaded meeting by 8:30AM. Besides, I was more likely to control myself and keep things at least civil if my kidlet was by my side. We do try to run a G-rated household.

The first thing I was asked was whether or not I had any questions regarding Pig Jr.'s evaluation. Why, yes. Yes, I do. "It sounded like my son was not going to receive speech services next year. While I am glad his speech has improved, plenty of people still cannot understand him. What are we going to do to help out his language skills if he isn't going to have speech?" Trust me when I say this is far more tactful than what I wanted to say, which was, "What kind of freaking morons are you to take away his speech services, when plenty of school employees have stated on the record that they have difficulties understanding him in casual conversations?!?"

See? It helps to have a five-year-old witness present.

Anyway, they immediately told me they were going to let me off the hook with my worries. They were not taking my son off speech services, nor were they going to de-classify him. After listening to them for a few minutes, it dawned on me that we were getting pretty much the absolute best outcome for my son's transition to kindergarten.

First, Pig Jr. will be in an inclusion classroom with both a teacher and an aide. That extra pair of eyes will be helpful for when my son freezes up and can't move or say what is bothering him. (That supposedly happened just last week. The aide in his preschool classroom saw him standing frozen in place, with tears pouring down his cheeks. His teacher pulled him aside to try and talk with him about what was bothering him, but she implied she did not think he fully "got" what she was telling him about ways to address the incident which set him off.)

I mentioned that I hope my son gets a particular teacher because I know she is calm and doesn't yell (which is important for Pig Jr. with his sensory issues), and they said they would pass along that request, although there are no guarantees. I'm keeping my fingers crossed on that aspect of his class assignment for next year.

Secondly, after a query on my part, they wrote into his IEP that Pig Jr.'s parents were requesting an air conditioned room for him due to medical reasons. I know the school nurse will back me up on this one. She's had to give him nebulizer treatments and monitor his wheezing already. If push comes to shove, his pediatrician will likely back me up, too, since she is the one that has prescribed those breathing treatments, nasal sprays, steroids, and other related medicines in the first place.

Thirdly, my son still qualifies for the Extended School Year (ESY) program. This means he will once again attend school through the end of July, which means there will be less of a break for him to potentially undo everything about his routine that he knows and understands. There will be less of a break in services provided, too. Even better, although perhaps not for his teacher who relies on that income, the ESY days are only Monday through Thursday this summer, so we can actually still do things as a family during the week when the crowds aren't as bad.

And finally, my son will be monitored by the school's speech teacher, who will observe him in his classroom setting and discuss his progress with his teacher to see if further services are required. She also agreed to communicate with me monthly so I am kept appraised of Pig Jr.'s progress, or lack thereof. It is much easier to add on services this way, rather than to take them completely away and have to wait a year or more, fight like crazy, and eventually get the necessary services after far too long without them.

Perhaps best of all, my son's case manager kept reiterating how extremely intelligent my son is. What parent wouldn't like to hear that? She flat-out said he was so intelligent that he was able to answer questions she has never had another student able to answer. Even the speech teacher and Pig Jr.'s preschool teacher agreed that my son was incredibly intelligent. They also added that he was a joy to work with. (Except pretend I ended that sentence without a preposition. It does not bode well for my desire to claim that it was my genes that made him so smart when I cannot even figure out how to rephrase one simple sentence to end it properly. Dang it.)

What I thought was going to be a miserable start to an insanely long battle with the school district turned into a lovely meeting, where I pretty much got everything I wanted for my son. I feel like I can finally breathe again.

Our special day...

Some of us wanted to be one for as long as we can remember. Others had no such plans, but became one anyway.

Some of us tried to become one for many years, with countless losses or "failures" along the way, while others became one easily or even accidentally. Some are still trying desperately to join the club. Some of us became one by adoption or court order. Others became one due to the death of a loved one or friend. Some of us became one through marriage. Some of us have no stinkin' clue how it happened, but here we are anyway.

Some of us never had the chance to ever hold the small miracle that made us one. Some have made the excruciating decision to not raise that miracle because we knew it was not the best thing for him or her. Others have been forced into that decision against their will.

Some of us helped make someone one, whether that was intentionally or accidentally. All of us were the reason someone become one, whether it was for the first time or the nineteenth.

Some of us never met ours. We may or may not have had someone step in to take her place. Some of us wish we had been able to spend more time with ours. Others wish we had spent less with them, or had more healthy relationships.

