I was not strong

A few weeks ago while we were in Borders books two adolescent boys took note of Sam as David pushed him past in his wheelchair. Sam had his head hanging sideways and was vocalizing loudly, so it was hard not to take notice of him. But after David and Sam passed the boys began laughing and one said to the other, "He's retarded." Now I don't usually take issue with the word retarded itself, but when it is said in a mocking tone by two twits who don't know the first thing about Sam then I take issue.

"Excuse me boys but you really should be careful with your words. When you use a word like retarded you can really hurt somebody's feelings. And that little boy you called retarded... that little boy is my son."

Red faced the boy apologized and I caught up with David and my sweet, yet kooky, Sam. That day I was strong.

Yesterday we went to a museum in L.A. where there was going to be an outdoor concert for kids. We thought we'd take in some of the exhibits before the concert began, but Sam had other plans. He had woken up at 4am and was very tired which made him very vocal. He also stubbornly refused to keep his head up in his wheelchair opting to view the world sideways instead. Rather than subject the other museum visitors to his yelling, I sat outside with Sam while David viewed some nature photography he was interested in. It was a busy day at the museum and people were pouring in and out of the exhibit hall we sat outside of. And lots of people took notice of Sam. Yelling, mouth hanging open, head hanging to the side he was quite a sight. And lots of people stared. After a few minutes of this I grew uncomfortable. Usually I easily shrug off others' ignorance when it comes to Sam. But yesterday it stung. I was not feeling strong enough to deal with rude people. And I cried. I just wanted to go home. Yesterday I was not strong.

Joseph Smith was on to something

Sam has this month off of school. So I've had a 6 year old, an infant and a Sam to take care of, which is why I have not been writing much here lately. I wish I had something witty to say but I'm afraid I'm completely drained. Posting may be sporadic until Sam and Jackson return to school in September. Oh, sweet September. Or until we make that move to Utah where David can take on a second wife to shoulder some of the responsibilities. What? I really think I could be okay with it if it meant that I could actually go poop without a baby strapped to me.

He's a keeper

If the Invisible Man was a six-year old

Over dinner last night we were discussing the news about the future possibility of becoming invisible. Usually David and I talk about random stuff at dinner and Jackson sits at the table with us and appears to be listening. I might be relaying some info to David about something Jackson did in swim lessons earlier that day and Jackson will come into the conversation with, "And dad..." Obviously I think he is planning on expanding on the story and so David and I turn to him eager to hear his perspective.... "And dad, if I was a plant-eating dinosaur and I was being chased by a meat-eater but I was like two thousand feet tall, I could so totally just stomp on the meat-eater. That would be so cool!" And David and I search our memories for when this was pertinent to any past conversations we may have had with him. Because sometimes it is. Sometimes Jackson picks up a conversation we left off 3 days ago.

But during this particular conversation about invisibility Jackson was paying attention and living in the moment with us. So when he spoke up he actually had something relevant to say, "Oh man... if I was invisible I would like crawl under the table at school and untie everyone's shoe laces. Or if there was a bad guy I could just go up to him and like poke him and he wouldn't know who did it because I'd be invisible. That would be so cool!" I'm sure when the scientists were considering all the powerful uses for their invention they had these fantastic possibilities in mind.

Urine a lot of trouble (just couldn't resist that one)

After swim lessons today Jackson got out of the pool and began hopping up and down.

"Mom, I have to go to the bathroom."

"Go ahead and use the bathroom and then we need to go home."

"No. No! NO!! NOOOOOO!!!!!"

Whose demon child was this that had emerged from the depths of the neighborhood pool? Because I had brought a sweet and compliant child and watched as that child got into the pool. But this child did look vaguely familiar as his body convulsed and he barked his protests at me.

"Just go pee."

"Ohohoh, ooookaaaay!"

Mere seconds later he reappeared, apparently having practiced for the fastest whiz in the west.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you, Mom. Could you please tie my bathing suit for me?"

Either the malicious alien had been hiding Jackson in the bathroom all along (because, really, nobody can pee that fast) or Jackson's urine contains personality altering neuro-toxins which can build to destructive levels if his bladder is not emptied frequently.

3 winning pictures

I have 60 or so photos of Clara within the last week. Of those 60 about 2 are good and one is of mild interest.

The smile. She's been charming us with her smile for weeks now and I finally snapped a decent photo of her smiling. It's not visible in this pic but she has a single, adorable dimple on her left cheek.


The red blob above Clara is Sam's swing that hangs in our kitchen entry way. It caught Clara's attention once after it had been set in motion and it quickly replaced the ceiling fan in the category of "coolest mundane household item in motion EVER!"


And this is her just looking cute.

The amazing, vanishing Sam

Sam fell out of bed the other night. Actually it might be more appropriate to say that he slid out since there was no thud, at least not that I heard. David had gone into work to fix some computer problem, so I was alone with all 3 kids. Jackson was asleep upstairs, Clara was asleep on the couch next to me and Sam was yangling in bed. You had to go back and read that last part again, didn't you? The word yangle comes compliments of my granny. I can't give an exact definition of the word but I know yangling when I hear it, and since Sam has no discernable words he yangles. After about an hour Sam got really quiet and I thought to check on him to make sure he was still alive. You see, Sam still has frequent apnea episodes while he sleeps and sometimes (and when I say "sometimes" I mean several times a month) we plug him into his monitor and then forget to turn the monitor on (and when I say "we" I mean David). This may sound horrifying, but really, it's not like we actually do anything when the apnea monitor alarms. If we're downstairs and the monitor alarms it usually stops (meaning Sam resumes breathing) by the time we get to the top of the stairs; so why bother getting off the couch, right? And if we're sleeping we usually don't hear it. Oh c'mon, how many of you sleep through the beeping of your alarm clocks? It's the same thing. But I always like to make sure the monitor is at least turned on; you can't accuse me of neglect. So I left Clara sleeping on the couch while I went upstairs to Sam's room. There was only a small amount of light from the hallway but it was enough to see that Sam was not in his bed. Well, what the hell? It's not like Sam can climb out of bed and walk away. I looked under the blankets and the many suffocation hazards pillows in his bed. What? His own brain fails to signal him to breathe - a few fluffy pillows are not a big threat in comparison. The pillows are there to prevent him from banging into the wall or the bed rail. And the bed rail is clearly supposed to prevent him from falling out of bed. It still hadn't occurred to me to look for him on the floor. I did, however, think to check his apnea monitor. The monitor was turned on and the display showed active heart rate and respiration so I knew Sam was somewhere in the room at the end of the long monitor cord. Then next to the monitor, hooked through the bed rail that was supposed to keep Sam in bed, I saw a foot. Sam's foot. And attached to that foot was Sam, upside down with the upper half of his body on the floor and lower half up against the bed. I quickly scooped him up into my arms and felt a mix of relief and absolute horror. I have no idea how long he was like that and, although he didn't seem upset or hurt, I felt like the shittiest mom to have allowed that to happen to my sweet boy. I held him for a long time and hugged him and kissed him and told him how sorry I was. I felt awful that not only had we failed to secure his bed for him but that he, this pure and completely dependent child, had to lay on the floor waiting for his mommy to get a clue and help him back into bed. Once I got him tucked into bed again I went back downstairs and ignored the beeping apnea monitor some more.

Rock, bounce, pat

Not to be confused with rock, paper, scissors which is inarguably a much more enjoyable game than rock, bounce, pat. Rock, bounce, pat is a tiresome game consisting of rocking the baby in my arms while bouncing her vigorously and patting her bottom all in an effort to induce sleep. How these 3 things work together to put her to sleep I have no idea. I can only guess that the chaotic combination scrambles her little brain enough to drown out the boisterous yells of Sam, the constant chatter of Jackson and deludes her into feeling like she's back in the safety of my womb. All I can say for sure is that within minutes of beginning this little routine her eyes roll back into her head and she quickly drops into a deep slumber. Which is really weird because if someone tried all these things with me I don't think I would feel like sleeping; no, I'm pretty sure I'd want to slap the person. Anyway, with all the rocking, bouncing and patting going on at our house I haven't had as much time for my blog. But I'm trying.

The happiest place on earth to die

Sunday morning newspaper story:

"Crap. Some 12 year old boy died while riding a roller coaster at Disneyland."

"How the hell does that happen?"

