For someone with "mama" as part of their blog name, I tend to be increasingly reticent when it comes to actually talking about (or particularly sharing any images of) my kids. Part of that is out of respect for their privacy and dignity as small people, and part of that is a nod to my ex-husband's (ex- and largely imaginary) lawyers.
That said, sometimes a mama just has to brag.
My boys have had a banner year. Middly went from "probably going to fail first grade" to "nothing below a B in any subject within his control* in the second grade," and Little Child as y'all are aware ditched the g-tube and has continued to not just eat by mouth but GROW and TRY NEW TEXTURES AND FLAVORS. Those are goals I personally set for them at the beginning of the year, and I promised them that if they met those goals they could do ANYTHING THEY WANTED with their hair when school was out. Sometimes when one of them was really struggling, he'd try and think of a way to get me to back out first ("what if I want a mohawk that's TWO DIFFERENT COLORS?") (to which I would say "you do your end, and I'll find out where to buy the dye for it and charge up the clippers"). Therefore:
Figure One: Devastatingly handsome smiles of sheer unbridled glee not pictured to preserve anonymity. Your loss.
As for Big Child, this year he won the President's Award for Educational Excellence, but I am no more permitted to touch his hair any longer than I am the totally sweet Presidential Seal pin that came with that. Every six weeks his father takes him to a barbershop for "The Ivy League" of "Official Hair Styles for Men and Boys" fame, and that is that.
I suppose there's always got to be one.
* He does still have an "M" (stands for "Minimal Progress"--it's what they give the lower grades instead of an F here) in Handwriting, which I think is an awfully able-ist subject to even grade students on. HOWEVER! Just last week the school FINALLY listened to me and had him assessed by an OT, who determined that he DOES need help and modified his IEP accordingly, and therefore I do not give two shits for the "M" in Handwriting. My kid has a documented genetic condition that causes both hypotonia and hyperflexibility, as well as a learning disability that makes it very difficult for him to concentrate on complex tasks, and therefore grading his ability to control a pencil and form letters is about on par with grading a visually-impaired student's ability to recognize colors. SCREW your M, MFA Elementary School! Someday I will be able to buy that kid an iPad and he'll blow ALL of you away with it, and in the meantime YES YOU WILL provide him with services to make the best of his bendy little fingers' writing (dis)ability.
* I may have a freelance gig doing something I am only marginally qualified to do for someone terrifyingly rich and important at PseudoCorp. When they asked me to meet with them I thought it was regarding PseudoCorp business, but instead they want my help with a personal project that is kind of neat but OH MY GOD DID I MENTION HOW BIG AND IMPORTANT AND RICH AND TERRIFYING THEY ARE? YES? WELL THIS IS ME DOING IT AGAIN BECAUSE GAHHHHH!
* Okay. Deep breaths. I'm actually more qualified than I thought to do this, in fact it may be something I could start doing as a consultant on the regular if I can get over the overwhelming urge to puke on The Client's shoes and run screaming and waving my hands in the air, heedless to the enormity of my pit-stains (what, you don't sweat profusely when you're nervous? LUCKY YOU). I just...well. I have kind of a complex when it comes to rich people stemming back to my childhood when the only rich people I knew were banging The Narcissist and lavishing her with gifts, which I think my dad kind of accepted as his penance for transgressions of his own in prior marriages, but the whole thing kind of cheesed me off because it tended to throw fuel on the fires of her "I was meant for better than this" complex, with "this" meaning "me." WHOA. AWKWARD. I don't talk about The Narcissist on here (or anywhere else) much for a reason. ANYWAY. Rich people. TERRIFYING. Shit.
* I have a strict "no turning down work" policy, however. I will put on my big girl panties and Do Lunch with the rich people next week and see where it leads. If I do a good job this might be a foot in the doorway to Better Things. So: YAY!
* Then I came home and TORE UP the garden, and didn't even find and have to kill any venomous snakes in the process, so, you know, that was good.
* And then...well. The boys had dinner visitation with their father tonight and I won't stoop ALL the way to juvenile lockerroom bragging, but...a bar has been raised in this house, and that's all I will say.
