Beer: The New Coffee?
Maybe I've been going about this coffee-as-crutch thing all wrong. It doesn't get me through these newly overscheduled days; it just makes me too hyper to decide which of five thousand neglected tasks should come first.
Now, a beer--that gets me to relax and realize that the taskload is irrelevant, that it's much more fun to play with kids or partner. Maybe if I put the beer in one of those opaque traveler coffee mugs...
8.30.2003
8.28.2003
Addendum 10 hours later
Okay, okay. Jo and Ep slapped me around for that last one. I can never properly write out my thoughts anyhow. Part of why I'm more a lurker than a joiner. But:
I want Iz to enjoy her abilities, rather than use them as competitive tools. I don't want her to get freaked out when she meets someone who matches or exceeds her skills or knowledge--I want her to be excited that she's found someone to learn with or from.
And I surely don't want to beat the confidence out of her--her self-assurance is amazing and I respect it even though it's foreign to me. I hope she retains it through puberty--she's going to need it if she inherits my twin rockets along with that awesome Portuguese butt her dad already gave her.
In conclusion: If she's going to be a smart-assed little shit, she'd better have the chops to back it up. That's all.
---------
Leelo is sitting next to me, mushing up playdoh. He just turned to me and said "The playdoh is yummy!" Good: Totally spontaneous. Bad: Full of gluten.
Okay, okay. Jo and Ep slapped me around for that last one. I can never properly write out my thoughts anyhow. Part of why I'm more a lurker than a joiner. But:
I want Iz to enjoy her abilities, rather than use them as competitive tools. I don't want her to get freaked out when she meets someone who matches or exceeds her skills or knowledge--I want her to be excited that she's found someone to learn with or from.
And I surely don't want to beat the confidence out of her--her self-assurance is amazing and I respect it even though it's foreign to me. I hope she retains it through puberty--she's going to need it if she inherits my twin rockets along with that awesome Portuguese butt her dad already gave her.
In conclusion: If she's going to be a smart-assed little shit, she'd better have the chops to back it up. That's all.
---------
Leelo is sitting next to me, mushing up playdoh. He just turned to me and said "The playdoh is yummy!" Good: Totally spontaneous. Bad: Full of gluten.
The Reading
Here's the deal with my freaking out over Isobel's reading: I don't want her to be a performing monkey. She is the offspring of two performing monkeys; we lived for the applause as children. Especially Seymour, who still gets that extra-bright tone in his voice when he thinks he's the center of attention. As delicious as he is, this particular behavior is not so cute when you're 34.
There is a lot of projecting going on here, granted. But I am worried, worried, worried that Iz gets back flips and candy from observers just because she can read--people don't ASK her about what she's reading, or participate with her. And she stands there on her imaginary pedestal and eats it all up with a big googly grin. Meanwhile I am chasing Leelo around in the background or concocting something inedible for his lunch--I don't have time to be a proper guide, to explain what reading means.
I want her to read for the love of it, to go deep and come up gasping, to work hard for the epiphanies that blow her world off its axis, to immerse herself in alternate realities so vivid that she never really leaves them. I wish this understanding for everyone, really. Maybe then they'd leave me alone when I'm reading.
I don't want her to be like her dim mother, who was told she was smart for reciting book lists, was never was asked to discuss anything, read too much of what she thought she was supposed to read instead of what she loved, and finally cracked in her teens, falling under the spell of Stephen King and V.C. (shudder) Andrews. I am still recovering.
Maybe Iz doesn't need my help. Maybe she can figure this out on her own. But genetically, the showoff tendency is there, and I don't have time to track it down and stamp it out. So, think good thoughts for our girl and her wandering, rootless mind. And if you see her, ask her about the latest thing she's read. Don't just ask for its title.
Here's the deal with my freaking out over Isobel's reading: I don't want her to be a performing monkey. She is the offspring of two performing monkeys; we lived for the applause as children. Especially Seymour, who still gets that extra-bright tone in his voice when he thinks he's the center of attention. As delicious as he is, this particular behavior is not so cute when you're 34.
There is a lot of projecting going on here, granted. But I am worried, worried, worried that Iz gets back flips and candy from observers just because she can read--people don't ASK her about what she's reading, or participate with her. And she stands there on her imaginary pedestal and eats it all up with a big googly grin. Meanwhile I am chasing Leelo around in the background or concocting something inedible for his lunch--I don't have time to be a proper guide, to explain what reading means.
I want her to read for the love of it, to go deep and come up gasping, to work hard for the epiphanies that blow her world off its axis, to immerse herself in alternate realities so vivid that she never really leaves them. I wish this understanding for everyone, really. Maybe then they'd leave me alone when I'm reading.