"Says he had some congenital heart abnormality."

"Random."

"Oh, well, the family is from Kentucky."

"That explains it."

"If you're going to have a medical emergency Disney's the place to be; it only took 6 minutes for paramedics to arrive."

"Get this: he was pronounced dead at..... Celebration Hospital."

Attack of the giant lizards

We have ants

We bought some ant stakes that kill the ants and their entire colony when they take the bait back to their home. This is how we get rid of ants...


... and this is how Jackson gets rid of ants...

Holding out for the big bucks

Jackson lost his first tooth the other night. It had been loose for several weeks and he began complaining that it was so loose now that it bothered him. I jokingly suggested that he pull it out so it would stop bothering him... so he did.

Later that night I found the special tooth fairy pillowcase which has a picture of a fairy and a special pocket sewn on for the tooth. We placed Jackson's tiny baby tooth into the pocket as Jackson began trying to determine how the tooth fairy was going to get into our house. He pretty quickly concluded that our house was impermeable and it must be the parents that take the tooth and leave the money. Because the idea that a lithe, winged fairy could get into our house is ridiculous but he can totally understand a big, orange pumpkin stealthily gaining entrance. I just shrugged my shoulders and told him to say goodbye to his little tooth. Then I began thinking about how sad it was that this tooth had been a part of him for 6 years and now he was going to just hand it over to some mystical pixie with a tooth fetish... and for mere pocket change. As if reading my mind, Jackson suddenly began to cry.

"I don't want to put my tooth in the pocket."

No, Jackson. Don't give in to the duplicitous enterprise of the tooth fairy. TAKE YOUR TOOTH AND RUN! RUN I SAY! HOLD ON TO YOUR SWEET TOKEN OF CHILDHOOD!

"It's okay sweetie. You don't have to put your tooth in the pocket. You can keep it if you'd like."

So we still have Jackson's tooth and it's not looking good for the tooth fairy. Jackson's plan is to keep each tooth he loses and individually wrap them so that we can indicate in which order they were lost. These are the moments in which it is revealed that children really are smarter than adults.

Clara's birth story

This is the story of Clara Margaret's birth - my 3rd, final and by far biggest baby. This is also the story of the birth experience of which I have always dreamed.

The story begins a few days prior to her birth when I began feeling what I thought could be my body's final preparations for labor. It was Thursday and Jackson had his last day of Kindergarten on Friday. I began thinking about what we would do if I went into labor that night or the following morning. Jackson's kindergarten class was holding a very special ceremony for those moving on to first grade and I felt it was important for him to be there even if I was at home birthing his baby sister. I remember at some point having a little talk with the baby and telling her that there was still some business to finish up and Friday night would be a good night to arrive. That night I went to bed and experienced several runs of pretty decent, but not yet painful, contractions. The next morning I awoke still pregnant. So at 11am on Friday morning I was able to attend Jackson's kindergarten ceremony. Although I had had some contractions in the earlier morning they pretty much stopped during the ceremony, only to resume again shortly afterward.



The ceremony was a tear jerker for me, the day was gorgeous, Jackson and his friends were adorable... what a great way to kick off labor.

After the ceremony, David went back to work and my parents, Jackson and I went out to lunch. I ordered a very tasty blackened shrimp nacho salad and, with the return of the contractions, thought I'd better eat as much as I could since I wasn't sure I'd be eating dinner later that night. After lunch I went to pick up Sam from school. His teacher was very disappointed to see me since she had been hoping I'd have had the baby. I told her I didn't think she'd be seeing me on Monday. And on the way home I had my first contraction that actually got my attention. I called David on the way home and told him he should make sure to tie up any loose ends at work. Then I went home and just hung out with my parents and my boys.

Sam must have sensed that things were going to get intense because he checked out early.



David arrived home from work around 5pm. I had just been relaxing on the couch and goofing off on the computer while I continued to have mild contractions. At some point between 5 and 7 we decided to see how long the contractions were actually lasting. I wasn't too convinced that anything was going to happen soon since the contractions still didn't require my full attention and felt like they were only about 20 seconds long. I was a bit surprised when David timed a few and reported they were more like 50 seconds long. Not only were they longer than I thought but they were much closer together - only 3.5 minutes apart. Now I have no idea how long things had been going on like this since my sense of time was clearly skewed. But before long we felt the time was ripe to call Lorri, the midwife, and ask her to come on over.

By this time - 9pm or so - David had filled the birthing pool and I was in bed relaxing through the contractions. I still thought I was in pretty early labor since the contractions were not painful and I was always able to just keep on top of them by relaxing. I was also doing a lot of visualizing at this point just for the fun of it. Most of the visions were of various types of flowers opening up. I tried out some other imagery but the flowers were working out fine. David had put on a cd of ocean sounds with soft music and the lights were turned way down low.

I was still relaxing in bed when Lorri floated in. She sat with me for awhile before checking my cervix and reporting that I was 9cm and fully effaced. HOLY SHIT! I'm going to have a baby... TONIGHT! Oooh conTRACtion... relax.... I decided to get into the tub and fast.



We ran out of hot water before the tub was full enough to cover my belly. So while my dad boiled pots of water in the kitchen, David poured water over my belly during contractions. This felt really damn good. While this was going on Lorri and the birth assistants were hanging out in the hallway, checking in every once in awhile to monitor me or the baby. This meant that David and I were alone together... with candlelight and soft music it was the most romantic evening we've had in a long time. The contractions were still intense but never entirely unwelcome; and the breaks in between served as short interludes for conversation. During one such break I noticed the video camera perched on the tripod and, not realizing it was recording, commented to David that maybe we should turn it on and I'd start thrashing around while screaming in mock agony just to make the video interesting.

At some point the contractions started getting harder to relax through and that's when I realized that maybe these aren't meant to be relaxed through; maybe these are meant to be pushed through. Only the desire wasn't yet strong enough for me to want to waste the energy.... just yet. But Lorri noticed the difference in the contractions by the new sound I was making with each one and she kept her ear much closer to the door. A few more of these contractions and my water broke. This is one of the best feelings because so much pressure is suddenly relieved; but then the next contraction comes. And now it's no longer a soft, cushiony bag of water pushing against your cervix - it's the baby's hard head. And suddenly pushing felt very right.



I was having a little bit of back pain and Lorri thought the baby might be posterior, meaning her face was facing up which is not the most comfortable or ideal way for a baby to come out. So she suggested I turn on my side to help the baby rotate. I started feeling a very full and familiar sensation in my nether region and, before anyone watching could even comment on how close I was to meeting my baby, I knew I was going to get to hold her after just another push or two. By this time I had only been pushing for 15 or 20 minutes and the time was approaching 1am.

With a few more pushes she slid out and I reached down into the water, putting my hands around her little body and brought her to my chest. Warm, squishy body. Soft, moist, velvety skin.

This moment.

This moment I had imagined so many times in the last few weeks. The sight of her. The smell. And the feel of her in my arms for the first time. This was the moment.



But then there was this moment, too.



This is when she lifted her head off my chest, moved it back and opened her eyes to look right at me and David as if just checking to make sure she was with the right people.

Sam performed beautifully throughout the entire labor and slept soundly. Jackson woke up right when Clara made her entrance.



We sat like this for a long time:



Then David cut the cord.



We got to snuggle in bed after we got out of the pool.



Finally we weighed her to find she was a whopping 9lbs 2oz!



Jackson stayed up for several more hours just to gaze at his new little sister.



And that's it. Clara's birth was just as beautiful and peaceful as she is.

She's here....

Check out photos of our newest addition here.

We're busy babymooning but I'll post the story of her beautiful birth when I have more than one hand available with which to type :-)

In case you were wondering... I'm still pregnant

It's looking like my due date is going to pass with no baby to show for it. Tomorrow is the day our once-every-other-week housecleaners come which means that I have to make sure the house is picked up tonight. This is probably the most disappointing thing about not having the baby - not having the excuse to cancel the cleaners and just sit around on my ass in a messy house.

The final days

I got hennaed. Over the weekend, instead of having a baby shower, my dear friend Autumn, held a Blessingway for me. Eight wise and wonderful women helped me to celebrate my upcoming transition into becoming a mother to my baby girl. At the end of the Blessingway everyone added her own part to the big design on my belly. It looks great now but I don't even want to imagine what it's going to look like after the baby is born. Thank goodness it's just temporary.

