If I was one of twenty or so adults in the very small martial arts studio entryway taking shelter from the pouring rain while waiting for my child to be released from a class that is perennially ten minutes late and saw a mother struggling to manage an overly active and obviously needy six-year-old who was repeatedly trying to run onto the no-shoes-please studio floor while his mom was simultaneously hip-loading a rapidly disrobing and vocal two-year-old in addition to waiting for her third child to get out of class, and that child then needed assistance getting her gear together so that she didn't block everyone else who was trying to enter and exit the studio, I AM PRETTY FUCKING SURE THAT I WOULD ASK THAT MOTHER IF SHE COULD USE A HAND INSTEAD OF EITHER LOOKING AT HER LIKE SHE SMELLED FUNNY OR PRETENDING THAT SHE DIDN'T EXIST.
Anyhow. I then got similar treatment from the normally very helpful checkout staff at The Hole. A squad of them stood around and waited for me to unload my very full cart while my three monkeys pretended I was their favorite tree. I will not choose that cashier's line again.
Mali has spent the past week transitioning from croup to chronic congested wheezy breathing, from ibuprofen to albuterol and now to prednisone. I have been told by two pediatricians during that time that our wee girl is likely asthmatic. I am guessing that Iz's febrile seizures and exotropia, and Leelo's autism and fifteen ear infections before 27 months and the resulting ear tubes have set a Required Chronic Conditions bar for this family that wasn't being met when Iz outgrew her ailments and Leelo's ears got healthy.
Mali's chest congestion makes her sound like a shop-chopped Harley. You'd think a kid that sick wouldn't have the energy to take her clothes off in public five or six times each day, but you would be wrong:
Mali can't go to Iron Gate tomorrow morning as she is still classified as contagious and her cough would make some of the novice moms shit themselves. Since I already owe people for the shift I missed last week and since no one will trade with me as I have snack and since the thought of owing TWO Iron Gate shifts gives me hives, I have begged Jo and Ep (Goddesses!) to come watch Mali at home, while I work. As soon as I finish typing this I get to go cut up five hundred grapes. Will. Not. Miss. That. Fucking. School.
But wait, we have more sickness! Iz cried all afternoon, post-aikido, telling me that her head and jaw and ears hurt and that she was going to throw up. I thought she had the mumps but it turns out she has a slight ear infection and a mild addiction to drama.
While Iz and Seymour were at Urgent Care, my friend from Mali (the one with the jewelry) called in a wonderfully inebriated state. I have no idea what he was trying to say but he wanted to say something about the jewelry, and perhaps I should try to sell it for him. But when, and how? Merde.
During Leelo's bath I noticed that what I thought was a slight bit of eczema under his arm is actually a rash that is spreading, rather like chicken pox. If you're thinking, "Payback, hippie!" then you can bite me as Leelo was fully vaccinated. Seymour will likely take our boy into the doctor in the morning (six visits for our kids in less than two weeks, which may be our new record) and then if Leelo needs to stay home I have no idea how I'm going to manage that. I'll just write that it's not going to happen, because that will make it true.
One hour ago Supervisor M emailed us Leelo's functional analysis assessment, a detailed report that will be the basis for Leelo's Behavior Intervention Plan (the legal document detailing how school staff will handle Leelo's problem behaviors). The two things that really stand out for me -- aside from the amount of work Supervisor M put into the report -- were 1) How clearly and painfully inappropriate Leelo's classroom is for him in terms of staff skills and curriculum, and 2) How ill-equipped we are are, at home, to deal with his aggression. My brain is now paralyzed on this subject, so, next paragraph.
Seymour and I spent five days seriously thinking about cutting loose our home building plans and instead moving, but we decided that we could not handle a stress fireball of relocational intensity at this time. Plus our current house is a mouldering shitheap that no one would want to buy. (Why would we put any sweat or dollars into a house we're intending to demolish?) The place we thought about was sweet, though. Had its own bedrock cave off a hallway, behind an unassuming closet door.
And I am back where I started this morning, with another heaping dose of stress inertia. Can't. Move. Every weekday of late has felt like this, or like a gag reel -- except not funny. I am thinking of letting my understudy take over my role. I'd rather go hang out at the crafts services table anyway.
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