I don't want her to be like her dim mother, who was told she was smart for reciting book lists, was never was asked to discuss anything, read too much of what she thought she was supposed to read instead of what she loved, and finally cracked in her teens, falling under the spell of Stephen King and V.C. (shudder) Andrews. I am still recovering.
Maybe Iz doesn't need my help. Maybe she can figure this out on her own. But genetically, the showoff tendency is there, and I don't have time to track it down and stamp it out. So, think good thoughts for our girl and her wandering, rootless mind. And if you see her, ask her about the latest thing she's read. Don't just ask for its title.
8.27.2003
Therapist F, Back From Vacation
Therapist F came back from vacation today. Leelo was delighted to see her and had a great session. Supervisor M came over too and we had the second of what will be our twice-monthly meetings. Went over lots of things such as needing to model greetings by identifying people with "Hi, Dorkface" or whatever their name is, as Leelo now greets people with "That's Dorkface!" Also was reminded that I am a total fuck-up as I was supposed to gather and print out all sorts of pictures for "social stories" about what Leelo and his friends do during a day. I blame my PalmPilot--it refuses to recognize my handwriting, and so I refuse to record reminders or lists. Will do the pictures thing by Monday.
Fellow solider MB sent me an interesting article comparing the symptoms of mercury poisoning with those of autism (with the caveat that it's written by a true believer). Woo. MB and I also discovered that we are both Rh negative, and were given Rhogam shots containing Thimerasol during our pregnancies (the mercury-containing vaccine fixative is no longer used). Fuck for the fortieth time. Leelo will start heavy metals chelation in a few months, after Dr. Prattle feels the boy's gut will be able to take it.
Leelo is sitting in his high chair yelling at his Thomas the Tank Engine book. He keeps putting his finger on Harold the Helicopter's mouth and commanding "Shhh! QUIET!"
I hate being the one in charge of all the house crap. Part of being the domestic as opposed to the laborer, I suppose, but it is TEDIOUS. I tore down the hideous gray blinds that came with our house weeks and weeks ago, because they added those scale-tipping extra grains of depression. Now the snotty neighbors can watch me spill cereal on the couch whenever they want. I hate this too, but haven't had the energy to deal with it all. However, Leelo is distracted by the view so I've been told to get a move on. Sigh. We are aiming for inexpensive yet professionally installed, since we are cheap yet inept.
Hate house crap and am fuck up version 2: Just got a notice from our home insurance company informing us of cancellation due to non-payment. Whoops yet again. Didn't I pay that? Maybe I really should stop organizing my office by piling all the papers on the floor, giving it a good stir, then seeing what floats to the top.
All that new music finally arrived (well, new to me. I am usually 5-10 years behind). Dressy Bessy is as perky as advertised. St. Etienne's Good Humor is a tonic for the wounds that accompanied the sucking of The Cardigan's second U.S. release. April March pains my ears in the manner of Julie Brown yet I can't stop listening. Must be something subliminal happening there.
Happy discovery: LH knows the lyrics to ...Birth Control and Beer! (Before I had children, this was the only non-show tune I knew by heart.) Now I don't have to go to Indiana to find someone to sing along!
Fellow solider MB sent me an interesting article comparing the symptoms of mercury poisoning with those of autism (with the caveat that it's written by a true believer). Woo. MB and I also discovered that we are both Rh negative, and were given Rhogam shots containing Thimerasol during our pregnancies (the mercury-containing vaccine fixative is no longer used). Fuck for the fortieth time. Leelo will start heavy metals chelation in a few months, after Dr. Prattle feels the boy's gut will be able to take it.
Leelo is sitting in his high chair yelling at his Thomas the Tank Engine book. He keeps putting his finger on Harold the Helicopter's mouth and commanding "Shhh! QUIET!"
I hate being the one in charge of all the house crap. Part of being the domestic as opposed to the laborer, I suppose, but it is TEDIOUS. I tore down the hideous gray blinds that came with our house weeks and weeks ago, because they added those scale-tipping extra grains of depression. Now the snotty neighbors can watch me spill cereal on the couch whenever they want. I hate this too, but haven't had the energy to deal with it all. However, Leelo is distracted by the view so I've been told to get a move on. Sigh. We are aiming for inexpensive yet professionally installed, since we are cheap yet inept.
Hate house crap and am fuck up version 2: Just got a notice from our home insurance company informing us of cancellation due to non-payment. Whoops yet again. Didn't I pay that? Maybe I really should stop organizing my office by piling all the papers on the floor, giving it a good stir, then seeing what floats to the top.
All that new music finally arrived (well, new to me. I am usually 5-10 years behind). Dressy Bessy is as perky as advertised. St. Etienne's Good Humor is a tonic for the wounds that accompanied the sucking of The Cardigan's second U.S. release. April March pains my ears in the manner of Julie Brown yet I can't stop listening. Must be something subliminal happening there.