Primitive fear

Today I encountered one of these in my clean dishes. Actually Jackson and I had seen the creature scaling our living room wall yesterday but I chose to ignore it hoping that it would soon find its way outside or underneath someone's shoe. See, I'm not a big fan of spiders, especially the big meaty ones. My blood pressure increases exponentially with the size of the spider. It doesn't even have to be in the same room to have this effect. While I was searching for pictures of jumping spiders on the web to post here I found one that was much more graphic than the image I linked to, but I couldn't bear to look at it long enough to copy the link. Heebie jeebies is the best term I have to describe the feeling I got just looking at the picture. So you can imagine my complete horror when I picked up a dish from our dish rack with my BARE HANDS and saw the spider, which I knew to be a jumping spider and this fact only increased the intensity of my reaction and necessity of my ensuing actions. I screamed. I screamed more than once. Even after I hurling the plastic dish and spider violently to the floor, I screamed and did that little dance people do when they've just encountered some sort of creepy crawly. Like they're trying to shake the thing off of their body while moving their legs up and down fast enough to prevent the creature from crawling back up. But this spider was nowhere near me. Yet I danced. Nine months pregnant, screaming like a little girl, shaking and dancing and hurling dishes across the floor. I noticed my sliding glass door was open and thought, shit, I hope the neighbors didn't just see all that. Meanwhile, there's a very stunned jumping spider on my kitchen floor. Thinking quickly I grabbed the can of all natural ant spray, which contains some very pleasant smelling peppermint oil, in a cabinet nearby hoping to buy myself some time while I figured out what else to do and maybe stymie the spider's jumping ability at the same time. I decided on the vacuum method and retrieved the dust buster from the garage. I sucked up the well oiled spider letting its big, hairy body whirl around inside while I carried it back out to the garage, turning the power off the vacuum only when it had safely been returned to its charger. Then I quickly got the hell out of the garage.

Now I think of myself as a pretty strong, competent woman who can calmly resuscitate a child or even impregnate herself. But those stupid spiders have me beat.

In some countries it's a sign of courtship

Today when I picked Sam up from school his head was wet. Actually it was just one side of his head where he had been licked by one of his classmates. Apparently the little girl was sitting next to Sam and licked his hair, found it to be quite satisfying and went back for more. Sam, always in the mood for a good head massage, leaned his head towards her and enjoyed the tongue bath for awhile until the teacher's caught sight of what was going on and put an end to it. I showed up just moments after this event to a very wet headed, but happy, Sam. It's the special moments like this one that make raising a child with a disability so entertaining.

Intellectually checked-out

Checking out at the grocery store today the young man behind the counter asks me, "Do you know the rules of my line?"

"No, I've never been in your line before and I'm guessing that maybe I should be looking for another right now."

"Each person who comes through my line needs to tell me a cultural, scientific, historical, or geographical fact from a foreign country they've visited."

"You realize you're asking a very pregnant mom of two to think up something on the spot?"

"I'm feeling brave today."

"I got nothing."

"How about a joke? A joke will work, too."

"Okay.... knock knock....."

And it became painfully obvious to me that the more children you have the more your brain turns to mush.

Strip malls rule

Wanna hear about the highlight of a busy mom's day? I've been cleaning, organizing, running various errands all in preparation for this baby's birth. Since we're having a homebirth there is a bit more involved than simply packing a bag for the hospital. Part of the preparation involves acquiring all the necessary items for a waterbirth. You might think "You've got a tub. What more do you need?" Oh much much more my naive friend. I tried the tub when I was in labor with Sam and me and my enormous, un-immersible belly did not last 5 minutes in that hard, fiberglass bucket. So this time we're going the route of the oversized kiddie pool. Most of the items for this birth one can find at that magical place Target, but there were two items on my list that I still needed: a pool thermometer and a fish net. The pool thermometer is used to make sure the pool water stays a comfortable, yet safe temperature for mom and baby. The fish net is used to... well, to fish stuff out of the pool in case any of this stuff, which shall remain nameless, should somehow enter the pool. And by "somehow enter" I mean in a manner that I refuse to discuss in this blog.

So I had just dropped David off at the car dealership to pick up our other car after an oil change and I was running about 10 minutes early to pick up Sam from his school just a few miles away. En route I saw a shopping center and thought I'd kill some time checking to see if there were any stores there that might have some stuff I needed for the birth. What I found brought tears of joy to my eyes. It was like some form of divine intervention had brought me to this place with only the smallest amount of time to spare. For what I saw was a pet store right next door to a pool supply store. Now if you don't know me then you don't know what an efficiency junkie I am. Finding these two unrelated stores right next to each other in a block of time I was afraid was going to go to waste was euphoric. And... AND I found a parking spot right out front that had a time limit of 10 minutes.... 10 MINUTES! I accepted the challenge, completed my mission and had to call David immediately after to share my immense joy.

Indecent composure

The other day in the car we had a children's cd playing for Sam. Jackson, who is very familiar with the cd, was singing along with one of the choruses that repeated the line "I was running down the hill." But Jackson has taken after his father in a way that has made David very proud. David has a passion for changing or embellishing the lyrics of even the most innocent song and causing it to become quite inappropriate. So on this particular day, Mother's Day, we hear Jackson's voice from the back of the van singing sweetly along with the children's singer, "I was running down the hill..." and then he improvised in such a way that proves I was only the vessel for David's progeny "...with no pants on."

Deeply dessert

The other night I was indulging in one of my guilty pregnancy pleasures, vanilla ice cream atop half of a mini chocolate bundt cake from Trader Joe's, when I realized that I had been going about eating it in the wrong manner. The enjoyment of each bite relies on the perfect balance of ice cream to cake. This is quite easily achieved until the end of the dessert is reached; you may be left with too much or too little of one of the tasty components which makes the ending to such an otherwise decadent experience quite anti-climactic. So to prevent this tragic ending I had been carefully planning out each bite to achieve the desired final ratio. Sometimes this meant that I might have to construct a few subpar spoonfuls in order to ensure that my last bite was perfect. The problem was that I stopped enjoying all the bites leading up to the grand finale and sacrificed so much enjoyment for one final moment. Not a great way to eat cake and ice cream. Now you might think that there's some great life lesson to be learned here, and maybe there is. But what I'm taking away from this is to quit planning 'cause there's always more cake and ice cream in the kitchen if I need to balance the ratio in the end.

Zim must have had a twisted sense of humor

My parents have been here this weekend helping me out with the boys while David is having one last pre-baby hurrah at the Coachella music festival. In the bathroom they're using are all sorts of interesting toiletries that they have brought with them spread out on the counter. One of these items looked particularly interesting and I asked my mom what it was.

"Oh, that's my crack cream."

Excuse me?

Sure enough the little bottle was called "Zim's Crack Cream." Dry skin can result in small cracks on hands and feet, right? And surely these were the cracks this cream was meant for. But c'mon....

"I never leave home without my crack cream."

"That Zim really knows how to fill my crack."

"My crack cream is the only thing that brings me relief."

And for some reason this cream comes in a small spray bottle, maybe for those people who have a really hard to reach crack.

My hands are happily full, thank you.

Today I was walking across Jackson's school to pick him up from the office after receiving a call that he wasn't feeling well and wanted to come home. I was carrying Sam on my hip next to my gargantuan belly, since you have to descend a flight of stairs to Jackson's school and I couldn't manage a stroller up and down those stairs. As I approached the office a woman came out and said, "Boy, you have your hands full." No kidding? What gave it away? Was it the way I precariously balanced my huge protrusion out front with the 30 lb flopping child on my hip who prefers to view the world sideways or upside down? Could you have maybe come up with something a little less obvious to comment on? How about commending me on my stellar balance?

I get this "hands full" comment from strangers so often and I can't figure out why they feel the need to make it. What's the point in stating the obvious? And despite the frequency with which I hear this I never have a clever comeback ready. I don't wish to say anything mean because I know these people aren't being rude; plus, I have lots of sarcastic replies handy I just choose not to use them. I just don't get why people feel the need to say anything at all. And they make the same comment whether I have one child or both with me. What's going to happen when this 3rd one pops out? Maybe then I'll start hearing something original or at least get some ghastly stares.

Photo fun

A few pictures for your viewing pleasure:

He's so much more fun after knocking back a few beers during our Friday night happy hour.