We have cried tears of joy for those little miracles in our lives. We have cried tears of sorrow at their loss. We have cried tears of frustration when we absolutely have no idea what the heck we are supposed to be doing now that we're here. We have cried tears of amazement, both good and bad, over things they have done. We have wished we could cry when we were overcome on their behalf.

Some of us know instinctively exactly what to do in each and every situation. Others have absolutely no clue, and it shows. Most of us struggle with our actions and decisions from time to time.

Some of us get to celebrate our special day while surrounded by our offspring. Some prefer to spend their special day alone, relaxing or doing anything that just is not possible with little ones to "help." Others are separated involuntarily by distance, estrangement, the walls of a jail cell, or even death. Some of us do not wish to celebrate at all, while others throw massive family parties.

For all of my fellow mothers out there, whether it was biologically or because we stepped in to fill the role, today is your day. May it be blessed. For all of us who have mothers, good or bad, living or dead, known or unknown, today is also your day. May you find peace with your situation.

Happy Mother's Day, everyone!

White roses...

A few days ago, my husband asked me for ideas for what I might like for Mother's Day. I rambled off a few totally off-the-wall ideas which all cost far more money than we have in our current budget. Granted, they were all things I would love to have some day. I just wasn't expecting any of them to happen. To be fair to my spouse, however, I added a few practical ideas, too. (Nobody pick on my hubby if he gives me one of those phone rest thingies so you can talk on the phone and rest the phone on your shoulder without killing your neck. That was something I actually said I wanted.) I also threw out a few ideas that may or may not fit into our budget, such as white roses.

I absolutely love white roses. They are my favorite type of flower. I prefer them in the smaller, teacup version, but adore them no matter how large or small. It has been years since I have been gifted with white roses, mostly because they do not come cheap.

This morning, my husband asked if he could run out to the grocery store to pick up some vegetables since we were running low. Our middle kidlet went with him, thus leaving me home alone with the two kidlets who actually don't want my constant attention. I decided that I could sneak in a nap before I had to head out for my elder daughter's piano lesson.

I had just fallen asleep when I felt a kidlet's presence near me. Keeping my eyes closed, I listened intently to see if I was needed or if said kidlet was trying to figure out if I was still asleep. A moment later, I heard a weird crinkly sound. I opened my eyes, and my middle kidlet thrust a bouquet of white roses in my face.

My husband wanted to make sure I knew he did not blow the budget on those flowers, so he assured me he only purchased them because they were on sale, and that he knew they didn't live up to his standards. Be still my heart with all that sweet romantic talk. Feel free to roll your eyes. I know I did.

I did thank my husband for the flowers, laughed my fool head off over his admission of buying "cheap" flowers, then told him that the two things in life you never, ever skimp on are jewelry and flowers. I would prefer to not have flowers for years at a time, then have an absolutely stunning bunch rather than getting them more frequently and having them look wilted and miserable by the next morning. That being said, I still love my gifted white roses, even if they were on sale.

After lunch, my husband took all three kidlets out to figure out what to get me for Mother's Day. (I know. It's last minute. To be fair to my husband, the past few weekends have been absolutely packed with things to do, and he's gone for twelve hours a day at work during the week and comes home beat. I don't want him driving after such long days if he doesn't have to do so.) After switching laundry, goofing around on the computer, and doing the dishes, I figured I would once again attempt to take that nap.

I had just started to drift off to sleep when I heard the key in the door. I kept my eyes closed in the off-chance I could fool them into thinking I was sleeping, but I once more felt their presence near me. I sighed and opened my eyes, resigned to the fact that a nap was just not in the cards today.

Two kidlets each had a bouquet of flowers for me in their arms, with two different types of white teacup roses as the dominant flower. My husband, coming into the living room behind them, informed me he made darn sure to not worry about the price of those flowers!

My three kidlets each gave me my favorite type of flower as an early Mother's Day gift, and each of those different white rose types is as beautiful and different from one another as my offspring are.

Dreading Monday and it's only Friday...

My son's IEP meeting is Monday morning. I know going into it that it will be pretty dang ugly. They say he does not qualify for any speech services any more. I think it's odd that the only person who does not find his speech to be difficult to understand is the one who evaluated him. However, the only real thing I can do is fight their decision.

I swing back and forth between gearing up for a long, drawn-out battle which I am convinced I will ultimately win, and wondering whether I should just save my energy instead of stressing myself out over a battle I am sure to lose.

It's not enough to get ready for a meeting. I apparently have to play mind games with myself now, too.