Happy discovery: LH knows the lyrics to ...Birth Control and Beer! (Before I had children, this was the only non-show tune I knew by heart.) Now I don't have to go to Indiana to find someone to sing along!
8.26.2003
8.25.2003
God, I love Sebastopol
The first car we parked next to had a BUSH LOST! bumpersticker. Another one read "We the People Have Spoken. All Five of Us." Nearby a billboard proclaimed: "War Is Good! Don't Believe What You Read!" Our hosts told us that the Green Party has taken over the city council. Grape growers may rule the county, but they lay low here because they're considered well-desiccating lower demons. Frostily hostile restaurant-goers are reminded that they're the ones who strayed over the Wine Country boundary by waiters who pointedly and loudly remark: "Oh, we just LOVE children; in fact all of us have small children."
Oh yeah, love them hippie freaks. But not the flaky ones (and they too are legion, one must be careful). I love the ones who groove with the land and grow their own pure, grubby food. Comb and spin their own yarn from their own goats. Reason: in the aftermath of a nuclear catastrophe, I will have nothing to barter with unless my ovary (only running on one cylinder these days) still functions. These are good people to emulate.
Leelo and Iz (and Iz's fiance M) had a great time poking around the farm we stayed at, poring over bunny shit, feeding horses and sheep, gathering chicken eggs. We parents (including M's recently-divorced mom H) were all coming off of brain-numbing weeks and were too tired to stay up all night drinking and chatting like we normally do. It was a curiously subdued weekend. Not to mention a blazingly fucking hot one.
Spent some time on the coast. Checked out an arts and crafts fair. Good to know that I can gain another 200 pounds and still find plenty of tie-dye to wear. The kids got all sorts of wet sand in all sorts of places and were happy, happy, happy.
Leelo had a great time, even without his beloved TiVo. We got him a drum and he spent oh a WHOLE lot of time playing that (good thing our house was isolated). He also busied himself by making his stuffed animals act out scenes from Max and Ruby (hard to decipher exactly what he was saying, but there was lots of "Max," "Ruby," and "chocolate chicken" going on). His diet and supplements were fairly portable, and we only forgot about one or two of them amidst the vacation madness. Worrisome: he started biting himself hard enough to leave marks (infrequent, but ACK!). Is this his way of letting us know that he's hungry all the time? He does seem to be losing weight.
Iz and M had a great time. Following M's lead, they put on lots of shows for us. Iz discovered a copy of "Where The Sidewalk Ends" and was in heaven (Sebastopol moment: she told a local man what she was reading, and he told her that Shel Silverstein got his start drawing for Playboy).
I ran off a lot in the mornings before everyone else got up, and made for the corner cafe. There I sipped heavenly organic Italian coffee and wondered why the fuck I was making myself read Bill Bryson. But it probably wouldn't matter what book I was cursing at; I get very little pleasure out of pleasure reading these days.
Books are no longer the crutch they used to be--I get angry with them all for sucking or failing me. Even the froth, which is what I prefer at the moment. Examples: Mr. Bryson fails because he labors for each laugh, gets tired, and his mean streak comes through. Then he aims for fat people and other easy targets. The silly detective novels that Ep keeps feeding me fail because they always, always wrap things up too hastily (same with Nancy Farmer). I don't trust V.S. Naipaul anymore, even though his writing is spare and clear--he no longer even tries to temper his misogyny or racism. The latest Harry Potter was a good escape, and I get a kick out of the Buffy comic books--but the latter are too short. Sigh. Maybe I should just keep re-reading Cryptonomicon and A Little Princess indefinitely. That way I'll never be disappointed.
Grouching off now.
----
Leelo spent the morning pretending to go on an Easter egg hunt (Max and Ruby again). He used a bunch of colored balls for the eggs. Said "I want the caterpillar book!" Pointed at the hole in the middle of the caterpillar book and said "that is a circle!" Pointed at apples in the book and said "I see apples!" When I said "I see apples, too," he said "I see the pears!" All progress.
Still has never said "yes."
The first car we parked next to had a BUSH LOST! bumpersticker. Another one read "We the People Have Spoken. All Five of Us." Nearby a billboard proclaimed: "War Is Good! Don't Believe What You Read!" Our hosts told us that the Green Party has taken over the city council. Grape growers may rule the county, but they lay low here because they're considered well-desiccating lower demons. Frostily hostile restaurant-goers are reminded that they're the ones who strayed over the Wine Country boundary by waiters who pointedly and loudly remark: "Oh, we just LOVE children; in fact all of us have small children."