Wearily emerging from the jungle having escaped their captors...


... the small humans scale the wall back into suburbia.

Spring break in Arizona

So I promised an update and pictures from our Arizona trip a while ago. But Jackson got a stomach bug the last day of our trip, David got it as soon as we returned home, then our crazy busy week began and my ankles have been swollen since Tucson. Pregnancy isn't always pretty. I sit here now on the couch with my feet elevated and I plan on making good on my promise.

You can click on any of the photos for a larger view.


This was from our first stop in Yuma to see my grandparents. We've given up on all the complexly crafted special needs equipment and have opted for 2 boppy pillows to assist Sam with his sitting. This works great unless Sam happens to be sitting up in a chair and his big brother is asked to watch him for 2 seconds while you step away and Sam decides to play one of his favorite games where he throws himself forward and then pops back up again... only he didn't pop back up again. Unfortunately, this is the only Yuma picture I have since the few with my grandparents in them mysteriously disappeared from our camera.



Here's David and his mini-me at Saguaro National Park. I think they were looking for birds because really if you've seen one saguaro cactus you've seen them all.



These are the actors who played the Earp brothers and Doc Holliday in the gunfight at the OK Corral in Tombstone. Sam enjoyed himself at this show. The first loud shot was met with only a mildly annoyed grunt from Sam and then he tolerated the rest. But the best part was when one of the actors was trying to shush the audience's laughter after a mishap at his expense. Right after he said, "It wasn't that funny," Sam decided it would be a good time to give one of his very contrived everyone-else-was-laughing-so-I-want-to-join-in loud laughs to follow up... and we were sitting in the front row. Ah, life with Sam.



This is taken just outside the OK Corral.



Our future paleontologist digging for fossils at the Desert Museum in Tucson. This is a wonderful museum that is mainly outdoors and requires more than a day to fully explore all of its glory.



Our little drummer boy in his high-tech seating contraption at our hotel in Tucson. This time he's safely on the floor.



The view from the van as we drove into Sedona.



The view inside the van. Notice all the stuff crammed into the van behind Jackson? Notice how it doesn't even reach the window? We had a lot of crap back there including a jog stroller and a week's worth of food for Sam. I love my mini-van more and more each day.



After breezing through Sedona, stopping only for dinner, we ended up in Flagstaff. From here we took a day trip to Petrified Forest National Park. Here we sit in front of this desolate landscape which is part of the Painted Desert and it really made me wish we had spent more time in Sedona instead.



Most of the places we visited had some tie-in with dinosaurs, which pleased our little dino to no end.



And, finally, a family photo from our trip to the Grand Canyon. We're all laughing because of the way David has included himself in the photo he's taking. Sam's laughing because he finds the word "cheese" to be one of the funniest things ever spoken; this works out well for us during photo shoots.

Hello from Arizona

I haven't posted anything in awhile because we've been in Arizona since last weekend. Internet has been slow and sketchy at best and the few moments I have at the end of the day to post I'm too tired. But we've had many adventures and I will have plenty of pictures to post early next week once we return and settle back in.

Sound parenting advice can be found on network television

Last weekend was an exercise in parental control. What I'm trying to say is that Jackson was such a little shit that it took all the restraint in the world not to beat the crap out of him. I'm really not sure what caused his undesirable behavior as it always seemed to follow a period of fun. We'd be having a good time as a family, it would approach the time to end the fun and then Jackson's head would start spinning around as he shot lasers out of his eyes and spewed words of hatred. I was very proud of how calmly David and I handled these outbursts; though, on more than one occasion I found myself saying, "I'm walking away now," which was more of an instruction to myself to step away from the child before anything ugly and illegal went down than it was information for Jackson. During one of his more lucid moments I asked Jackson why he behaved that way and he responded that he didn't want the fun to end. Six year old logic: have a good time with mom and dad and then when it's over yell violently at them so that maybe they'll want to keep having fun with you.

After a few days of this I began wondering what we were doing wrong as parents to have raised such a spiteful little child. There are plenty of books out there that give quality advice on such behavior issues; some of these books are even sitting collecting dust on my book shelf. I considered looking through one of these books. Instead I found myself on the couch last night in front of the television thinking, "what would Supernanny do?" I haven't ever actually watched a complete episode of Supernanny but I've heard she has some pretty sound advice. I realized I didn't need her advice after watching about 10 minutes of the family featured last night. The kids were somewhat out-of-control on a daily basis but the parents were complete morons when it came to handling the behaviors. This family would go out to a restaurant and their 5 year old would stand on a chair yelling "I want desssseeeeerrrt!" This was not an isolated event and the parents didn't seem to have any consequences for this type of thing. And rather than ordering in from restaurants to avoid the disgruntled looks from the other diners, they ate out on average 3 times per week! Why put yourself through that torture? Morons. Supernanny wisely suggested they bring along some activities to keep their 2 young boys occupied during dinner. After instigating this plan with successful results the parents bowed down at Supernanny's feet extolling her unprecedented genius. This was all it took for me to realize that our family doesn't have problems. At least David and I seem to have the basic parenting skills down. We just may have to accept that sometimes Jackson's body is switched out with that of a malevolent imp who bears a striking resemblance to our sweet 6 year old.

Never underestimate the power of a good foot rub

I was awake at 2am this morning. Not because of pregnancy heartburn, difficulty finding a comfortable sleeping position, or the tiny, nocturnal kick-boxer taking up temporary residence within my uterus. No, I can sleep through all that. But what I can't seem to sleep through is my 3 year old yelling with all his might for someone to come and get him from his crib. I also have a hard time sleeping through this same child kicking with great fury at a musical toy attached to the side of his crib. Since Sam has no intelligible words he simply increases his vocalizations until someone responds. And since his coordination could use a lot of fine tuning he completely side steps any attempt at precision when trying to activate a musical toy, instead choosing to whack aimlessly with arms or legs at any object until the desired effect is attained. So all of this was going on... at 2am... in Sam's crib... which is located right next to my bed.

By the time my alarm had gone off this morning (which it really had no need to since I had been awake since 2am... did I mention that?) I had devised a plan. I would get devil child up, feed him breakfast, deposit the older child at school, return home and fall into a deep sleep with the younger spawn who would surely be tired by that time. But he wasn't tired. He wasn't even grumpy. He was downright fucking cheery. By the time he was ready to nap it was time to go get the older one from school and I'd given up hope for recovering any sleep for myself.

This story could have ended in a very ugly way had it not been for the nice woman I paid to rub my feet tonight and paint my toes an uplifting sunny yellow. Thank you, Julie. And thank you Happy Nails.

Born again disabled

Recently a very wise friend and I were discussing Christianity and its views on particular life matters. I mentioned how I really had a hard time with some of the perspectives on disability that come from my Christian friends. I've been told by many of these well-meaning individuals that Sam is here for a reason and that by allowing Sam's disability God has meant for me to learn a valuable lesson. I'm not sure if each individual has their own tailor made lesson to learn but there appears to be a broader goal of learning to trust in God's glory. From my own limited reading on the matter it would seem that disability exists because a long, long time ago in a lush garden two foliage clad humans got hungry and ate something they weren't supposed to and now we all must endure suffering for their sin. So now we've got pain, hunger, etc. And we've got these people with disabilities. But basically it's all okay because we've also got this dude, God, who can make it all better. Now he may choose to make it better by healing the individual with the disability or he may not. The suffering may just have to be endured until death. But it's still okay because there remains a chance for salvation after death. You just have to trust this unseen entity or have.... what's that word.... faith. Let me break it down as I see it: two people I've never met fucked up, wreaking havoc for our world, causing God to "allow" my child to be born disabled so that I, and anyone else who cares to benefit from my child's suffering, may learn how to kiss God's ass while waiting for a miracle cure or maybe just die first. And you wonder why I'm not a Christian.