I honestly do not know if there is any possible outcome that will make me happy with how well they help my son. I am presuming he will be thrown to the wolves in a kindergarten class with no aide (an extra pair of hands and eyes are necessary for when my son just freezes and doesn't know what to do next, or shuts down emotionally), no air conditioning (his allergies trigger his reactive airways and he spends far too much time coughing, congested, and wheezing), a teacher who firmly believes in shouting all the time (which is horrible in general, and even worse for a kid who has auditory sensitivities), and absolutely no speech services whatsoever. I know none of that is good for my son. I really hope the Special Services team feels the same way that I do. I doubt they will though.

Ultimately, if being considered a "normal" kid is the worst thing that could happen, it's not the end of the world. I just want my son to feel comfortable in school even if he never truly likes it. Setting him up for failure starting in kindergarten does not bode well. I have to fight for my son.

A little warning, please!

Kidlets never give their parents advanced notice of anything. It's either last minute notice or nothing. Right now, any parent reading this is probably nodding their head because they just had to go buy something their kidlet needed for school today and just told them about over breakfast.

Today, I went in to the bathroom to turn on the shower for Rooster, only to be informed she had no more underwear. First of all, I washed all of the clothes a week ago or less, depending on the type of laundry. Secondly, the girl owns at least ten pairs of underwear. While I was mumbling some nasty things under my breath while putting it all in the washing machine shortly thereafter, I counted at least sixteen pairs. Sixteen. How on earth does a seven-year-old girl go through sixteen pairs of underwear in approximately five days?

While I appreciate the fact that my daughter wanted only clean clothing to go on her body, I certainly do not like having to start laundry late in the afternoon after a long day. My general plan is to make sure the last load of laundry goes into the washer before I go pick the kidlets up from school. So much for that plan today.

I'm thinking that my next trip to the store is going to entail purchasing at least ten more pairs of underwear for my kidlet. Maybe this way, I can wash that load of laundry only once a week.

An hour of human interaction...

As a stay-at-home mom, I am sometimes quite desperate for human interaction. Doing laundry and cleaning the house just does not count as having a social life while the kidlets are off at school. Needless to say, when I saw a friend waving me over into her driveway as I walked home from dropping the kidlets off, I gladly went over to chat.

We talked about pretty much everything under the sun. We discussed kidlet health issues, the housing market, drunk drivers, furnaces, and who we've found is a decent plumber. We probably would have kept talking indefinitely had it not been for a text message my friend received after a while.

My friend's adult daughter texted her to essentially ask her to shut up and come inside to bring her some toilet paper. She was trapped in the bathroom without any. My friend smirked, told me what the message was, and then said, "So, what else would you like to talk about? I love having this kind of power!"

We both laughed, and said our good-byes. I am presuming she rescued her daughter shortly thereafter, since I did see her daughter at pickup time at school.

Upon my arrival at home, I was shocked to see that I was walking in the door an hour later than normal. It seemed as if my friend and I were only talking for a few minutes, fifteen tops. I guess that's a sign of a great conversation: the time absolutely flies.

My little faker...

I swear that my middle child will grow up to be a lawyer someday. If there is a loophole, Rooster will find it. If there is a way to fake something, she will do it. I have learned to question pretty much everything she says or does, since her words and actions tend to be misleading more often than not. This is especially true when she claims her big sister wronged her in some way. Gotta love kidlets.

In recent history, my kidlet has been on a water watch at school. Essentially, the medication she is on requires her to drink a large volume of water every day in order to work properly. Since she is not voluntarily drinking the water I send in to school with her, the school nurse has been checking up on her to make sure Rooster is staying properly hydrated.

Surprise of all surprises, Rooster has been faking it. She would keep her Thermos out on her desk and make sure the straw was often placed into her mouth. She was even basking in the praises of her teacher, the classroom aide, and the school nurse for how often they saw her sipping. However, she was not actually drinking any water.

Sure enough, after a few days of that, she started complaining about her belly feeling bloated, which is a side effect of her medicine not working. A few nights ago, I opened up her two water containers, only to discover they were both still full. My girl had not actually consumed any water at school that day. Busted!

I placed a phone call to the school nurse to let her know about my little faker. I informed Rooster that the jig was up. When I saw the school nurse today, she informed me they have already had to take the next step of weighing Rooster's Thermos to make sure she is physically consuming her water, since my daughter is already attempting to fake-sip yet again.

I figure it's only a matter of time before she learns how to unscrew the top of her container to pour out the despised liquid.