Oh yeah, love them hippie freaks. But not the flaky ones (and they too are legion, one must be careful). I love the ones who groove with the land and grow their own pure, grubby food. Comb and spin their own yarn from their own goats. Reason: in the aftermath of a nuclear catastrophe, I will have nothing to barter with unless my ovary (only running on one cylinder these days) still functions. These are good people to emulate.
Leelo and Iz (and Iz's fiance M) had a great time poking around the farm we stayed at, poring over bunny shit, feeding horses and sheep, gathering chicken eggs. We parents (including M's recently-divorced mom H) were all coming off of brain-numbing weeks and were too tired to stay up all night drinking and chatting like we normally do. It was a curiously subdued weekend. Not to mention a blazingly fucking hot one.
Spent some time on the coast. Checked out an arts and crafts fair. Good to know that I can gain another 200 pounds and still find plenty of tie-dye to wear. The kids got all sorts of wet sand in all sorts of places and were happy, happy, happy.
Leelo had a great time, even without his beloved TiVo. We got him a drum and he spent oh a WHOLE lot of time playing that (good thing our house was isolated). He also busied himself by making his stuffed animals act out scenes from Max and Ruby (hard to decipher exactly what he was saying, but there was lots of "Max," "Ruby," and "chocolate chicken" going on). His diet and supplements were fairly portable, and we only forgot about one or two of them amidst the vacation madness. Worrisome: he started biting himself hard enough to leave marks (infrequent, but ACK!). Is this his way of letting us know that he's hungry all the time? He does seem to be losing weight.
Iz and M had a great time. Following M's lead, they put on lots of shows for us. Iz discovered a copy of "Where The Sidewalk Ends" and was in heaven (Sebastopol moment: she told a local man what she was reading, and he told her that Shel Silverstein got his start drawing for Playboy).
I ran off a lot in the mornings before everyone else got up, and made for the corner cafe. There I sipped heavenly organic Italian coffee and wondered why the fuck I was making myself read Bill Bryson. But it probably wouldn't matter what book I was cursing at; I get very little pleasure out of pleasure reading these days.
Books are no longer the crutch they used to be--I get angry with them all for sucking or failing me. Even the froth, which is what I prefer at the moment. Examples: Mr. Bryson fails because he labors for each laugh, gets tired, and his mean streak comes through. Then he aims for fat people and other easy targets. The silly detective novels that Ep keeps feeding me fail because they always, always wrap things up too hastily (same with Nancy Farmer). I don't trust V.S. Naipaul anymore, even though his writing is spare and clear--he no longer even tries to temper his misogyny or racism. The latest Harry Potter was a good escape, and I get a kick out of the Buffy comic books--but the latter are too short. Sigh. Maybe I should just keep re-reading Cryptonomicon and A Little Princess indefinitely. That way I'll never be disappointed.
Grouching off now.
----
Leelo spent the morning pretending to go on an Easter egg hunt (Max and Ruby again). He used a bunch of colored balls for the eggs. Said "I want the caterpillar book!" Pointed at the hole in the middle of the caterpillar book and said "that is a circle!" Pointed at apples in the book and said "I see apples!" When I said "I see apples, too," he said "I see the pears!" All progress.
Still has never said "yes."
8.20.2003
Mi Cerebro Es Como Un Tamiz
This eejit's fourth round of Spanish I began tonight! This time I swear I will pay attention to where the accents go and why.
Spanish I four times, you say? Well:
Round I (college, 1990): Took Espanol I because I thought I was going to have a solely Spanish-speaking mother-in-law. Halfway through the quarter I decided that no, in fact, I was not going to spend my life chained to that woman or her son, changed the grade to Pass/Not Pass, and stopped paying attention. Scraped by with a P. Retained phrase: "Tengo un gato muerto."
Round II (community college, 1996): Plugged along nicely until a pesky ectopic pregnancy slapped me with emergency surgery and then bed rest for two weeks. I was too hazily happy to remember to call in my excuses to El Profesor (go Vicodin go!). My butt got dropped from the class automatically.
Round III (extension course, 2000): Paid enough attention to go at real-world conversations like a monkey with a machete. Can now converse with Spanish-speaking individuals, but they spend the entire exchange wincing, or pleading "En Ingles, por favor." Ignored those accent rules again, so start relying on an online translator for written communications. Horrible misunderstandings result.
Round IV (community college one more time, 2003): Iz is going to start bilingual kindergarten in one year, so this is my last chance. Now or never. Otherwise our girl will be muttering "tonto" at me under her breath within three months of starting la escuela.
---
Some good Leelo news today! Definitely some cognitive leaps:
-If I start to sing, he yells "No!" at me. Eventually it becomes a game, with him yelling/laughing at me by note #3. This is some serious interaction from our boy, and totally self-initiated--this behavior was neither modeled nor prompted. He'd just had enough of his tone-deaf mom and her show tunes, and realized that it was in his power to make the pain stop.