* Hotter is feeling much better, obviously.
* I am starting to feel less panicky about Big Child's pending birthday. I Have A Plan. He has an Innernet Fairy Godmother who stepped in and is helping me out with the whole Red Robin thing (which is fabulous, because he will be thrilled but also because with his Asperger's if you do something ONCE you have set a PRECEDENT and if you don't do it again the next time the world will fly off its axis and crash into the sun and we will all DIIIIIIIIE...okay, not really. It's not QUITE that bad. But no matter how carefully I tried to explain it he would most likely internalize it as "Red Robin is where one goes for birthdays and we are not going this year because I HAVE DONE SOMETHING TERRIBLY WRONG" and start washing his hands raw again and making us repeat everything we say until we hit the magic number of repetitions, so: yeah), and the only thing Big Child has mentioned really wanting lately (my kids don't ask for much...they know we're poor and don't ask unless they're really, REALLY jonesing for something special) is a Hunger Games t-shirt that one of his friends has that he is convinced is ONLY sold at the very mall where the local Red Robin is located. So if I tell Big Child we have to wait until a non-schoolnight then I will have gotten paid and will be able to get him the t-shirt while we're there for dinner next Friday night. It'll kill me a little bit to buy it in person without a coupon or any cash back from eBates, but it'll make him happy so I will deal :)
I've continued to do pretty well with the reduction of stress and stuff, even handling an Epic PDD-Driven Meltdown from one of the two children here on the spectrum with a fair amount of aplomb (which, well, I always do EXTERNALLY but this time interally too I was just all "this is not a new thing, I got this"). I just refuse to take on stress. Re. Fuse.
Right about the time I was planning how I'd narrate the audiobook version of my best-selling self-help Assvice Diatribe myself and give Belleruth Naparstek a run for her sweet, soothing multimillions, Bad Ear started to hurt again. Fuuuck. I had already mentally canceled the Oral Surgery consult on my jaw, y'know? But now I would go into the appointment with the knowledge that handling The Situation is truly beyond my control, and feel good about placing my wellbeing in the hands of others, ommmmm.
Today I woke up full-blown sick with crap lungs and Hotter's computer just upped and died.
* Y'all are too kind. Thank you for your comments, your tweets, your e-mails, your WWF chats and facespace comments and messages and oh, hell, there is something in my eye. I'm not going to stop blogging. I just don't want to be a big fat downer, y'know?
* Since so many of you expressed concern about Isis and I'm not facespace friends with all of you and not everyone is on the Twitter, here is the deal with Isis. We spent three hours at the vet. It sucked a lot. They had a poor little mutt come in as an emergency who was hit by a car and we had to wait while they patched him up as best they could. His owner was bawling in the waiting room. I felt awful for her! Meanwhile, Bumpus flying-tackled Hotter, launching himself from the exam table directly into Hotter's face and knocking him onto the floor, Little Child climbed the exam table, Bumpus humped the shit out of Isis, both dogs and at least one human had gas, and chaos pretty much reigned. You think I'm kidding? Here is the only picture I snapped that doesn't show any of my kids' faces:
Figure One: Believe it or not this is them playing, not fighting to the death.
* As for Isis's lump, the vet didn't like the look of it and did a needle biopsy. The mass in Isis's abdomen is a lymphnode, and the vet is more concerned about the superficial lumps (there are two now). She was hoping they were cysts and that she would be able to drain them with the needle, but no such luck. She did get enough of a sample to send to pathology, and in the scuffle I forgot to ask when that would be back (I know, I suck! I'll call tomorrow). Meanwhile, Isis is on a broad-spectrum antibiotic that kills "everything but MRSA" and we're to apply hot compresses twice a day to encourage any infection to come to the surface and drain. If that doesn't happen they'll need to operate. Between the cost of the biopsy and HALF the course of antibiotic (I'll have to go back for the rest after I get paid), here is what our bank accounts now look like (I actually thought we'd be overdrawn and laughed the laugh of the unhinged when I saw this):
Figure Two: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAOHFUCK.