*Squish*

I was distracted on my walk to school to pick up the kidlets. I'll admit that. I was busy staring at the eyesore of a new duplex that is being constructed a block away from the school. For the life of me, I cannot fathom why a construction company would build a house of any kind on an empty lot when there are oodles of vacant houses already in our town.

It took me a while before I could tear my eyes off of that monstrosity of a new building. Sadly, what brought my attention back to my walk was a rather disgusting squish coming from underneath my left shoe. I immediately prayed that I had not just stepped in dog poop.

When no telltale smell greeted me, I dared to look down to see what I had just squashed. I thought perhaps it was someone's dropped breakfast or lunch. Every so often, I see that sort of thing on the sidewalk. It's what happens when people are trying to walk and eat at the same time, and generally while on the cell phone or texting. Unfortunately, it appears it was actually a feral cat's lunch. I could not tell what small animal it was, but it was obvious that it was no longer among the living.

I was torn between crying and puking. Thankfully, the two wound up cancelling each other out, and I walked as fast as I could away from the poor, dead creature. I've seen a dead mouse or two along that particular stretch of sidewalk, so I am assuming some cat either lives in one of the houses nearby or is a stray who prefers to play with its food rather than eat it. The remains of that tiny animal were off near the construction taking place, so I assumed it was only a matter of minutes before one of the construction vehicles would cover it up with mud.

The situation did not improve upon picking up the kidlets from school. On the walk back, a group of twenty or so kidlets stood clustered around something. This was not where I had misstepped, so I made the mistake of looking to see what was holding their attention. It was five or so baby birds that were either already dead or close to it. Someone found them on the sidewalk, not too far away from another dead bird that looked like it had been squashed, and several of the boys were trying to move them to underneath a nearby bush in the hopes it would offer them some protection.

I'm not sure what's worse: the thought that I accidentally killed a baby bird or the thought that I accidentally killed their momma bird. Instead of praying for a lack of dog poop, I find myself now praying that I was not the one who took that life. I really, truly hope it had been someone's cat who made that kill, or an accidental fall from a nest, or some such other tragedy. I feel so guilty. I'm so sorry, little birdie.

The Tooth Fairy needs more caffeine...

Rooster has had a loose tooth since approximately the dawn of time, or so it seems. Last night, Pig decided he had had enough of her wiggling the dang thing. So when he brought the kidlets in to the bathroom to brush their teeth before bed, he decided to yank the tooth out of it's spot in her mouth.

This was, coincidentally, right around the same exact time Rooster let out a scream loud enough to wake the dead and freaked herself out over the blood that came out of the new hole in her mouth. This meant that the other two kidlets were concerned (and a little queasy) over the blood, and I was biting my own tongue to not scold my husband for taking care of something that I certainly didn't want to deal with in the first place.

You'd think with all the yelling and crying and general brouhaha that occurred in my house, the Tooth Fairy would have realized that a tooth had been lost.

This morning, Rooster ran excitedly out to the tooth box where the kidlets put any lost teeth, and discovered...wait for it...her tooth. Dang it. This was the first time the Tooth Fairy has made an oops and skipped right over our house. Personally, I think she must not have consumed enough caffeine to keep her up late last night. I'm guessing she passed out, oh, not too long after the kidlets did. Call it a hunch.

At least Rooster is resilient. She promptly sat down and wrote out a note for the Tooth Fairy. The spelling and punctuation are as she wrote it:

     Dear Tooth Fairy, I had a tooth
     in the tooth fairy box redde for
     you. I hope you get it
     From.
     Rooster
     :-)

(Technically, she drew an upright smiley face under her name. I have no idea how to do such a thing on a computer.)

I have the sneaky feeling the Tooth Fairy will pay dearly for her little oops last night. I just really hope she notices Rooster's note and remembers to do her exchange. I probably should leave something caffeinated out just in case she needs it, too.

No more speech at school...

This is what I would like to write to our school district, but probably won't:

Dear School District of Mine,

I am happy to hear you finished your evaluation on my son. I received my copy in the mail yesterday. I wanted to discuss with you several concerns I have in regards to your official opinion that he no longer qualifies to receive speech services at school.

First of all, several of his evaluators put in writing that they had difficulties in understanding my child. The only one who said he was within "normal" ranges for his age was the stinkin' speech evaluator. I would like to know why my son miraculously speaks "normally" for only one specific individual.

