Back

Very tired. And in case you're looking for candidates for this year's Complete Fucking Idiot awards, I nominate myself for wearing brand new shoes during a whirlwind travel and event day. My feet look and feel like someone took a birch switch to them. Stupid! Stupid! One of the dangers of a shopping style that prohibits spending more than five minutes in any given store. "Yes, those look fine. Please ring them up. No, I don't need to try them on."

Yesterday was a big whirl. Seymour and I got an ironical kick out of getting to spend our ninth wedding anniversary together, sans kiddies. (After he reminded me that it was our anniversary, that is. I did write "whirl.") We also greatly enjoyed skipping from airport point to point like happy little child- and luggage-free butterflies.

The service was lovely, and just what Seymour's grandmother wanted. Everyone behaved themselves. We could almost feel her there, nodding and approving, telling people to adjust things just so. She will be missed.

After the service was a reception, also lovely. With tons of sushi, shellfish, salmon, caviar, and an open bar. I know it is a privilege to be pregnant, but I still drowned my bitterness in a series of Shirley Temples.

Then one of the attendees invited us to hang out on his boat. His 150-foot boat. Damn! All I will write here is that I am glad the boat makes its owners so deliriously happy. It was fun to hang out on the prow with my cocktail glass full of grenadine and soda, and field questions from looky-loos.

"Is that your boat?"
*snicker* "Yes."
"How much did it cost?"
"I would have to be a lot more drunk to ask that question."
etc.

While we were in the alternate universe of yachthood, My gorgeous, darling sister-in-law Bree cornered me and started asking about baby names. I forgot that I'd told her some of my favorites after Leelo was born, since, y'know, we weren't intending to use them.

She asked me point-blank about our girl's name, and told me that there were four little girls with that name in her daughter Leigh's class. I think I kept a straight face in telling her that I shy away from popular names, but I'm sure she read much into my non-answer. But as she also told me that the four girls were British, a quick SS name check for last year puts the name at 400+ in popularity, and I have dreamed about using this name since I was eight, I will hold true. Unless it's a boy.

Another whirly plane and then taxi ride, and we returned to a home with peacefully sleeping kiddies--and an office where Scabby the cat decided to protest our absence by peeing all over the futon. GAAAAAAAH. Does anyone know if this futon can be saved?

Off

To Orange County. Just for the day. For a memorial service.

It will take place in the part of Orange County that lives up to the stereotypes codified by Reagan politics, and the eponymous movie and TV series.

It will not take place in the part of Orange County where I grew up, which is an ugly fucking grid, and is the birth place of agro/goof bands like Agent Orange, The Vandals, The Offspring, and The Aquabats.

The Northern O.C. spirit that I love so much, and which has not a farking thing to do with the carefully planned, conservative shopping mall that is Southern O.C., is summed up well in this most romantic of all songs, Skateboard! by The Aquabats:

I just wanted you to come over
Sit on the couch and hold me tight
But you went out with some dumb jock
And left me alone with my skateboard tonight

Nostalgic sigh.

Back some time in the wee hours.

Baby. Healthy. Modest.

Ah, yes. The results of the level II ultrasound. Sorry, the Pat drama was distracting. Dear darling Clyde came over and got him out yesterday. I don't know where Ep found her partner, but he is a gem. And he was willing to work for Smarties (the Canadian M&M kind) and Seymour's hand-me-down first generation Treo.

Ultrasound. Try as they might (and they tried jiggling the baby quite a few times, to my great surprise), they could not get our modest little thirdling to uncross his or her legs. The only thing they would commit to is that they couldn't find a penis, but that doesn't mean it wasn't tucked down safely out of view.

The baby seems mightily healthy. The technicians and doctor spent a good 30 minutes ultrasounding, and didn't see anything off. I know this because they said they would tell me if there were any anomalies. I'm assuming they're litigation-savvy enough not to lie to patients.

Iz was fascinated by the baby's face, mouth, hands, feet, skull, ribs, spine, beating heart, etc. She said, "Is the baby head down yet?" and the technician assured her it was. No breech birth for me, whew! Another big whew: the placenta is nice and posterior, instead of previa (covering the cervix) like it was initially.

Because I will be 35 for all of 6 weeks by the baby's due date, they asked me if I wanted to see a genetic counselor. I declined. They kind of shit I'm worried about wouldn't show up, anyhow.

As for boyness and girlness, the rest of you will find out when I do.

Pat in a Tree! How Can That Be?

Pat the cat somehow got himself treed. He's been up there since yesterday afternoon. I've no idea how this happened. I figured he'd be down by now, and so was entirely uninvolved while Ep and Jo took turns trying to croon and coax him out of his nest. They are such suckers for his cuteness, whereas I have achieved partial immunity over the past ten years.