* The MFA Children, exam-table climbing aside, were absolute angels during the long wait. Middly said "your face is worried about my dog and so I am worried, too." Take that, people who said he'd never read faces or show empathy! When I saw the bill and he saw my face, he teared up and gave me a hug. "Thank you for saving my dog," he said happily. Oh, buddy. I hope this works.
* I...am not even a little bit okay. I don't really feel anything except wheezy, because our vet treats cats, too. I'm a little concerned that my priorities are out of whack. My husband desperately needs a ton of dental work and I just spent everything we had trying to save a dog? The trolls of the world are going to love this shit. Physically I think I am on the mend; my ear and sinuses were not terribly painful today and things are draining. Some of what is draining is blood, but I think that's just what I get for taking NSAIDs. At this point I'm more concerned about my mental health (see: priorities, above) and so I am going to get back off the innernet. I'll let you know when we know something about Isis.
I've always said my kids and I don't have much of a sense of community, but last night? A truly touching and special moment occurred between me and my boys and the innernet! I was sitting at the table playing Words With Friends and keeping the littles company while they cut a whitepages phonebook into spaghetti-strips for the worm box, and Big Child came and hung over my shoulder trying to come up with a word for me. Middly and Little Child got up, too, and wanted to see the board, so we all had a look.
"Since the game is called Words With Friends, the person you are playing with is your friend, right," asked Big Child, The Literal. I took a breath to say that I often play random strangers because I am addicted to Words With Friends a big fat slut on the innernet, just ask Daddy everyone's friend but then noticed that yes, actually my opponent was someone I "met" online as a blog reader years and years ago, am now Facespace friends with, and who my kids have an awareness of and HEYYYY! "Yep, that's _______," I said. "You know your favorite jammies, Little Child, and your snow boots, Middly? Her son is the big kid who broke 'em in for ya and she is the one who sent me that heavy package full of stuff for you guys."
"Coool!"
I think my kids have had a kind of binary view of the innernet. It is made up of our friends who send us stickers and hand-me-downs, homemade hand-balm that soothes eczema and birthday cards, gift cards that have fed us celebratory dinners and good knock-knock jokes, and then there are The Perverts.
The Perverts are why Big Child wasn't allowed to subscribe to Lego Universe, even if he used his birthday money from the XY's family (because the subscription version had a chat feature, which means The Perverts could get at you!). They're also to blame for people not being allowed to link their DSis and Xboxes and Wiis to the (encrypted, password-protected) wireless router. "What do The Perverts DO, Mommy? I wouldn't give anyone our address or anything! They can't like, reach through the innernet and get me!" They're perverts, I say. They are clever and nasty and good at manipulating kids, and I am not taking any chances with them. When you're eighteen and you get your own innernet you'll see what I mean. The MFA Children seem to think The Perverts are perhaps mythical figures Hotter and I have made up to avoid sharing the innernet or something, but they largely accept it.
"Heeeey, wait. Your friend just played TITS. IS YOUR FRIEND A PERVERT?"
In the spirit of community amongst friendly perverts, a giveaway of a fabulous product made by a reader:
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This is the stuff I carry in my work bag and use every day. It really helps keep my cuticles from disintegrating entirely in the winter between food service and virus season and animals and children...that's a lot of hand-washing. If you don't win some you should totally buy some, and that is my unsolicited and honest review of the stuff. I am very happy one of you gets to try it!
Earlier today I gave up. I took a day off to take Hotter to the neurologist, but when I asked him to confirm the time he instead gave me his best recollection of the time, and that was two hours after the actual appointment time. I was pissed. I fumed. I'd spent $4 on gas and $5 on parking, lost $88 in wages and a precious day off to go to the hospital that makes my eyelid twitch all for nothing. I refused to speak to Hotter on the drive home. Then I took Little Child his Thanksgiving costume (made of feathers from the MFA Flock and medical tape and crayon drawings) at school and took the MFA Minivan to the mechanic, because the check engine light was on.