My son's preschool teacher mentioned he has issues with his social and emotional development. He often gets upset in social situations and is unable to verbalize what is wrong. How exactly will denying him services help this situation? What are you going to do to help my child? What happens when he enters kindergarten and another child tries to hug him? We all know what my son will do. He will push the other child away. He has sensory issues. He does not want close contact with very many people. Heck, he stopped wearing his favorite "cool dude shades" because two of his friends got too close to him so they could check out their reflections in the lenses and it freaked him out. What are you as a school going to do to help my son in these situations? How are you going to help my son with his social and emotional development?

What are you going to do to address my son's preschool teacher's concern about the difficulty she foresees with a transition to kindergarten? Are you going to just throw him to the wolves and set him up for failure?

I am thrilled to read that my son's IQ is in the "Superior" range. When that gets broken down, he has two scores that are "Superior" and one that is "Very Superior." Then there is the one that is a significant drop down to "Average." Don't you find it odd that the lowest score is in the verbal area? Was his score lower because his answers could not be understood? How can you tell me that a child who is well above average in intelligence is not having difficulties with his speech when that is what his testing shows? I could not care less that the verbal score was still within normal range. It is significantly below his other areas of testing. That alone should tell you that removing his speech services will actually interfere with his academics. Why do you think that is not the case? It's already happened.

I understand that your actual speech evaluation placed my son squarely within the "normal" range for his ability to articulate words. Believe it or not, it is actually fine with me if you choose to drop him from receiving individual speech lessons. Heck, his speech teacher flat-out told me that she can't get him to say much of anything during the lessons, but then has to tell him to quiet down in the hallway walking back to class. If he's not saying anything for her, then that time is wasted anyway. However, what are you going to do to address the social and emotional issues that your own employees seem to think is hindering his ability to say anything when he is upset? Your employees brought up those concerns, not me. Clearly, they see something isn't right. Well, what will be done about this?

Let's also discuss my son's health. He has reactive airways, and when he is congested and coughing, it turns to wheezing and many sleepless nights and miserable days. I keep him home from school quite a bit. Are you going to put him in a classroom with an air conditioner so his allergies are not as bad? Are you going to put something in writing that states he has issues with wheezing? Are you going to hold him back from one grade to the next if he has a badly congested year and spends too many days at home? How are you going to address what is clearly already an issue?

And while we're on the subject of health-related issues, what will be done to address his self-inflicted dehydration? The boy hates liquids. Even as a baby, he hated water. With his sensory issues, he avoids water like the plague. However, he is on medicine that requires a lot of water in order to work properly. The school nurse is absolutely wonderful when dealing with my middle child, who also hates to drink her water. I hope the same attention is given to my son.

Please, I beg of you. Put him in with a teacher who understands sensory issues. You might not care about them, but his teacher needs to be aware that he might freeze and cover his ears if it gets too noisy. "Washing" his hands might mean he sort of got his fingertips wet, but his hands are still filthy. Certain clothing makes him miserable. He freaks out if clothing has eyes on it anywhere. God help us all if his clothing gets wet. He requires an immediate outfit change. Please put my son in a classroom where the teacher understands where he is coming from. It would just about kill him to be in a classroom where the teacher yells, requires students to be quite close together, and who forces him to put his hands in something sticky when he is already in sensory overload.

All of my concerns really boil down to one question: What will you do for my son? And don't you worry. We will be taking him to another neurodevelopmentalist this summer. Your ignorant comments about not being able to accept his diagnosis because the report was too old will no longer be an issue. Enough school employees have seen my son in action to know that something just isn't quite right. You say his speech is "normal" despite clear evidence to the contrary. Don't just ignore my son and his needs because you are trying to show that you have students improving when you are not even addressing the fact that a number of professionals have said he has problems and delays.

And in case you thought you were getting off the hook for this one, I am a stay-at-home mom with all the time in the world to research laws, talk to other professionals, and do what it takes to prove that you need to help my son. School employees can't understand him consistently. If this is not a speech issue, according to your little evaluation, then what is it?

May you one day find yourself being helped just as well as you are currently helping my son.

Sincerely,
Murphy Brawn

"Torture Pressie" from a Heart

I play an online game. I'm addicted to it, if you must know. The good news is that my husband is also addicted, so I can get away with this.

A few years ago, back when I had kidlets who napped, I enjoyed spending time in the chat channels of this game, and acted mostly as a heart. Now, as a background for those who don't know what diamonds, clubs, hearts, and spades are in terms of gaming, let me explain: Diamonds are the achievers. They really, really want to be top-dog. Clubs are competitive, and they desperately want to win against others. Hearts are the social folks. They are interested in building more of a community with others, helping each other out, and sending gifts to one another. Spades want to figure it all out. What are the statistics? What are item drop rates? Where can I find something and what does it do? This is how people in the online game that I play (Kingdom of Loathing, or KoL for short) describe the basic gamer types outlined by the Bartle Test. (http://www.gamerdna.com/quizzes/bartle-test-of-gamer-psychology) People can certainly fall into more than one category of player type.