Pat's been treed once before, when a friend's 'friendly' dog decided chasing cats was more important than listening to his owner. Our blue-eyed rascal was up there for more than three days, until a friend loaned me his electrician's 30 ft. ladder, my very strong neighbor came over and helped set it up and held it while I climbed to the ladder's top, and I plucked poor dehydrated, stinky Pat from the last branch I could have possibly reached.

I can't do that this time, obviously. Plus, this is a different trees, with a deck on one side, and a ten-foot drop off to the yard on the other. Yikes.

We give Pat a lot of grief over being cute yet not-so-bright. I think the real problem is his eyesight--he has a wandering eye, and I'm guessing this means he has no depth perception. No wonder he's scared to climb down a nearly vertical, limbless tree. I'll give him another few hours, and will then start formulating plans.

And, no, the local fire fighters will not come get him, because of liability. Bad things would happen if they arrived at a fire too late, just because of someone's pussy.

Ultrasounding

The level II ultrasound is this afternoon. My heart just skipped a beat on writing that. I am nervous yet giddy, as I've never seen one of these high-res dealies. Toes! Fingers! Let's hope!

Iz is going with me, as it'll be fascinating for her, and I think I can trust the doctor to keep a straight face and voice if there are any irregularities.

Until then, I am trying to catch up with my real life, and so will respond to the comments for which I am ever so grateful this evening.

Tired

So this will be disjointed and scattershot.

That whole cuteness thing about Leelo being able to take off his own zipped jammies and diaper? It was still funny when we went to check on him one last time before going to bed at 11:00 last night, and found him sleeping in his bed totally naked yet dry. Seymour easily redressed him and put him back to bed. The nakedness ceased to be cute at 4:00 in the morning when he stripped himself again, peed everywhere, got all cold, started coughing, woke up completely, and refused to go back to bed until 6 A.M.

Leelo and I spent a total of 1/2 hour at home today. Iz, nada.

Leelo's appointment at Stanfford Neurology was fine. Mostly an intake exam. A two-hour intake exam.

He is 38 inches and 38 pounds. Does that make him square? It sure as fuck makes him heavy, says she who lugged his sleeping form from car to bed this evening.

The Neurologist wants to do an EEG, because of Leelo's occasional zoning out, petit mal seizure-style. He says the difference between one of these seizures and an autistic tuning out from overstimulation is not always apparent.

The doctor also wants to do an MRI, because our boy's got a friggin' huge noggin. It's a virtual planetoid. Has its own weather system*. Ninety-fifth percentile for size, on a very short boy. This is also a frequent characteristic in autistic kids, and may point to problems with overdevelopment of his brain's white matter, and problems with myelination. Not that they know what to do about this if it is the case.

Strangely, the doctor took a good five minutes of his precious time (remember, we had to wait six months for this appointment) to go off on the DAN! protocol, how wasteful and wrong it was, and what charlatans all its practitioners were. I told him that, while Leelo's autistic symptoms do not appear affected by diet, I have friends for whom the difference has been noticeable. I also said that it is not invasive, and there's no harm in trying it if the parents are willing to put in the time and effort. He scoffed as politely as he could. I couldn't really get too offended; for purist research scientists like him, non-scientifically-validated methodologies like DAN practices are complete blasphemies.

Also, we did/will do blood and urine tests for amino acid and metabolic irregularities. Will report as all these things take place and we hear back on them.

The phlebotomy was stressful for Leelo, as this is exactly the kind of thing he just doesn't get, so I promised him some naan bread and a sweet lassi when we left. Stupid me, this meant we arrived at the Indian restaurant at 12:00 on a Friday, the day they include beer with the standard buffet price. We couldn't even park in the parking lot, and the buffet line was hundreds of yards long. Thankfully they know and dote on Leelo, and snuck him his lassi without anyone noticing his line jumping.

Then home to get warmer clothes for the zoo. That part of the city is fogged in all summer long.

Off to Iz's school, to pick her up from her very last day. Sigh. The two teachers practically cried when she left, and had made her goodbye posters and signs. Too cute and sweet. Jo frothed over her new iPod. Cuter and sweeter still. Last frolic on the school lawn. Double sigh.

Off to the zoo. JP, Danielle, Elise, and baby Xander were there, so Iz engaged in much merriment and I got to concentrate on keeping Leelo out of the duck pond, or watching him ride the teeny tractors, or clamber around on the rope spiderweb. We stayed until the staff kicked us out. Then I discovered that some sick fucker had stolen Leelo's dinner sandwich out of my stroller. Bastard. I hope that person enjoyed all the vitamin- and enzyme-enriched almond butter.