The check engine turned out to be an error code from the computer indicating that the catalytic converter was bad. I've mentioned on here that there was also an antifreeze leak, kind of in passing because it was slow, and all in all once MFA Mechanic looked at it it turned out that the MFA Minivan needed:
-- a new catalytic converter (they made me come and look, and it was cracked in half; "I have NEVER, EVER seen that happen before!" said MFA Mechanic, as all of the guys from the shop nodded, having gathered around to look, too. "Welcome to my life," I said) -- two new O2 sensors (those apparently go before the catalytic converter, and make the check engine light come on, hence warning you that the much-more-expensive catalytic converter is about to blow) -- a new water pump (this is nothing to do with the catalytic converter, just kind of a bonus) -- a new idle belt (this would apparently account for the "tweeting bird under the hood" sound I've been hearing)
The cost for all of that, AFTER they came down by $300 out of sympathy and threw in a free state inspection? One thousand dollars.
Fuuuuuck.
Earlier today, I was ready to give up, and let the XY take the boys, and send Hotter back to his mother's, because we couldn't do this without using up all of our meager savings and putting our ability to pay rent in jeopardy. I was ready to cancel Thanksgiving and lie down and wallow in my misery, because fuck, y'know, how bad can it get?
Then MFA Mechanic came in and asked me if I wanted a tissue. I nodded, hands over my face, bawling. He didn't leave the room, and asked, apologetically, "would a paper towel be okay. I don't think we have any tissue." I nodded again, pulling myself together, but unwilling to move my hands away from my snotty face. A moment later, I felt the edge of a paper towel brush against my fingers. "I'll give you a ride home if you want," MFA Mechanic said, sounding every bit as awkward as I felt. "If you drive the van...well, I don't know that the engine'll go, but I also don't know that it won't, and I'd really rather you didn't drive it." I gave up on dignity and took the paper towel and mopped my face with it. MFA Mechanic didn't go anywhere. "I'm really sorry. I'm taking the markup off the catalytic converter and the 02 sensors. I'll throw in a free state inspection, if you think it'll pass. How's your credit?" I started bawling all over again.
"I have sixty-three thousand dollars in student loans that're in default. My ex ran up almost that much in credit card debt in my name, then we split up and he tried to take my kids, and--" he held up a hand. "Never mind. We'll work this out. Do you need to get anything out of the van?"
I went over to the MFA Minivan, still a couple of feet off the ground, and opened the passenger-side door as far as it would go, up on the lift. I took the Hawaian print bag Gwendomama sent me containing my wallet and my prescription sunglasses out, and went out to the ridiculous little red sportscar MFA Mechanic was test-driving, which he pointed to when I looked up at him.
On the awkward drive home, he talked to me about his dogs. I told him about Isis and Bumpus, and told him where to turn, and thanked him for the ride.
I went inside to face my husband, who I'd been so mad at that I told him not to bother coming with me to the mechanic's after the appointment that wasn't. "Fuck it," I said. "We may go down, but we'll go down swinging."
"I'll be your bullet," he said, and smiled.
I went outside with the Darth Vader mask and took a quick iPhone video, then slit Thanksgiving's throat. Hotter brought the kettle outside and I scalded the bird and started plucking. The MFA Children came home while I was finishing that up. I sent the little two inside and told Big Child that the minivan had broken down, and I'd started reading The Hunger Games in the waiting room at the mechanic's. "What part are you at," he asked, eagerly. "The baker just gave the protagonist the cookies," I said. "Listen..." He held up a hand. "The minivan is broken, isn't it? I didn't see it in the driveway and thought you were at work, but then I remembered you stayed home to take Hotter to the doctor. How bad is it?"
"It's pretty bad," I said, blinking back tears. "I don't know if we can still...I'm going to have to walk to the store. Do you want to come with me? There are some things we need to talk about." I figured I'd broach the subject of moving to live with his father to him on the walk. Big Child fidgeted. "I dunno. That's a really long way. I'd probably get tired."
"I'll come witchoo, Mommy!" Middly came running over. "I didn't mean to eezdrop, but I heard you say da van is broken. I wanna come witchoo!" Big Child scurried back into the house.