So this wise friend says to me, "Has anyone ever proposed to you the idea that maybe Sam, himself, chose this path for his life's experience?" Well, no. This seems to presuppose the idea that Sam was sentient prior to conception. And it suggests that Sam is not here merely for my own selfish gain or to stroke the ego of some supreme being. This hints of Eastern religion. And I like it. "So this resonates with you?" my friend asked. I guess if I couldn't just accept Mindy and David's philosophy appropriately called "Shit Happens" and I needed a reason to explain Sam's disability then, yes; the idea that maybe there was something Sam needed to get out of this earthly experience and chose his disabled body accordingly, resonates with me. How can it not when Sam fought so hard in his first year of life just to be here? It is not by the glory of God that he is still with us despite his challenges. Give the kid some credit. Sam is here because he's fought hard for this life. And is there a lesson in this? Maybe. While Sam is here pursuing his own experience we may be able to open ourselves up enough to glean something of our own from knowing Sam. Maybe this child, with his spirit unfettered by the ego defenses most of us carry around, allows us much closer contact with the essence of who he is and a clearer reflection of who we are. Maybe it's in this way that Sam truly is a blessing. This comes not from what he has brought to teach us, but rather from how we may choose to enhance our own experience with lessons learned from such an open soul.

Jackson's wheels

Jackson learned to ride a 2-wheel bike today. I never thought I'd see the day. We've been working toward this goal for a long time and it's not been easy. Jackson has been very resistant to the idea, coming up with every excuse and complaint he could think of. At one point he whined that the seat of his bike was too high and he couldn't reach the ground. I lowered the seat and he began complaining that now his knees went too high when he peddled. I eventually stopped listening to his complaints and started striking bargains. Today I told him we could go to the park as long as he rode his bike there by sitting on the seat and walking his feet on both sides along the ground. I thought this would be as far as we got today but Jackson gained so much confidence just from his ability to balance with his legs dangling at the sides that he decided to try placing his feet on the pedals once he was coasting. The first time he tried it he took off. I know that riding a bike is a relatively simple skill that we take for granted but to see my little boy accomplish this feat for the first time was the most spectacular and breathtaking event I've witnessed all year. And I didn't even have to resort to the beastly trickery of letting go of the back of the bike seat when the child least expects it causing the child to suspect foul play, look back for reassurance and go crashing to the ground. If any parents reading this have ever done such a thing to their own children just remember that forgiveness first begins with you... dad.

My beloved minivan

I think I've resolved my love/hate struggle with my new minivan. I have a new appreciation for the big hunka metal and it's all thanks to the guy who rear-ended me this morning less than a mile from my house. The boys and I were on our way to school and I was stopped behind a school bus at a 4-way stop amidst children walking to school when the man in the car behind us decided it would be a good time to attend to some papers on his passenger seat. He didn't see the big yellow bus stopped or my shiny new van with the 3 red brake lights on. And apparently he wasn't concerned enough about all the small children around about to start their school day to keep his eyes on the road. He plowed right into the back of us. Fortunately none of us were hurt and he was very nice and apologetic about the entire incident. The damage to the van is minor; there's a dent in the tailgate and a hole in the bumper, all of which his insurance will pay to repair. But I started thinking about what a stupid mistake that guy made and how it doesn't matter how careful of a driver I am, I can still be involved in an accident. So I started feeling really good about our decision to buy one of the safest cars on the market. It may not win me any "cool mom on the block" votes but my new van is starting to give me the warm fuzzies when I think about how it protects my precious cargo.

Would he scold my wrong turn and tell me I was being naughty?

This here is a symbol of my demotion from hip mama to tragically dull matronly figure. Our new Honda Odyssey has stirred up more emotions in me than any car should ever be allowed. On the one hand it's a work of stunning genius with amazing detail paid to (almost) every need and convenience of today's family; on the other hand... well, it's a minivan. The love/hate struggle that I face with this car is just something I'm going to have to learn to embrace since it really is a damn fine automobile. The one complaint I have, other than the obvious negative image it denotes, is the unforgivable lack of automatic locking doors. Our CRV had them and I'm finding it very difficult to adjust to their absence. Just this morning I spent a good chunk of time stuck in the damn car because I couldn't figure out how to open the power sliding doors. This shouldn't be a hard task since Honda has provided me with 3 different ways of opening these doors. You've got the handle on the inside, the button on the key remote or the button inside the car next to the steering wheel. But none of these work if the doors are locked. Of course, this might seem obvious but I had assumed the doors were already unlocked because the Honda CRV, which was far less luxurious, had doors that automatically locked and unlocked when the car was turned on or off. You'd think that the Odyssey, which comes with a user's manual DVD for those of us who can't read I suppose, would include automatic locking doors. No such luck. But at least the heated seats were keeping my ass nice and warm as I struggled to find a way to open the side doors.

We had the option of purchasing the built-in navigation system with the van. Unfortunately you could only get the nav system if you also purchased the built-in DVD player and all this cost a small fortune. We could think of a lot of uses for the navigation but couldn't justify the DVD player. While David and I are all for unnecessary luxuries for ourselves we feel that relative deprivation makes for a healthy childhood for our kids. After all, what's a roadtrip without a game of license plate bingo or my favorite, pick a dirt spot on the side window then bob and weave your head to make it "fly" over trees or telephone wires. I'm not sure what that last one is called but I'm pretty sure my brother made it up during a particularly boring family road trip when we were kids. It's this kind of inventiveness that I don't want to deprive my children of by buying a DVD player for our car. At least that's what we'll tell them when they complain that they are the only kids on the whole block without a DVD player in the car.

Since the idea of a navigation system was already planted in our heads and, clearly the Odyssey was incomplete without one, we bought our own. I was actually a bit hesitant at first. After all, I have a cell phone and a husband who works in front of a computer all day. With one simple phone call to him he could pull up google maps and tell me exactly how to get to my destination. Now after using the new navigation for a few days I'm in love. The object of my affection even has a name: Emily. She speaks with a British accent and tells me exactly when and where to turn. I even find her mispronunciation of some of the Spanish street names around here endearing. If I decide to take my own detour she does not scold me; she simply recalculates the directions and does her bloody best to get me back on track. I need to check the manual to see if Emily has a male counterpart.

It's the small things that cause the most suffering... like M&Ms and unborn babies

I've been tired and grumpy lately. Turns out I don't much like having my body taken over by an incredibly small human that grows at a freakishly rapid rate. Don't get me wrong; I like that the end result of this host/parasite experience is a sweet (please let her be sweet) baby but I wish there was a way to make the whole process more enjoyable. There are women out there who claim to love being pregnant. I don't believe them for a second. They are either lying or heavily medicated. Part of my problem is that I can't have chocolate. There are a few foods that cause heartburn for me during pregnancy: cheese, spicy foods and chocolate. The cheese and spice I can eat in moderation and quell any burning with a glass of milk or a couple of Tums antacids. The chocolate is another story. If I so much as eat one M&M I'm ruined for the rest of the day. Nothing seems to get rid of chocolate induced heartburn. I can only take so many Tums; there are warning labels on those things, you know. The world can be a very cruel place.

Just don't misinterpret our intentions

David recently found this contraption on a website of totally absurd inventions. Now, of course, he wasn't searching out strap-on binkies for babies. What need would we have for such a "devious little device"? We already have one. I don't think the product actually made it into stores. We had to make ours ourselves. I guess it's a good thing we didn't follow our friends' advice and try to patent it. One of the flaws the website mentions is the baby's ability to reach up and take the straps off. Oh, but that won't happen if you get yourself a pair of these pediatric arm immobilizers. Just imagine how much happier that kid would look if he just had a pacifier strapped to his mouth.

Blog brilliance

Today's entry comes courtesy of Heather at dooce.com. I haven't the energy to write anything myself having experienced oxygen depriving fits of laughter while reading her latest story. Enjoy!

Vomit, vasectomies and Vicodin, oh my!

Let's talk about perspective. I had a friend call me about 40 minutes before we were to leave to see a movie together and cancel because her almost 6-year old daughter had thrown up. And I'm thinking, "Uh huh... did it look like pea soup and cause her head to spin 360 degrees because I'm still not getting why you can't go to the movie." And this is where you all start thinking I'm a callous wench for having so little compassion. But it's all about the perspective. See, in this household the demonic possession scenario is not so far from actual experience. Sam is an adorable little 3-year old who, when plagued by any sort of illness, turns into Satan's spawn. So a little upchuck from a mild-mannered kindergartener seems almost reason to celebrate, you know.