As a heart, I found a bunch of online friends with the same sort of interests in the game. We helped each other out, chatted with one another, and a select group of them invited me to join them in going after a particularly challenging item in the game. I had a blast in this virtual world. It helped me to feel connected to others at a time when I was stuck at home and feeling quite lonely.

As the kidlets grew older, I was not able to spend nearly as much time in those chat channels. How could I when the kidlets demanded most of my attention? I did still manage to play the game every chance I got. (Addicted, remember?) Now that the kidlets are at school, and with the help of a system that can be programmed to essentially play turns for me if I run out of time, I am slowly returning to chat on occasion.

Yesterday, I had an online chat with someone I had not seen online for months. He was another heart who had worked with the group going after that tricky item years ago. We chatted about some of the new things taking place in-game, and about how close to completing our goals we've gotten since we last chatted. He wound up sending me a "torture pressie," or gift in-game that I was unable to open until I had reached a certain number of turns played. (Trust me. It's torture to not be able to open a virtual gift from someone, especially when you have no idea what might be inside the package.) I figured he had sent me one of the silly, inexpensive items we had talked about that were incredibly cheap two days before and were now getting up there in cost since a change in the game increased their significance.

Today, I hit the level of turns played that allowed me to open my virtual gift. I was astounded to discover a pretty darn rare item that had been casually mentioned in passing yesterday. I never hoped to afford one of these items because it's in-game price of around 100 million of the in-game currency (meat, in case you were curious) put it way out of my league.

In real-life, this item has no significance whatsoever. It cost somebody, possibly my friend, some money to introduce to their account in-game. That is where it's real-life significance should end, but it doesn't. You see, the real-life significance is actually what it means to me. The kind words from my friend when he sent that torture pressie and the sending of a virtual item I had longed for but never hoped to earn made me feel positively warm and fuzzy inside. Even better, I know what I would like to send him in-game as a thank-you gift, in the hopes of having him feel just as happy to know his friendship is appreciated. This is what I miss about my time in chat with my other online heart friends: doing things to make each other smile, even if there is no "real" exchange taking place.

To that wonderful person who sent me that Gygaxian Libram, you made my day, not just with such an unexpected (and expensive!) gift, but in your comments when you sent it. Thank you. I hope to see you in chat again sometime soon.

"Tomorrow"...for Pig Jr., not Annie...

Tomorrow (with apologies to Martin Charnin and Charles Strouse)

My son will turn five tomorrow,
So you have to wait until tomorrow
For some cake.
Jus' thinking about tomorrow
And my baby turning to a big boy
When I wake.
The third is his day
In May, his birthday.
And I'll lift up my chin
And grin and say,
"Oh, my son'll turn five tomorrow,
So you have to wait until tomorrow
For some cake.
Tomorrow, tomorrow,
I love him tomorrow,
And every other day."

Me: 0, Laundry: 5

Intellectually, I know that washing and drying clothes is not that complex of a chore. Theoretically, I know that folding and putting away the clean clothes only takes me about ten minutes after I bring the full laundry basket up from the laundry room. However, I will absolutely refuse to fold and put away the clothes until I have run out of empty laundry baskets.

I have no idea where I picked up this awful habit. I suspect it has something to do with three kidlets who keep me jumping so that I do not always have the required ten minutes to complete any given load of laundry.

As it stands right now, I know that I can take five complete oversized loads of laundry, wash it all, dry it all, and throw it all in laundry baskets before I run out of room and have to tackle the chore. Mathematically, I know five loads of wash times ten minutes a pop means fifty minutes of tackling this project before it will be completed. Ten minutes is so much shorter and feels like it is taking over less of my life. If I don't have ten whole minutes to work on the laundry, why on earth do I wait until I need fifty?

One of these days, I shall figure out a solution to the laundry problem. The kidlets already fold and put away their own clothes, with the exception of the items I hang up. That helps a bit, although I still have to sort everything. I prefer to not have the clean clothing dragging all over the floors, which is why the kidlets are not required to do more towards helping out with this task.

All I know is that the laundry is currently winning this battle. I wonder how long it will take for it to be a shutout and I can give up and go hide.