"I don't know, Middly. It's a really long walk. Your legs would get tired." Middly jammed his hands into his pockets, resolute. "I won't get tired, and if I do I'll keep it to myself and keep walking anyway. I wanna come witchoo!"
Against my better judgement, I said okay, but only if he went back inside while I finished up with the turkey. Middly ran into the house, and I quickly gutted the bird and took the head and feet off. When I was through digging the lungs away from the ribcage I carried the carcass up to the house and knocked on the kitchen door with my elbow. Middly ran and opened it. "I told Hotter I'm walking witchoo to da store," he said excitedly. "I told him I won't be tired, or complain, and I'll help you carry stuff!" Hotter looked dubiously at me, and I shrugged, rinsing the turkey out in the sink.
I put a reflective vest on Middle Child, and velcroed the other one onto myself. "It's going to be dark by the time we get there and do the shopping," I said to Middly. "Are you sure you won't be scared?"
"I won't be scared, Mommy. I will hold your hand!" Holding my hand is something that took Middly years to be willing to do. He used to fight me as a toddler, screaming at the bottom of the stairs leading up to our apartment where we lived before I took the XY back for the last time. Before I knew he was autistic I used to lose my temper sometimes and scold him. Middle Child has never liked holding an adult's hand, but he clearly really wanted to come with me to the grocery store. I said okay.
We walked to the store. On the way there, Middly made a confession.
"I was going to go in da house like you said for me and Little Child to do, but I accidentally heard part of what you said to Big Child," he volunteered, the reflective vest slipping off his narrow shoulders as he trotted along, holding my hand. "What did you hear," I asked. "I heard you say da minivan is broken. You were sniffling like you were going to cry. That's why I wanted to come witchoo to the store. I didn't want you to feel alone, and I wanted to tell you it'll be okay. It'll be a little bit scary, but it'll be okay. Because you won't give up, I know it. Remember I wrote that story about you? I said my mom will not give up, you know why?"
"Why," I asked, glad it was getting dark and he couldn't see my face.
"Because I know you're sad dat da minivan is broken, but if it didn't break we wouldn't get to walk to the store together and see the stars. So dat's a good thing. You always tell ME not to give up, so you can't give up, because den if YOU gave up, dat would be AWKWARD!"
I had to smile at that. "It would, wouldn't it?"
"Yup. And dat wouldn't be any good. So you won't give up, just like I won't give up even do my legs are little. I don't feel tired at all, because we're together on an adventure!"
So I sucked it up, and Middly and I did the Thanksgiving shopping. We talked about what we were going to make, and what we needed to make it. I told him he could get a special treat for walking with me and being such good company, and he chose some chocolate doughnuts, but then said he wouldn't feel good about eating them unless he got something for each of his brothers, too. He chose a fresh fruit cup from the produce section for Little Child, who loves fresh fruit, and a box of Nilla Wafers for Big Child, who loves cookies. And then he offered to carry anything that wouldn't fit in our little red wagon on the way home. Luckily it all fit.
When we got home, I apologized to Hotter for being cranky about the missed appointment, and Middle Child showed his brothers the treats he'd chosen for them. Big Child picked him up and spun him around in the air, and Little Child pulled him back down by the knees to hug him. And Hotter made dinner and we sat down and ate it together.
Earlier today someone wished me a miracle, and I very bitterly asked that no one else do that, because there are no miracles.
Fuck it. We may not make rent with the pathetic one-day-of-work paycheck I'll get next week and all of our savings in MFA Mechanic's pocket, but we're going to go down swinging, together on our little ship of fools for as long as it lasts. Tonight Middle Child willingly held my hand for a mile to the grocery store and a mile back, something I never thought he'd willingly do, and anyone who says autistic kids lack empathy can kiss the fattest part of my ass. I may not be thankful to life for one goddamn thing other than that, but it doesn't take anything away from the everyday miracle that it was.