Perspective. David had the big snip last week and spent the weekend recovering. I use the term recovering loosely because it wasn't too bad at all. A couple of days taking it easy with a bag of frozen peas between his legs and nothing more than some Advil and beer to take the edge off. He didn't even feel the need to fill the prescription for Vicodin; though we did consider filling it just to be a part of the cool crowd. It seems that everyone has some Vicodin lying around the house. And every so often when one of my mommy friends has a killer headache she'll ask our group of friends if it's safe to take a Vicodin while nursing. Forget nursing... is it safe to take while you're caring for young children? And what the hell are you doing with a prescription of Vicodin lying around anyway? But my point was that David didn't seem to suffer too much. This could have been due to the expertise of the urologist who performed the procedure; he's the same urologist that Sam sees on a regular basis and I picked based on his good looks skill. Okay, so I did pick him based on the fact that he's not entirely unpleasant to look at. This is a doctor that Sam has to see on a regular basis and I'll be damned if I was going to waste another moment with an ugly doc. It's a win-win situation for me and Sam, really; he gets the medical care he needs and I get to stare at the good looking doctor. But back to David's recovery. I'm beginning to wonder if he had an easy time of it because of his perspective. After going through some of the things that we've been through with Sam, swollen black and blue balls are just a minor annoyance.

Some very unrealistic expectations

Did anyone seriously think I'd be able to take it easy this past week? Seriously? Okay, I was able to cut out my thrice weekly exercising. And the militant teachers at Sam's school forbid me from lifting Sam in and out of the car and his wheelchair. I don't miss the physical exertion so much but have always looked forward to that moment when I greet him at school and he lifts his hands to my face while I unbuckle him from his chair; then I pick him up and he smiles and giggles and tells me about his day in his own Sam babble. Then I get my hug. You haven't lived until you get a hug from Sam. Even when he decides after a few minutes that your shoulder would provide some much needed relief for his aching teeth the hug is still more than worth it. So even though I saw the good intention in Sam's teacher alerting all the other teachers, the bus aides, the other parents, and the people who live in the trees that when they saw me drive up to the school they were to remind me to stay put and wait for someone to help with Sam and sound the alarms if I so much as laid a finger on my own child, I still resented the fact that I was missing my favorite hug moments. I suspect Sam was a bit resentful, too, by the way he yelled loudly at the teachers when they lifted him from his chair or carseat. But other than omitting those activities my life still remained fairly active this past week.

I still had high hopes when arriving at the midwife's this morning for my belly measurement. The baby had turned to a vertical position and as long as I held my stomach tight and didn't exhale too deeply I felt I could keep her that way until after the midwife had taken the measurement. Well it worked and I'm measuring right on target for my date. This probably means that my amniotic fluid level is fine which only makes sense since I've been hitting the water hard all week.

I'm glad that everything seems to be just fine because how can a mom to a 6-year old and a child with special needs really take it easy. Seriously.

Changing of the title

You may have noticed that I changed the title of my blog. The former title never really sat right with me and, well, it was quite boring. I decided just to use my old stand-by since it's been working for me for a long time; plus, it's in my blog's URL. The term originates from a poem I wrote as a freshman in college:

Ode to my Muse

emerging I again sense the abyss
Reality haunts Memories taunt
i begin my phantasmagoric jaunt
through a green sea
i paint purple paisleys
with each stroke of my naked arms

i sense a gentle presence
a yellow wave presses over me
as i’m submerged in this forgotten underworld
i inhale the heady water
reassured by your cautious touch
i press my hand into yours
and we penetrate the mysterious water
your words create movement in the water
each resulting current caresses my bare skin
transporting me deeper
and deeper
into our intoxicating world

two minds

green fades to gray
your hand slips from mine
i’ve left the amaranths behind
as I come up for air

I hope you enjoyed the brief poetic interlude. We shall return shortly to our regularly scheduled prosaic blabber.

Sad farewell

My best friend is moving to Hawaii tomorrow. In the 20 years that Autumn and I have been friends she has visited family in Hawaii many times and she also lived there for several years at one time... but she always came back here. So I think I still haven't accepted the fact that she's actually moving there for real this time. We spent the day with her and her family yesterday so that our kids, who have grown up together, could have one last day of fun. Jackson and Keana were kind enough to pose for a few photos at the end of the day

Another good friend joined in the photo shoot so that we could give Autumn and her family a proper send-off



We love you. We'll miss you. Come back and see us soon.

Fun with fundi

My midwife appointment yesterday revealed that I'm measuring small for my date. A measurement taken from my pubic bone to the top of my uterus, or fundus, should come close in centimeters to the number of weeks that I am pregnant. But yesterday's measurement showed no change over that of the previous measurement 4 weeks ago. I had a sneaking suspicion that this could have had something to do with the fact that this baby seems to be stretched out across my belly instead of in a head up or down position. If she's horizontal, or transverse, then so too is my uterus which would make for a lower fundal height. Well, I should have left it at that. Instead the midwife and I decided to take a quick look on ultrasound just to be safe. Sure enough, baby is transverse and measuring just perfectly for my due date but.... my amniotic fluid is on the low end of normal. You might recall the puke fest that we had going on here last week and it's taken a while for my appetite to return to normal so it's entirely possible that I just need to increase fluids and nutrients. But the midwife left me with another recommendation: try to limit activity this week. Ha! I know I shouldn't laugh because it's a great recommendation and low amniotic fluid can turn into a serious problem, but, ha! Just getting a resistant and squirming Sam dressed in the morning is an aerobic workout. I go back next week for another check-up so we'll see how well I've done.

Peanut butter and honey on toast

That had been David's puke-friendly (now there's a hyphenated word you don't see too often) breakfast selection. I chose it for the following morning when I began feeling nauseous and, you know, it didn't taste too bad coming back up later on that day. Well chosen. Pairing it with a glass of sprite made the experience none too unpleasant. All in all a 5 star upchucking affair.

Strawberries and green beans.

So the boys have been puking this week. It started with Sam throwing up the entire undigested contents of his lunch; since he eats mashed foods anyway, the pureed green beans and tofu looked pretty much the same coming up as they did going down. He seemed pretty surprised by the whole experience but not entirely disturbed. I guess when you're three years old and have been through as much as Sam, green liquid bursting forth from your mouth and nose is just to be expected. He took it all in stride.

Then last night, after Sam had gone a full 24 hours puke free, Jackson started up. Now Jackson has only puked once in his life and that was over 5 years ago when he was a mere babe. So you can imagine that he might find the experience a bit more distressing when chunks of strawberries came flying uncontrollably out of his mouth. He had been asleep for about an hour when the upheaval started. David and I ran into his room to hear him cry, "It just won't stop. It keeps coming. I can't stop it!" After things had calmed down and I had gotten him into the bath he was still very worried that he would start throwing up again. I found myself reassuring him that it was perfectly okay to let the pink chunks of fruit fall freely from his mouth into the toilet or the bowl we had provided. And I thought, lucky boy to have had strawberries as the last thing he'd eaten; I'm sure that was a lot more pleasant coming up than green beans and tofu.

This morning David and I both chose to stray from our usual breakfast of cereal with milk. I eyed his peanut butter and jelly toast while he took in my waffle with strawberries.
"I'm choosing my food based on what I think might taste best coming back up... just in case."
"Ha! Me too."

If it's yellow...

Jackson has a hard time remembering to flush the toilet after using the bathroom and like that funny little guy on Ally McBeal, I like a fresh bowl. I've been reminding him for years to flush but it still hasn't sunk in. If I catch him coming out of the bathroom and tell him to go back and flush he acts like I've asked him to give up one of his kidneys to a sick relative he's never met. To make matters worse, our toilets are those environmentally friendly low-flow types that back up if anything larger than a grape tries to go down and frequently require several flushes to rid the bowl of all waste. So I find myself checking in on our toilets a few times a day to make sure there's nothing lingering; this way we can actually go for more than a day or two between cleanings without something starting to grow in there. Not sure I was really going anywhere with this just thought it was time to include a post about toilets.

A curious parting

Yesterday morning the boys and I were pulling out of the garage on the way to school while David waved from outside the car. I rolled down the rear window and Jackson yelled, "Bye Dad! Hope the seafood's fresh!"

The adventures of super turkey

I believe it was in 6th grade that I learned how much I enjoyed writing. I wrote a story called The Adventures of Super Turkey - it must have been some Thanksgiving themed writing - and it was picked by Mr. Reppard to be read in front of the class. Although I didn't think the story to be too shabby I was still nervous as hell to read it in front of a class full of unforgiving, pre-pubescent peers. The story full of humor and, well... adventure, was met with friendly laughter and applause.