Then off to retrieve Godfather M from his place near Pacific Heitz, and shuttle him down to San Metao for a birthday dinner at The Best Chinese Restaurant Ever (Godfather M'd rather go there than any similar place in The City). Fortunately this restaurant is adjacent to a stupid overpriced grocery store that nevertheless sells croissants and organic cheesy puffs, so Leelo got something to eat despite the thievery.

Then Seymour took Godfather M back home and the kids and I hit Holey Foods to stock up for tomorrow's BBQ celebrating Jo's birthday and my cousin's staying at our place for the weekend (she, her daughters, and charming Newfie husband arrive tomorrow morning).

I couldn't believe the kids were still awake when we arrived the store at 9:30, especially after so much driving and Leelo's naked party time, but they were patient and non-fussy, and we blasted through speedily and will now have tons of Californian yummies with which to torture my Ontario-dwelling relatives: wines, cheeses, mission figs, strawberries, avocadoes, tomatoes, champagne grapes; so good. We will eat panzanella, strawberries in real balsamic vinegar, soothing guacamole. Oh, and salmon for everyone who's not me or Ep.

We will set the tent up in the backyard and try to convince the non-Leelo kids to sleep there tomorrow night.

I will be busy all weekend long and the relatives will be sleeping in this room, so see you later.

*Come on, people. SOMEONE please ID one of these quotes.

Leelo the Mighty

Righting wrongs and singing songs,
Being mighty all day long...

Okay, geeks, show yourselves. What am I quoting?

Leelo had a totally schizoid day. On an interaction level, he was once again looped. Still has that cold. Won't give eye contact or answer questions without herculean (snarf) attempts by me or whomever.

But then, he did some incredible, unprecedented things. Busting open my closed office door even though it has an anti-child thingamawhatsit on the doorknob. Iz hasn't even figured out that one. Stripping off his jammies and diaper this morning so that I awoke to a naked hooligan having a one-man party upstairs. His jammies were zippered foot-to-neck, so that's some serious fine motor control.

When we're undressing/redressing at the pool, I always have him take his diapers and put them in the trash himself. This afternoon, I noticed that he'd put his wet but otherwise clean swim diaper on top of the trashcan across the room. I told him, once, as I would any other child, that he'd put his diaper on top of the trash can, and could he please go put it inside? My eyes almost popped out of their sockets when he did just that, with no additional prompting.

Little glimmers.

Iz had her second-to-last preschool/kindergarten day today, and her last day with teacher Anarchy. No teacher will ever be that wonderful, or patient with my little firecracker! Also, my kids will no longer attend school with the kids of Ep, Jo, or Badger. I'll no longer have a guaranteed daily sighting of any of them. I am moping.

Iz brought up yet another possibility with Leelo's autism. I told her that I did have a maternity bathing suit and that I would love to go swimming with her some time when I didn't have to watch Leelo, too. She told me that that was okay, she didn't think the chlorine in the pool was good for the baby anyhow. I said, "but I went in the pool with you when I was pregnant with Leelo every single week...oh, shit." Anyone have any other chlorine theories? As long as I'm being totally paranoid?

Tomorrow Leelo has an appointment at Stanfford's pediatric neurology clinic. We've had to wait six months for this appointment, because autism is hot! hot!, and they've apparently only one doctor who specializes in kids like Leelo. They didn't tell me much about what to expect, other than to say that they might be taking a blood sample, and that he doesn't need to fast beforehand.

I have mixed feelings about his exam. On one hand, I'd like to find SOME farking reason our boy is an alien, but on the other, I can't handle much more bad news. Maybe I'll cross my fingers sideways.

In Which I Am All Powerful!

I have successfully warped at least two young minds!

Iz and Leelo's cousins Danielle and Elise came over today for a facilitated playgroup with Leelo and Therapist F. Afterwards, I hung out with them while they romped about our yard, waiting for their mom to come get them. They soon tired of trying to push each other off the fort, and started peppering me with questions about trolls. Because I am thick, it took me a second to realize that they were asking about the trolls from the story I wrote as a holiday present for Iz and all her friends. (I am cheap; xeroxed, the books cost $1.50 each.) They completely believe the story, and wanted some specifics on when and how to make the trolls appear. I was astounded, then overcome by a feeling of mad power, and couldn't help but cackle.

In other news, I got Leelo to pee in the potty for me today. For his therapists, he had multiple pees as well as a nice big dump. Gosh, it's great to be alive!