I don't know why, y'all, but today when several co-workers came bustling out to the lobby with the news that Robert Wood Jr. was found alive I about lost it. I hadn't been following the story very closely, because I avoid the news for the sake of my mental health most of the time, but oh, y'all, my heart. It wasn't so much that he'd been found that got to me (although obviously I was relieved to hear it, especially with the weather all over the South going to shit today), it was the way everyone was talking about him.
"He was probably hiding from the searchers, those autistic kids are a handful!"
"I'll bet it's because he's autistic that he survived. A normal child wouldn't have had the animal instincts." (yes, someone SAID that)
"They say he probably didn't know he'd been lost, or even notice; those kids aren't all there."
I get that most people don't "get" autism. Hell, I'm not even claiming to fully "get" Robert Wood Jr.'s type of autism; my two boys on the spectrum are both verbal, and made so much progress with therapy that both of them have mainstreamed successfully from kindergarten. It's apples to oranges, and I'm not trying to pull up a soapbox and be all "I am the Lorax, I speak for the autistic kids!" But after a couple of gentle attempts to correct some of the more egregious misconceptions I had to mentally take a step back and shut my trap on the matter, because I was about to lose my junk and say something really scathing.
I don't know what I'm trying to say here, except that I'm really glad that little guy is safe and warm with his family tonight, and I wish everyone would just say that and no more about the matter.
That stage lasted all of ten minutes. Which is how long it took my kid to join his classmates in collaborating on a fan-page for their teacher. They were each posting their favorite things about her, and I was still loving it at that point, because awwwww and YAAAAY, but then Big Child asked me how to spell "emotional" and I started to worry. A few minutes later, he brought his laptop into my room to confirm my worst fears.
"How does this sound, Mommy," asked my kid who has recently hit five feet and is starting to get blackheads (WTF? Noooo), "My favorite thing about Mrs. Teacher is that she does not yell at her students and says she never will because she does not like to be yelled at. I especially don't like when adults yell* because I hate yelling and also I am very emotional and start to tear up any time someone yells at me or even just around me."
Uhhh...crap. This is where Big Child's developmental delay makes him a prime target for schoolyard bullies. I go back and forth a lot on whether to try and help him avoid catching grief for his unselfconscious naivete or whether that's something he just has to learn to do on his own, but in the end I'm his mother and I just don't want anyone to hurt my baby.
"Well, son, here's the thing about revealing stuff about yourself on the innernet," I began, trying to choose my words with care--
"THE INTERNET IS FOREVER, I KNOW," he said, wearily.
"Yes, yes it is. But more than that, the innernet is accessable to everyone, whether they like you or not, and therefore you want to be careful what you put out there. Because anything you write that someone could use to hurt or embarrass you CAN AND WILL come back to bite you in the butt."
"What do you mean?"
I sighed. "I think you could maybe just say that you hate yelling and leave it at that."
"Why?"
"Because...well, kids are horrible, and our ER copayment is a lot of money--"
"MO-mmy!"
"I just don't want to see you get hurt, your feelings OR your face! It's up to you what you write on there, but...just think about it, okay?"
Then Hotter totally undermined my parenting by telling the kid to write what he felt, because he had a lot more respect for someone who came right out and said what they believed, and anyone who had a problem with that wasn't a good friend anyway, and Big Child was all "thanks Hotter, I really needed to hear that" and they man-hugged and Big Child went to bed.
"THANKS A LOT," I told my idiot husband, after we finished making the rounds tucking everyone in and kissing foreheads. "They're going to KILL HIM, you know."
"Nah. They're FIFTH-GRADERS. He's a BLEEDER. They'll panic when they see the blood and stop punching him," Hotter said smugly, like he had it all worked out.
Godiva help us all next year when the kid goes to middle school. I might as well enroll him in Aflac now.
* My house is a no-yelling zone because I happen to hate yelling too. But the XY is a yeller...
* My day began slowly and my lungs were assholes until after dinnertime (coincidentally also when I stopped moving around).