-The refried beans I was supposed to make last week finally happened tonight. I tried to get him to eat them: "Look, Leelo! Mmm, beans! Yummy, yummy beans!" He looked me straight in the eye and said "No beans. Bye-bye, beans. Beans are all done." Yes, I know those are called beans; no, I'm not going to eat them no matter how much you prance about; get those things out of my face! Again, spontaneous language, and most importantly throwing back in my face a word I was in the process of introducing to him.
Tiny, teeny, glimmers of hope! I'll take them all!
He's had serious liquid stench bottom, though. Dr. Prattle thinks he might be reacting to the NutriBiotic grapefruit seed extract part of the anti-yeast program, so we'll take him off that and see what happens. Tomorrow is his last day of Diflucan anti-yeast medication. That means by Friday he'll only be on Lactobaccilus, Nystatin, and DGST powder. Any reduction in the complexity of his routine is good.
We are off to the dreamy, happy, agri-hippie, nuclear-free zone that is Sebastopol. Back in four days.
Spanish I four times, you say? Well:
Round I (college, 1990): Took Espanol I because I thought I was going to have a solely Spanish-speaking mother-in-law. Halfway through the quarter I decided that no, in fact, I was not going to spend my life chained to that woman or her son, changed the grade to Pass/Not Pass, and stopped paying attention. Scraped by with a P. Retained phrase: "Tengo un gato muerto."
Round II (community college, 1996): Plugged along nicely until a pesky ectopic pregnancy slapped me with emergency surgery and then bed rest for two weeks. I was too hazily happy to remember to call in my excuses to El Profesor (go Vicodin go!). My butt got dropped from the class automatically.
Round III (extension course, 2000): Paid enough attention to go at real-world conversations like a monkey with a machete. Can now converse with Spanish-speaking individuals, but they spend the entire exchange wincing, or pleading "En Ingles, por favor." Ignored those accent rules again, so start relying on an online translator for written communications. Horrible misunderstandings result.
Round IV (community college one more time, 2003): Iz is going to start bilingual kindergarten in one year, so this is my last chance. Now or never. Otherwise our girl will be muttering "tonto" at me under her breath within three months of starting la escuela.
---
Some good Leelo news today! Definitely some cognitive leaps:
-If I start to sing, he yells "No!" at me. Eventually it becomes a game, with him yelling/laughing at me by note #3. This is some serious interaction from our boy, and totally self-initiated--this behavior was neither modeled nor prompted. He'd just had enough of his tone-deaf mom and her show tunes, and realized that it was in his power to make the pain stop.
-The refried beans I was supposed to make last week finally happened tonight. I tried to get him to eat them: "Look, Leelo! Mmm, beans! Yummy, yummy beans!" He looked me straight in the eye and said "No beans. Bye-bye, beans. Beans are all done." Yes, I know those are called beans; no, I'm not going to eat them no matter how much you prance about; get those things out of my face! Again, spontaneous language, and most importantly throwing back in my face a word I was in the process of introducing to him.
Tiny, teeny, glimmers of hope! I'll take them all!
He's had serious liquid stench bottom, though. Dr. Prattle thinks he might be reacting to the NutriBiotic grapefruit seed extract part of the anti-yeast program, so we'll take him off that and see what happens. Tomorrow is his last day of Diflucan anti-yeast medication. That means by Friday he'll only be on Lactobaccilus, Nystatin, and DGST powder. Any reduction in the complexity of his routine is good.
We are off to the dreamy, happy, agri-hippie, nuclear-free zone that is Sebastopol. Back in four days.
8.19.2003
Context
Great. Scabby the cat is barfing all over the kitchen floor. This is preferable to her barfing on the bedroom carpet in secrecy and me stepping on it barefoot and in the dark, but only just. And it's still preferable to walking/scooping up after a smelly slobbery dog.
Leelo was spaced-out boy yesterday. Nuttiness episodes were noticeable, and even commented on by friends. Goddammit. Is he just warped from lack of calories/refusing to eat any of the crappy crap we're trying to feed him? Finally experiencing a yeast die-off? Reacting to the gluten I let him have two days ago? He is tired, tired, tired and sad, sad, sad. Today he seems a bit more focused and clear-headed.
He is a stubborn little man. Refusing to give greetings that he knows perfectly well. Is he bored? Therapist L is almost done with her training and Therapist F will be back next Wednesday; the fully outfitted version of his ABA program will then start in earnest and he won't have the time to consider his lack of options.
ABA sessions with Iz home (afternoons) are not fun. She does not like being stuck downstairs and I don't like arguing with her about it. Going to get that damn yurt. I am not kidding.
Cousin-in-law F is home and on the mend. Still weak from blood loss. He has an extended, loving family at home and couldn't be in better recovery circumstances. Plus his son can run the shop during the convalescence.