Iz went for her yearly eye exam today. Her ophthalmologist finally agreed to estimate how much longer she'll need to wear glasses for her mild exotropia: two to three years. Iz seemed bummed, but then the eye doctor--who could easily moonlight as a children's TV show host--got her all jazzed about new glasses with pink frames and those funky lenses that turn dark when you go outside.

Later on our girl informed me, after reading a book that contained both fictional and non-fictional elements, that it should be put in the "niction" category. I snorted, then agreed. I get my jollies where I can.

How Has Your Life Changed?

That was one of the questions the reporter asked me last week, about life with Leelo. I hope she didn't bother to look past my poker face, to see the crumbling, hastily spackled, aching person behind it. I don't need that part of my personal shit in the paper, even if it's a paper that no one reads besides Ep and Jo.

I try not to dwell too much on why we live in this tangential universe, even though Leelo and his ways and needs have reshaped most of what we do, and how we do it. This is the reality we know, this is where we live. No use wishing it were otherwise.

But I do, sometimes. I think of how things might have been, how they were supposed to be. Tiny things like Leelo being the only kid who isn't interested in picking blackberries when our friends come over, even though their son is one year younger than him and picked a whole bucket himself. Bigger things like being stuck down here in the basement all day long while Leelo is in therapy, when by rights Leelo and I should be spending our afternoons at the park or zoo, or riding a train.

Those of you who read Jo's blog may recall her briefly mentioning my participation in a discussion at the park. My being able to join in was an anomaly; normally I spend all my park time tending or chasing after Leelo, and wouldn't be able to participate in discussion threads of more than half a sentence. But Seymour joined us yesterday and took on Leelo duty, bless him. Then again, if Leelo wasn't Leelo, Seymour would've been able to join the discussion, too.

This, the summer before Iz starts at Esperanza, was always intended to be spent in Costa Rica. We've friends with a beachfront place south of Quepos, and they constantly badger us to come freeload indefinitely. This was to be the summer we did just that, the summer we all immersed ourselves in Spanish. Instead, we're hesitant to take Leelo out of therapy for more than five days, and have spent this summer mostly sticking around. When we did vacation, we brought one of Leelo's therapists along.

Iz and Leelo's birthdays are 21 months apart, but fall in consecutive years (1999, 2000). She's January, He's November. Once we got over the shock of having two kids in diapers, Seymour and I thought this arrangement delightful and convenient--our kids would almost always be at the same school, and would graduate in two quick pops. Instead, Iz hopped up a grade, Leelo's slipped down a year, our boy will not be attending Esperanza, and we've got a little surprise coming down the pipe. Ah, well, at least I can rationalize not working outside my own castle for another few years.

Our life isn't without plenty of laughter and levity. Seymour and I were chuckling about the kids we already have the other day, about how unprepared we will be if #3 is a "regular kid." We truly have no context for such a specimen.

Leelo brings us gifts, too. His love and enthusiasms are pure, unbridled, untempered by mood or whim. Iz may sulk and deny and grow away, but there's a good chance Leelo will not. He won't see the point.

I can live with a kid like that, in this universe or any.

She Won't Blog, Don't Ask Her

But she will let us publish her work!

Our brilliant friend EP's musings on Clinton, Carter, and Gore at the DNC:

2004 Democratic National Convention - Highlights from the Highlights

I accidentally caught the NBC news highlights of the National Democratic Convention, while channel surfing, bored, last night. There was Bill Clinton, looking trim and energetic. He was giving a barnstormer of a speech. Relaxed, at ease, a natural, delivering well-reasoned political analyses along with the fire in the belly that makes you want to jump up and take to the barricades. The crowd is in love. They have stars, and tears, in their eyes. Bill says, about John Kerry, "Strength and wisdom are not conflicting values," and "In a time of change he has two other important qualities: his insatiable curiosity to understand the forces shaping our lives, and a willingness to hear the views even of those who disagree with him." And, pausing, "Remember the scripture: Be not afraid." He insults George Bush six ways from Sunday, without ever uttering his name, managing to pick up on every criticism leveled against him, from the working class attack on his jobs record to the intellectual's despair of the man's willful ignorance. No wonder some in the crowd appear to be crying. "Just one more term," they weep, "Why can't we have him back for just one more term?"

Read More -->

I Beg Your Pardon...

Whatever you think of Harper's Lewis H. Lapham, you've got to admit that the man is funny. (I generally heap more superlatives on that adjective pile, since I envy his pen-wielding and agree with almost everything he writes.)

Witness this excerpt from August's kick in the posthumous ass of Ronald Reagan, titled (how could it be otherwise), "Bedtime for Bonzo":

"...and it wasn't as if he promised a rose garden to anybody who couldn't afford the price of a Mexican gardener."

Another recommended read.