* Work was excellent, except that every single fellow employee (probably about thirty or so?) and two customers had to ask me If I Was Okay, Did I Need Water/A Manager/Medical Care? and How Long Had I Had Asthma Like THAT? Don't get me wrong, my lungs were utter dicks and I did cough for most of the day because I won't take codeine at work, but if I had saved the breath I used up in explaining that I Wasn't Quite Dead Yet to everyone it would have been easier to power through the day (which I did, in fine style, and even garnered several compliments on my work from supervisory-types and one very nice little old lady buying flowers).
* Big Child's ear is still leaking blood and pus, and while he seems to FEEL perfectly fine this troubles him (and me). I have shamed the XY into picking him up from school to take him to the pediatrician for a re-check as my next chance at a POSSIBLE day off is Friday; perhaps this is normal with a ruptured eardrum but I seem to recall my own experience with same drying up by this point into antibiotics and would like someone with good equipment and a prescription pad hand JUST IN CASE to take a gander.
* Hotter hadn't made much progress toward dinner, because he was busy with other things, and I had fun helping him in the kitchen even in dinner was late. At least I did until Big Child began to interrogate me about dinner as he likes to do while I was carrying the Shepherd's Pie to the table, getting me so flustered (not because him questions were tough ones, but just because they were like a staccatto stream of machine-gun fire; it's a combination of developmental delay-driven angst to know about the food, ADD-fueled impulsitivity and speed, and desperation for my attention that I have banned at least once for every twice that he does it, so multiply ten years minus the two it took him to speak at all clearly by three hundred and twenty or so, to account for time I've been in hospitals or he's been with his father, THAT MANY TIMES, not that it helps to prevent a damned thing and do you see how this was all one run-on sentence, yeah, it's like THAT) that I burned all four fingertips on my left hand.
* I set dinner down intact and told everyone to stop what they were doing and be aware of the fact that Mommy Needs Five Minutes Badly and leave me alone, went into the kitchen to run my hand under cold water, declined Hotter's assistance, sent Little Child to wash his hands, told Big Child to stop wiping his face on the couch (it wasn't wet or dirty, but that's Not Acceptable Sensory-Seeking In My House And You Wouldn't Do It At School, At Least I Hope Not), refused to let Hotter see my fingers, grabbed something from the freezer to grasp, told Middle Child to Wash HIS hands, scurried into the den, turned Big Child back from following me because I needed three minutes, JUST THREE MINUTES WITHOUT ANYONE IN MY FACE STARTING NOW, told Hotter I meant him too, assured him that even though he WAS a chef and The Expert In Burnt Things it wasn't That Bad and I needed just ONE MINUTE, SERIOUSLY, ALONE, NOW, REALLY IT IS FINE IT JUST HURTS and then I got about thirty seconds of everydamnone in the house palpably sulking in my general direction and decided to call that a win.
* I then declared to my bickering children and pouting husband that we were going to have a pleasant dinner during which we would voice nothing but positive thoughts about each other and words of appreciation about our delicious meal that we were fortunate enough to be eating together as a family, and I must have REALLY had The Crazy Prednisone Eye because I only had to warn everyone at the table (except Big Child, who loves black-and-white rules like a fat kid loves cake and was cheerful and correct enough to irritate the bejesus out of everyone else) once apiece that they were "dangerously close to non-appreciation" and say to Middly ONCE that I knew I was only hallucinating from a long day at work and he wasn't REALLY chewing on his shirt because Six-Year-Olds-Do-Not-Do-That and I knew that when I turned back around his shirt would not be anywhere between his teeth SEE THAT'S MY GOOD BOY!
* I did a bit of after-dinner-and-bedtime-for-children candling, and of thirteen MFA Eggs currently incubating, there are eight yeses, three maybe-could-go-either-ways, and two "looks-like-a-no-to-me-but-I'm-no-expert-yet-so-we'll-reevaluate-in-two-days"es. Hotter has been turning the babies eggs diligently, perhaps because I text him to the point that he's utterly sick of it to ask after them every day.
* Every effing bone in my body, the fingertips of my left hand, my leg muscles, and my lungs hurt. Also my skin where my pants rest because my Prednisone Baby is nearly big enough that old ladies have started to guess gender based on how I'm carrying it. I'm going to bed.