Re-read the last whiny, bitchy, wallow-y post. Come to think of it, I have it pretty good compared to the group of friends/moms I ran into at the park on Monday. One recovered from Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma between the births of her two small children (the oldest is 4 1/2). Another has a child with anaphylactic-grade food allergies. Still another's child is also going through ABA therapy, but in this case the mom had to compromise her career/identity to stay home and make it all happen. A fourth recovered from uterine cancer before she had her kids, and now has a husband whose work contract specifies no fewer than 50 hours per week--she and her kids never see him (oh, wait, she didn't get to come because her oldest contracted a mystery barfing bug). A fifth has a husband who just got laid off from a niche field, and whose employment opportunities seem to be limited to Finland or Sweden. And there's KV from the last post, who at this point considers herself a single mom. All these people are perfectly functional, socially, so what the fark is my deal? Some of them are introverts, too, so that's not an excuse.
Uh, we're doing great! Just fine.
Great. Scabby the cat is barfing all over the kitchen floor. This is preferable to her barfing on the bedroom carpet in secrecy and me stepping on it barefoot and in the dark, but only just. And it's still preferable to walking/scooping up after a smelly slobbery dog.
Leelo was spaced-out boy yesterday. Nuttiness episodes were noticeable, and even commented on by friends. Goddammit. Is he just warped from lack of calories/refusing to eat any of the crappy crap we're trying to feed him? Finally experiencing a yeast die-off? Reacting to the gluten I let him have two days ago? He is tired, tired, tired and sad, sad, sad. Today he seems a bit more focused and clear-headed.
He is a stubborn little man. Refusing to give greetings that he knows perfectly well. Is he bored? Therapist L is almost done with her training and Therapist F will be back next Wednesday; the fully outfitted version of his ABA program will then start in earnest and he won't have the time to consider his lack of options.
ABA sessions with Iz home (afternoons) are not fun. She does not like being stuck downstairs and I don't like arguing with her about it. Going to get that damn yurt. I am not kidding.
Cousin-in-law F is home and on the mend. Still weak from blood loss. He has an extended, loving family at home and couldn't be in better recovery circumstances. Plus his son can run the shop during the convalescence.
Re-read the last whiny, bitchy, wallow-y post. Come to think of it, I have it pretty good compared to the group of friends/moms I ran into at the park on Monday. One recovered from Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma between the births of her two small children (the oldest is 4 1/2). Another has a child with anaphylactic-grade food allergies. Still another's child is also going through ABA therapy, but in this case the mom had to compromise her career/identity to stay home and make it all happen. A fourth recovered from uterine cancer before she had her kids, and now has a husband whose work contract specifies no fewer than 50 hours per week--she and her kids never see him (oh, wait, she didn't get to come because her oldest contracted a mystery barfing bug). A fifth has a husband who just got laid off from a niche field, and whose employment opportunities seem to be limited to Finland or Sweden. And there's KV from the last post, who at this point considers herself a single mom. All these people are perfectly functional, socially, so what the fark is my deal? Some of them are introverts, too, so that's not an excuse.
Uh, we're doing great! Just fine.
8.18.2003
Socially Induced Catatonia
Friday: Diana summoned me. I warned Seymour. He assured me that the great god Apollo will protect him as he does every month. Everyone else should probably just stay out of my way.
Later: LH and co. threw ice cream social. So, sent social parts of family (Iz and Seymour) while Leelo and I stayed home and Leelo got to knaw on DAN-sanctioned dried corn husks instead of howling for ice cream that he can't have. We played Teletubbies a LOT. He never did pretend play of this sort before, so I am yawning in fascination rather than boredom.
Saturday we celebrated Seymour's birthday. Threw party/BBQ for him and his bike riding/chess playing/bird watching buddies. No cake so as to avoid torturing Leelo. Sang Happy Birthday To You at least three times due to Leelo's requests. Fun, but it all happened in my house so I am even more exhausted and scowly by the time it's over. Attending friend KV needs emotional support--her partner is deep into a medical fellowship that has him out the door by 6 A.M. and rarely back before 9 P.M. They have two kids, younger than ours. He says to her "KV, what would I do without you?" She says "See your kids a lot more often since you'd have 50% custody." I don't think he realized how tightly clenched her teeth were. I will lure her down here more frequently. I fall asleep on couch. Hagiography candidate Seymour cleans up after his own party.
Sunday morning (Seymour's real birthday): Iz's Godfather M coaxes ambrosia and nectar down from the clouds for Seymour's birthday bruch. Unfortunately (from my, silent-for-the-day, perspective) we have to go to The City to be served said delicacies. Godfather M's pad should be on the top-10 list of least child-friendly places in The City for its rickety hanging-in-the-air-three-stories-above-concrete back porch alone (also: we are suburban poofs). We bring high chair for sequestering Leelo, which makes this the most pleasant trip to Godfather M's place yet.