That was 20 years ago and I've done a lot more writing since then, though never again about a turkey. All along the way my writing has been met with favorable response by friends, family and professors. I even dared once to enter a poem in a contest held by a local paper and won second place. Despite the years of praise I still often wonder, "Does anyone really enjoy reading this crap I write?" And apparently from the emails, phone calls and other various comments the answer is "yes." So thank you to everyone who reads and enjoys my writings, and especially to those who tell me how cool my blog is. Twenty years of stroking just hasn't been enough for my ego.

Welcome to the ghetto

A little over 3 years ago David and I were thrust into a world we could have never imagined. The day Sam was born was the beginning of a new life for our family. We were bombarded with advice from well meaning friends and acquaintances; some of these people had experience with this new world, but most did not. The support of these people was amazing, invaluable and something for which I am eternally grateful; but their advice always missed the mark. We also were visited by "professionals" who came bearing books and essays to help us understand and cope with our new life. One of the supposedly helpful materials given to us was a little essay called Welcome to Holland. Now I don't know what disability the child of the author had but I have to believe that it must be something mild if she chose Holland to use as her metaphor. If I were to write a similar piece I would probably title it Welcome to the Ghetto. You boarded that plane expecting to arrive in beautiful Italy only to find yourself exiting a urine soaked cab as some transient holds a gun to your head. Realizing your roundtrip ticket was mistakenly issued as one-way, you don't shrug your shoulders and learn to love your new home; instead you vow to fire your travel agent and find a way to Italy. Unfortunately the transient made off with your cell phone and all you credit cards. While I'd love to be in Italy or, hell even Holland, I have learned to love my ghetto life. But David and I have still had to find our own way of surviving in the hostile new place we found ourselves and no fluffy book on special needs children or clever essay on accepting our new life helped. Actually, I believe most of this well meaning material and advice only fueled the fire for our favorite coping mechanism: black humor. Some of the stuff that came out of our mouths shocked even us which made it that much funnier. Unfortunately, there are quite a few people who would love to see us tarred and feathered for some of the comments we've made. One mom on the Joubert Syndrome list I belong to wrote that there should be a special place in hell for anyone who uses the word "retard." Which I just think is... well, retarded. And I maintain my right to use that word when it makes an almost unbearable situation just a bit humorous for David and me, or if the word conjures up the appropriate image with all the social stigma attached to drive home a point.

And all this was leading up to explaining the real meaning behind the "2.7 kids" in the blurb beneath my blog title and its reference to Sam's incomplete brain. Even though it was damn funny to me and David at one point it still seems a bit callous when written here. Now I shall take my children, properly assembled and not, and go into hiding for awhile.

Maybe she caught a touch of the southern twang

Sam caught a nasty stomach bug last week. He's got kind of wonky digestive issues so we really weren't sure at first if this was a virus, something he ate, or just Sam. When I called the school office to tell them he would be absent the woman in the office asked if he would be out due to illness or some other reason.
I said, "Illness. He has diarrhea."
"Oh," she balked, "TMA. You know. TMA." First of all, you wussy, you mean TMI as in too much information. Second, no it's not. I'm sharing this little detail hoping that you might tell me if this is something going around the school right now in order to help us determine the possible cause of Sam's illness. It's what people do even in polite conversation:
"I've had this terrible sore throat."
"Oh, my friend's daughter had that and went to the doctor who said that's been a common complaint at his office lately. Guess it's going around."
If I had wanted to really gross you out I could have told you about how I went through 6 diapers with Sam all in the span of 15 minutes because the poop just kept flowing. And at one point it was coming so fast and furious that I didn't have time to cover up his visceral spout and had to jump out of the way of the frothy brown geyser. My description would not be complete without adding that we tried to rehydrate the poor boy with fluorescent orange Pedialyte, and because his bowels had been so violently emptied, he shat orange liquid within minutes of imbibing the glowing drink. So there's your TMA you prudish clod.

Morning paper

Reading the paper this morning and read about an ancient American Indian burial site unearthed in a city nearby. The reason it was discovered is because workers were building a new retail and residential development. Residential? Ancient Indian burial site? Two words: they're here. Apparently a bunch of tribal reps from one of two tribes that deals with Indian burial sites in the county showed up to the site. The Chairman of the tribe said they deal with this stuff all the time and wouldn't discuss how the tribes and developer planned to move forward. I'm such a cynic. As I read further into the article I had to share with David. The following conversation ensued:

"Wouldn't say how they planned to move forward. I'm sure the developer just pays 'em off."

"Shit. It's like Poltergeist."

"'No biggee. Just go ahead and pave over our ancestors. But if you want us to remove the curse that will be an extra $4 million.'"

"'And in that corner over there could you build us a little casino?'"

Mr. Bell's secret fertilizer

Those of you with children may be familiar with the songs of Raffi. I like Raffi. I may be a bit tired of him after listening to him for almost 6 years, but he remains a decent fellow in my opinion. Some of his songs are downright fun like "Bananaphone;" others, more serious, convey his respect for nature. Some are full of lessons and meaning and others are empty but entertaining. Yet all of them are acceptable for listening. There remains one song, though, that I can't figure out. "The Changing Garden of Mr. Bell" is a haunting little number about a man who has a colorful and everchanging garden in his yard. Seems innocent enough, right? And it could be until our attention is called to a photo on Mr. Bell's mantle that pictures what may be his missing wife and child:

I once saw a photograph, upon his mantle shelf
Of a beautiful lady, a child in her arms
And the young Mr. Bell himself
I wondered out loud about them, and he answered
In the strangest way,
He just said "look, see how the garden grows,
It's always changing ev‘ry day"

from The Changing Garden Of Mr. Bell
(Janice Hubbard/Michael Silversher)

Do you get the feeling that Mr. Bell might have some skeletons in his garden? You might think that I'm reaching but for the closing lines of the song:

Life's a mystery, full of secrets that might tell
In the changing garden of Mister Bell

Convinced now? It gets even weirder:

See the sun through the curtain lace
Dapple his face and hands

What man in his right mind has lace curtains? Clearly there's something very wrong with Mr. Bell. And I'm left wondering what a song about a man who possibly murdered and buried his wife and kid in his garden is doing on a children's album. What was Raffi thinking?

The cheese stands alone

There's a little boy in Sam's class who has always puzzled me. He's a funny little guy who has the appearance and mannerisms of a rat. Now before anybody takes offense at the audacity of me comparing a child with special needs to a rat... just stop... because you haven't seen him. He does bear a striking resemblance to a rat. There's nothing wrong with this either. Unless you find rats to be particularly vile and disgusting creatures then there should be no issue with simply pointing out that an individual shares an uncanny likeness to a small, furry rodent. Have we cleared up the whole political incorrectness crap? Because I do like this little boy. Okay, so part of my affection for him does come from the entertainment value he provided for the week I spent in Sam's class. Shit, there I go again. I feel like I have to clear the air once more. Forget it. He's a cute kid, special, a real dear, a true angel. Have I got the special needs party line down yet? You've heard it before. He's a real blessing... but he still reminds me of a rat!

So the whole time I was in Sam's class this little boy was busy. He always seemed like he had something to do or somewhere to be. He had a plan. You could tell this by the way he would lay his index finger next to his mouth and pause for but a second. Then he would set off to carry out whatever it was that he had been scheming up. But the end result was never to his satisfaction... and he would stop and re-start the activity then stop again... only to pause with his finger aside his mouth to think things through once more. Meanwhile he would make little grunting noises as if caught up in the effort of the plan. It was like watching a rat in a box maze frantically searching for the right path that led to the cheese. Turning this way and that, hitting a dead end, going back to the beginning, rushing and twitching for that cheese. Only for this little boy it was becoming quite clear that there was no cheese at the end. He never seemed to find satisfaction with his plan. Then one day he tried to engage me in his impossible plan. With my hand in his he led me around the classroom. Over to the light switch. Was I to turn it on? Off? No no... that wasn't right. We went back to the beginning. To the light switch again. Still the solution did not appear. So we tried the refrigerator. Nothing. Hand me the toy phone then. Shall I talk on it? Do you want to? No, not that one? How about this block? Oh, back to the phone. The block. The phone. The light switch? Finally I said, "I'm done getting the run around. I'm stopping this madness and staying right here." He stopped and looked up at me with his beady eyes. Then he took my hand once again but I wouldn't budge. He pulled and instead of yielding I twirled him around. And again I twirled him until his little face lit up almost into a smile. I'm on to something, I thought. So I twirled him again and saw him smile for the first time. Then he nudged me while still holding my hand and I twirled for him. Together we twirled and I heard him laugh. We twirled several times until I began feeling dizzy but I didn't want to stop because I realized that this was the longest I had seen him participate in any one activity and it was good to hear him laugh. I was dizzy and happy and he was happy and dizzy and together I think we found the cheese.