* How are all of you? I do check comments throughout the day from my Blackberry, which seems to be acceptable workplace behavior at The Botanical Garden (probably the Damn Kids there are mostly texting, actually, who knows--Phone-Looking Is Cool) and they all make me smile (Mary Dell, you in particular are a fount of useful information! Zyrtec makes me speedy as hell and I think I might gnash every remaining tooth out of my head if I mixed it with Prednisone so I take Claritin, or rather Generic Cheapo-Store Brand Loratadine but I did not know about the tooth-spackle!). Tell me about YOUR day, it'll either make me feel better that it isn't mine or distract me from my own mishegas.
* It was also my big "solo at the helm" day over at the hippie food coop. I minded the store all by my lonesome for about three hours (the owners travel a couple of days a week doing CSA drops, foraging, lobbying, etc. and the one paid employee had to drive to another state on urgent business) and didn't burn the place down (GO, ME!). I effed up (maybe? I'm not even totally sure that I did) on one minor credit card transaction (think "less than five bucks"), and other than that I think I handled everything perfectly, which I think was better than any of us there expected. In gratitude the owners gave the MFAmily a CSA share, which was awesome as we can no longer afford to be members and have been missing it.
* I am going to be helping another local business out with a banquet this weekend. Which requires that I buy some black pants that aren't of the yoga variety and a white button-down, but I'll be making enough for it to still be worth my while after clothes and gas. WHOO!
* The MFA Children came home from Daddy Weekend with some type of upper-respiratory bug and immediately infected me (EFF). I had...what, maybe two weeks? Free of Asthmapalooza '10-'11 and inhaled steroids and prescription cough suppressants? And now I think I am headed in that direction once more, and my rib, which had been feeling MUCH better, is rather painful again. Shoot and heck and crap, y'all. I canNOT be coughing at the aforementioned banquet, for obvious reasons.
* The surviving chicks are now eating over a pound of starter feed per day, all nine of their insubstantial little selves. It's crazy!
* I have EIGHT baby cauliflowers. EIGHT.
* The splinter I have had lodged in my heel for...um, well, it's been a minute, I think this splinter (or possibly it's glass of some sort?) celebrated the winter holidays with us...anyway this thing in my heel is rather painful lately, and I've already tried home surgery a FEW times with no success; I can SEE the thing under the skin (it's like a dot drawn by a very sharp pencil--TINY) but the instant I attempt its removal my stupid bleeding disorder takes this as its cue to turn things to eleven, which makes visibility poor and grasping anything in there nigh on to impossible (I can now honestly say it generates a loss of blood volume comparable to slaughtering a chicken). I've soaked my feet half to death on multiple occasions, tried the Vaseline/Band-Aid trick, all of that crap...what does one do in such a case, short of going to the doctor, which seems ludicrous over a gee-dee splinter?
* The XY is recently writing all sorts of high flown appeal-to-emotion-y E-mails Of Ostentatious Crap About How Life Is Too Short (to impress his girlfriend? To hold up in Imaginary Custody Court?) about co-parenting classes (which I first begged for, then insisted upon, then gave up on and now cannot afford--don't worry, I've told him that if he pays I and even Hotter will be there, which ought to table the issue). As evidence of their necessity he informed me that two people (one about twenty-two years old, one a decade or so older than I am) who were "the product of divorce" were recently dead, one of a DUI-vs.-utility pole scenario and the other over "an allergic reaction to a medication with liver complications" (sounds like an o-v-e-r-d-o-s-e to me). "THINK ABOUT IT," his most recent missive exhorted me. I find this rather offensive, as both of the people in question (friends of HIS, not mine) were wretchedly unpleasant sluts whose custodial parents were useless deadbeats, and my kids don't have THAT problem (and yes, I told the XY as much). By all accounts I hear the MFA Children are very well-adjusted and the only dysfunction and unseemliness in their lives comes from the XY's direction, and you don't see ME peeing in HIS yard or contributing to getting HIM fired, so I'm not quite sure what he thinks he's getting at in the first place, although I AM sure I've had just about enough of whatever it is.