Sunday afternoon: We get home. Seymour goes on bike ride. I call Ep's house to find out when Jo's birthday party starts, and am told that it started 20 minutes ago. Yup. Madly slap homemade CD package together and rush over. Ability to fake non-grouchiness has completely eroded by this point. I wander around after Leelo and glower at everyone, even at poor birthday girl Jo when she opens up my present in front of everyone. There is a surfeit of damn good Indian food (at the restaurant, Jo's partner SS was handed another group's order in addition to his own). Leelo howls for naan bread. Well, we weren't going to really go gluten-free until this week. Delighted boy gets to snarf three pieces of his very favorite food. Then he goes back to playing, and makes poor naked Madeline ride a giraffe bareback. She didn't act that way in the orphanage...
Today: I am incapable of normal functioning. Haven't had a good chunk to myself for far, far too long and it shows. Example: went to store to get desperately needed menstrual gear. Bought everything but. Am reduced to scavenging backpacks and suitcases for emergency supplies. Worse example: cannot work up the energy to play properly with Leelo, or Iz for that matter. Video-rama. Worst example: Seymour's cousin F, who we visit several times a year, had his throat slashed last night during an attempted robbery (nice safe small town they live in). The thugs missed both his carotid and windpipe, but he lost close to too much blood. Did I remember to call today for an update? Did I even remember that the event had happened? No. I did not. I remembered that that poor guy got his head cut off by the elevator, though, the story of which got lots of excellent gasps and squirms at the park. This is the brain that is managing Leelo's return from autism land. This is why I've enlisted so much professional help for him.
Friday: Diana summoned me. I warned Seymour. He assured me that the great god Apollo will protect him as he does every month. Everyone else should probably just stay out of my way.
Later: LH and co. threw ice cream social. So, sent social parts of family (Iz and Seymour) while Leelo and I stayed home and Leelo got to knaw on DAN-sanctioned dried corn husks instead of howling for ice cream that he can't have. We played Teletubbies a LOT. He never did pretend play of this sort before, so I am yawning in fascination rather than boredom.
Saturday we celebrated Seymour's birthday. Threw party/BBQ for him and his bike riding/chess playing/bird watching buddies. No cake so as to avoid torturing Leelo. Sang Happy Birthday To You at least three times due to Leelo's requests. Fun, but it all happened in my house so I am even more exhausted and scowly by the time it's over. Attending friend KV needs emotional support--her partner is deep into a medical fellowship that has him out the door by 6 A.M. and rarely back before 9 P.M. They have two kids, younger than ours. He says to her "KV, what would I do without you?" She says "See your kids a lot more often since you'd have 50% custody." I don't think he realized how tightly clenched her teeth were. I will lure her down here more frequently. I fall asleep on couch. Hagiography candidate Seymour cleans up after his own party.
Sunday morning (Seymour's real birthday): Iz's Godfather M coaxes ambrosia and nectar down from the clouds for Seymour's birthday bruch. Unfortunately (from my, silent-for-the-day, perspective) we have to go to The City to be served said delicacies. Godfather M's pad should be on the top-10 list of least child-friendly places in The City for its rickety hanging-in-the-air-three-stories-above-concrete back porch alone (also: we are suburban poofs). We bring high chair for sequestering Leelo, which makes this the most pleasant trip to Godfather M's place yet.
Sunday afternoon: We get home. Seymour goes on bike ride. I call Ep's house to find out when Jo's birthday party starts, and am told that it started 20 minutes ago. Yup. Madly slap homemade CD package together and rush over. Ability to fake non-grouchiness has completely eroded by this point. I wander around after Leelo and glower at everyone, even at poor birthday girl Jo when she opens up my present in front of everyone. There is a surfeit of damn good Indian food (at the restaurant, Jo's partner SS was handed another group's order in addition to his own). Leelo howls for naan bread. Well, we weren't going to really go gluten-free until this week. Delighted boy gets to snarf three pieces of his very favorite food. Then he goes back to playing, and makes poor naked Madeline ride a giraffe bareback. She didn't act that way in the orphanage...
Today: I am incapable of normal functioning. Haven't had a good chunk to myself for far, far too long and it shows. Example: went to store to get desperately needed menstrual gear. Bought everything but. Am reduced to scavenging backpacks and suitcases for emergency supplies. Worse example: cannot work up the energy to play properly with Leelo, or Iz for that matter. Video-rama. Worst example: Seymour's cousin F, who we visit several times a year, had his throat slashed last night during an attempted robbery (nice safe small town they live in). The thugs missed both his carotid and windpipe, but he lost close to too much blood. Did I remember to call today for an update? Did I even remember that the event had happened? No. I did not. I remembered that that poor guy got his head cut off by the elevator, though, the story of which got lots of excellent gasps and squirms at the park. This is the brain that is managing Leelo's return from autism land. This is why I've enlisted so much professional help for him.