If only we weren't so damned concerned with safety

The mini-van shopping has begun. Somehow I thought we'd be able to fit 3 children into a Honda CRV. Little did I know that carseats are super-sized now. Is that because cars are getting bigger or children? We even tried fitting Jackson in between two carseats without his booster. It can be done but not exactly safely. In the event of a side impact his little head would be crushed between the two very hard outer shells of his siblings' carseats. And, as of right now, he's the child who holds the most promise so we're not willing to take the risk. I have never wanted a mini-van. Actually, I do believe that I swore once on my mother's life that I would never be caught dead driving one. Boy she's going to be disappointed. I used to think that a mini-van represented all that was wrong with the world. Gas guzzling cars that accommodated more children than any two people had the right to conceive. They were a sign of how we raped and overpopulated the earth. I was such an idealist back then. Oh, how things have changed. I still agree with the basic premise of my previous belief; I just don't care so much anymore. That's not completely true because I have given our situation some justification... er, I mean, thought. First of all, mini-vans have improved on gas mileage. Second, although it's true that we're over-populating by having more kids than there are parents, reproductively speaking Sam is a dead end. Okay, really we're considering a mini-van because we're looking at future wheelchair lift potential; something most new car buyers fortunately don't have to consider. Still the old me will be having a good laugh at the new me if and when I get behind that wheel.

And the result is....

It was pretty clear from the ultrasound this morning that we're having a girl! I probably should have waited to write about the sock issue after finding out the sex of this baby but I had a pretty good feeling that I wasn't carrying another dirty-sock-desk-cubby-stuffer.

Boy? Girl? What it really comes down to is socks.

Tomorrow I go in for my ultrasound which should reveal the sex of this baby. Honestly, David and I will be happy with a healthy baby of any sex. A baby is a baby. I will admit, though, that at some point I would like that baby to turn into a girl; maybe this could happen around the age of 3 or 4. I've talked to my friends who have little girls and there is a difference between boys and girls. Really. Now I know there are pros and cons to both. I would never assert that one sex is better than the other. At least not on a public blog. And I like my boys. What I don't like is their dirty socks laying all around the house. Wherever David removes his socks they remain... for days... until I pick them up. Sometime last year Jackson decided to follow his father's example and began leaving his socks laying around. Since I'm bigger than him Jackson actually listened when I threatened to throw away any dirty socks I found laying around. For several days it seemed as if Jackson was depositing his dirty socks into the laundry basket. And then I found about five days worth of soiled socks shoved into a cubby of our downstairs desk. Later that day when I told this story to David he said, "Oh yeah, Jackson mentioned to me a few days ago that he was doing that." Now you would think a good father would ask his son to remove the socks immediately and put them in their proper place, but in David's world and in the world of boys a desk cubby is a perfectly acceptable place to stash dirty socks. Are you beginning to understand why this household is in need of some more female influence? I've found socks in so many various places inside the house and out that laundry day can be like a treasure hunt. Only the treasure is a dirty sock. Now that both boys are in school I'm feeling like I have more time to have some fun with this before the baby comes. I'm thinking that after I do laundry I'll hide the clean socks around the house for David and Jackson to search for every morning as they try to get ready for work and school. Maybe I'll even mix it up a little and hide a mismatched pair here and there.

School day horror

Sam spent his first day at school without me today. When I told the teacher that I would be letting him fly solo today she asked sarcastically, "So soon?" Fine. So I'm a little attached to that little bugger and couldn't bear to leave him alone last week. But I think I did the teachers a favor because he gave them a taste of the real Sam today. When I arrived to pick him up ( a bit earlier than school actually let out, of course), Miss Peggy told me he had poked himself in the eye. This eye poking and scratching was something I had been warning them about all week but they had yet to see it for themselves since I had always been there to mitigate. Fortunately, the damage was not bad at all but I let the teacher apologize and sit with her guilt for a bit. Then she told me how Sam had scared her because he got upset about something while she was changing him on the changing table and nearly hurled himself off. Another little thing I had warned them about. Apparently she didn't know how strong and determined he could be. He ended up peeing all over his clothes while his diaper was off during this struggle. I had forgotten to bring an extra set of pants which is why I found my son dressed in some god-awful blue polyester britches about 2 sizes too small for him. I swore I would never be one of those moms who dressed her poor retarded child in some get up like green sweats banded at the ankles, a yellow turtle neck and sneakers that they haven't sold in any reputable store since the mid-seventies. And never would my child be caught dead in polyester. I should have taken a picture so that you could experience the true horror yourselves. But there shall be no photographic proof of this catastrophe. And if any of you mention this traumatic event to me in polite company I will deny it and call you a poopy faced liar. The true chiller here is that Sam had a doctor's appointment right after school and I did not have any pants for him in the car. Not one to let my child be publicly humiliated we rushed home to grab some pants. Jackson was extremely distressed over the fact that I didn't change Sam right away but I assured him that I would change him out of that freakish apparel as soon as we got to the parking garage at the medical building. And you better bet we found a parking space in a dark corner away from public viewing.

The happy chair

Just look at this adorable child.

This is Sam sitting in his chair at school, enjoying circle time. He loves circle time. There's singing and clapping and music and kids who say hi to him and instruments that he gets to shake and jingle. Then there's the chair. The chair fits him so perfectly. He can rock in it and lean forward without falling onto his face. He likes the chair.

Okay, that's all you get for now. David and I have so many mixed emotions about sending Sam to this school that I'd end up writing a novel if I got going. So I'll give you the chair and leave it at that. The chair is Sam's happy place. I think I need a chair like that to sit in when I go back to school with him tomorrow.

Five year olds are weird

When David was little he used to take his marbles to school in a Crown Royal bag. At his last birthday he received a bottle of Crown Royal inside its purple bag and we discussed the slight inappropriateness of a child taking this bag to school. So what does David do with this bag after removing the alcohol? He gives it to our 5-year old son. Jackson's not big into marbles, but he does like animals. Instead of storing his small, plastic animals inside, he crams into it a large, stuffed dog. Lily is the dog's name and the Crown Royal bag became her new sleeping bag. This was all kind of cute until I realized that Jackson sleeps with Lily every night and now Lily would be snoozing alongside my son in a tossed out booze bag. Eventually Lily must have gotten tired of the old whiskey sack because she only slept inside of it for a few nights. At this point the bag was elevated to the level of Jackson's other stuffed animals who shared his bed at night. There it lay, the empty sack, next to Lily and my sleeping boy. This was far more unsettling than using it as a marble tote.


Just the other night Jackson came to me, beaming with pride that he was able to stuff Lily, Flower the other dog, and Violet the lizard all into the sack. He took them to bed this way. Apparently they were all going to have one big slumber party inside.

A small pat on the back

Sam had his 3 year check-up the other day and I'm happy to report that he's a whopping 29lbs. That may not mean much to you but what it does mean is that he's in the 25th percentile for his age. What? You're still not impressed? How about if I told you that most children with Joubert Syndrome affected to the same degree as Sam... and some less affected... are fed via g-tube? And some of these children have had g-tubes put in as late as 3 years of age due to an inability to receive adequate nutrition by mouth. I'll make sure not to leave out the part about it taking us 4 months of working with Sam until he could properly latch onto a bottle and coordinate his suck-swallow-breathe reflex. And despite his recent set-backs in feeding due to illness he's up in rank on the growth chart from his usual 10-15th percentile. Of course, some of this success is due in part to the extreme stubborness exhibited by David and me, and our near refusal to let any doctor cut a hole in our little boy's tummy. But a big part of the congratulations should go to Sam and his amazing propensity to awe even us with his multifarious abilities. Good job, precious boy.