Saddest Boy
Leelo really, really dislikes his new food choices. Spends much time seeing how much of them he can throw on the ground before we'll intervene. He approaches his meals listlessly, and sits there with an expression suggesting that he's awaiting electroshock therapy. Sad, sad boy.
Sure makes him talk a lot, though. He's been saying words we didn't even know he knew, like "yogurt?" or "watermelon?" Too bad we can't reinforce him on these. Retired ABA therapist extraordinaire JM says we should reinforce him verbally for using the language, but explain to him that he can't have what he's asking for. Sigh.
One bright spot: He will eat guacamole without lime juice in it. So, we have greenness and nice fatty goodness for our boy. Two big missing pieces of the otherwise rice-bread green-apple and nut-butter puzzle. Still trying to figure out additional menu items--he likes NOTHING.
Dark spot: Amazake rice shakes are so "naturally sweet from the rice" that they have 30g of sugars per 8 oz serving. Fuck! All the yeasties in Leelo's gut were probably ecstatic for the reprieve. Still figuring out the intricacies of label-reading--none of the rice shake's listed ingredients are sugars, and it didn't occur to me to review the percentage/by weight breakdown for discrepancies. Bastards.
This past weekend has me so wiped that I have to be careful not to sit down too long lest I fall asleep. More coffee!! Details later.
Leelo really, really dislikes his new food choices. Spends much time seeing how much of them he can throw on the ground before we'll intervene. He approaches his meals listlessly, and sits there with an expression suggesting that he's awaiting electroshock therapy. Sad, sad boy.
Sure makes him talk a lot, though. He's been saying words we didn't even know he knew, like "yogurt?" or "watermelon?" Too bad we can't reinforce him on these. Retired ABA therapist extraordinaire JM says we should reinforce him verbally for using the language, but explain to him that he can't have what he's asking for. Sigh.
One bright spot: He will eat guacamole without lime juice in it. So, we have greenness and nice fatty goodness for our boy. Two big missing pieces of the otherwise rice-bread green-apple and nut-butter puzzle. Still trying to figure out additional menu items--he likes NOTHING.
Dark spot: Amazake rice shakes are so "naturally sweet from the rice" that they have 30g of sugars per 8 oz serving. Fuck! All the yeasties in Leelo's gut were probably ecstatic for the reprieve. Still figuring out the intricacies of label-reading--none of the rice shake's listed ingredients are sugars, and it didn't occur to me to review the percentage/by weight breakdown for discrepancies. Bastards.
This past weekend has me so wiped that I have to be careful not to sit down too long lest I fall asleep. More coffee!! Details later.
8.15.2003
Help Me, Obi Wan Kenobi
Isobel and I are hiding downstairs while Leelo and Therapist L conduct their first-ever extended session of 3.5 hours.
Iz has discovered my old Princess Leia doll, so I have spent the last while valiantly trying to recreate hairstyles from the doll's box, e.g., Solar Swirls and Lunar Loops (I suck with the hair creativity, which is why I sport the ol' Wash, Comb, & Go). Who the hell were these doll stylists, I'd like to know? They must have made a special thick-haired styling doll for the box shots, since the moment you try to separate any part of our doll's hair, you get patches of bare plastic scalp and she looks all mangey. Overall, though, our hero is in great shape and has brushable, glossy hair. Not like poor old Jaime Sommers, whose hair is one big matty tangle and whose rubbery bionic parts skin overlays have long since powderized. Hard to believe they were both made by Kenner.
Uh-oh, now Iz is singing a song called "Jaime Sommers Has No Arms."
Isobel and I are hiding downstairs while Leelo and Therapist L conduct their first-ever extended session of 3.5 hours.
Iz has discovered my old Princess Leia doll, so I have spent the last while valiantly trying to recreate hairstyles from the doll's box, e.g., Solar Swirls and Lunar Loops (I suck with the hair creativity, which is why I sport the ol' Wash, Comb, & Go). Who the hell were these doll stylists, I'd like to know? They must have made a special thick-haired styling doll for the box shots, since the moment you try to separate any part of our doll's hair, you get patches of bare plastic scalp and she looks all mangey. Overall, though, our hero is in great shape and has brushable, glossy hair. Not like poor old Jaime Sommers, whose hair is one big matty tangle and whose rubbery bionic parts skin overlays have long since powderized. Hard to believe they were both made by Kenner.
Uh-oh, now Iz is singing a song called "Jaime Sommers Has No Arms."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)