Happy Birthday, Baby Who Is Not A Baby

Sometimes words just can't get it right. Perhaps a very amateur picture slideshow can attempt to tell you how blown away with how big my boy is.


The Kid's first 9 years from Molly G on Vimeo.

Why I will be rooting for the Steelers this weekend...

In all fairness, I would have been anyway, but a Pittsburgian friend of mind told me this story today:

In 1975, The Terrible Towel® was created by the late Steelers broadcaster Myron
Cope to inspire fan involvement in a playoff game against the then-Baltimore
Colts. Thirty-three years later, The Terrible Towel® remains a Steelers
fan essential. And for the past 12 years, the sale of any The Terrible
Towel® product benefits the children and adults with intellectual/developmental
disabilities who are served by Allegheny Valley School. The funds that
Allegheny Valley School receives from The Terrible Towel® are used to cover
costs such as equipment, program expansions and renovations to our facilities.

The Allegheny Valley School is school and community care provider for people with intellectual and developmental disabilities.

How awesome is that?

His Name is Speaks No Evil

Nasty.

So, this is one for the story books.

The Kid is all shifty eyed and anxious last night. I ask him what he's up to. He flails and avoids me for about an hour. He comes up to me at about 6:30 and says, I can't even tell you what I did. Just go to my room and look in my toybox.

What am I going to find? A severed head? A hideous stain on his nice pants? Something dear to me cut up to pieces? Who knows, but I know one thing. This ain't good, my friends.

I go down and open the toybox. A hideous stench hits me, and there is nothing in the toybox but one of my bigger pyrex bowls, filled with a nasty yellowish water. You know that part in The Shining when he goes into that bathroom and finds the scary dead body in the bathtub? That comes screaming to mind and I freak out and run out of the room and go get him.

WHAT IS THAT? I ask.. He says, look on the bottom. We go back to the toybox, I pick up the bowl gingerly, so as to spill none of this who-knows-what on, well, anything, and lift it up to look at the bottom of the bowl. There is nastiness on the bottom of the bowl, but I still don't know what the frak it is.

WHAT IS THIS, KID? I say with restrained rage, wondering if I now need to worry about him being a sociopath or something. The Kid replies, "You know in Spongebob the movie how they come back to life with water?"

It instantly comes to me. My mom has a propensity towards tchochkes. I HATE them, but there is shit all over this house, loads of nativity scenes (we are sooo catholic), little pottery pieces and vases, bowls with rocks in them, and then there's this one pretty little round glass vase, filled with shells, sand dollars and yes, a starfish. Or rather, there used to be a starfish in that little round vase. The Kid was trying to revive my mom's dried starfish. A dried starfish I have a feeling she picked up decades ago during a family vacation before I was even born. I made him dump the water out and clean the bowl. Nasty nasty nasty. It smelled like, oh, ancient saltwater and rancid liver mixed together or something. We both wretched about 12 times. It was by far, the most disgusting thing I've encountered as a parent, and you have to remember, I'm the mom of the kid who puked almost daily for four years. I'd clean buckets full of vomit before I ever, ever have to encounter re-wetted ancient dried starfish, ever again. Oy.

Oh, and for the record? I have no idea when he performed this operation. I have NO IDEA how long the starfish was in that bowl, in his toybox, in his room. Ew.

Atypical Nation: Soapy Water Version

I kind of feel like someone’s dropped by and I have curlers in my hair and my kitchen is a mess. All I’ve had up on this blog for the last month is a quickly written musing about The Kid's lovely nose-picking…

Today, Philip Dawdy of Furious Seasons has linked over to me. Philip is a journalist and mental health advocate who was instrumental in planting the seeds of skepticism in some of the advice I’d been receiving on how to help The Kid with his difficulties in school, primarily in the realm of the medications he was being prescribed, primarily the atypical anti-psychotics.

The Kid took his last dose of Abilify in January. Philip has shared our recent success, and my strong belief that The Kid’s so-called bipolar diagnosis was an effect of medication side effects and bad diagnostics more than actual baseline functioning by him; and a rush to react to his behavior (in school, mostly) rather than find the underlying causes.

The Kid has been doing really well. It took about two months to really lift the fog of rage and aggression at school. At this time I can confidently state that I do not see so-called “mood” issues, and neither does the school.

I am pissed about the damage that has been done to my son over the past two years, the atypical years, and the slew of bad advice that I’ve received since I first went to his pediatrician to tell them about my concerns about his development, his hypersensitivity to sound, environment and food. I am pissed that I am complicit. I am pissed that these years have engendered bad habits in my son, I’m pissed that even though we’ve ironed out this ‘bipolar’ thing that he remains challenged, disabled.

That’s the problem. And I’m scared of being linked to by Philip because many of his readers have grown so skeptical of psychiatry and psychology in general that they find it impossible to believe that any child can be disabled, have developmental delays, have a mental illness. I do not need that wrath right now.

If someone were to spend an afternoon with my son and I, they would see a really extraordinary child, but one who does not fit within anyone’s definition of a typically developed kid. Perhaps we will see further improvement over time as the atypicals slowly leave his fat cells (the last place that I understand they cling to… Which is ironic, because one main side effects of the atypical antipsychotic class of medication is severe weight gain… Talk about poisoning over poisoning, and then making it even harder to get off of these medications), his motor skills might improve, maybe we’ll see his social skills improve too. Only time will tell.

The Kid’s just gone through a new set of assessments, to cement his diagnosis of ADHD, and to further explore where he fits on the Autism spectrum. These things do exist, my son will need special education and constant support for the foreseeable future. I just think there are a lot of very careless practitioners out there, and parents, who are not entirely careless, but instead are overly trusting of these practitioners. I also think doctors would do well to spend more time to listen, truly listen, TRULY LISTEN to parents. I also wish schools didn’t suck so very much, but that’s a post for another day.

Anyway, thanks Philip. Your support has meant a lot to me.

Merry Christmas

This is all the time I can devote to blogging right now. I've got to go play Wii golf. Later.

When Writing Every Day is Getting a Little Too Hard

I'm scheduled to write a love letter to Denver tonight. Unfortunately, I had a little too much fun last night with Denver and I'm really freaking tired and I just want to go to bed. I should have written my love letter on a bar napkin last night.

We went to a few bars on Colfax last night. Started at the Cheeky Monk, a newish place specializing in affordable food and incredibly expensive belgian beers. Next, we hit the Red Room. Then the Satellite Bar. There was good, adult conversation. There were scrumptious beers. And a juke box with Metallica. I'm kind of amazed that I'm still awake right now.

So, I spent the day today watching football, trying to facilitate The Kid enjoying his last day of the five day break provided by Thanksgiving, cooking. The Kid spent a lot of the day playing with a neighbor, between our house and the neighbor's.

Also, he wrote out his Christmas wish list. It's kind of ginormous. I told him to just write down everything he could think of, and santa will surely find one or two things to bring him. I hope that The Kid understands that I really mean he's only getting one or two things on his list. No worries though, I've already got one of these hidden in the hope chest under the blankets, waiting to be set out on Christmas morning. It'll be the bestest Christmas ever.

On This Awesome Conference, Finally

Okay, I've been back from this conference for about three days now, and what I hoped wouldn't happen, that I would get all sidetracked with the job and the family and the cat and the daily life stuff, has happened. I'm so sidetracked its stupid.

But, for my edification if nothing more, I need to list out the key things I learned at the PEP Conference:

• It was not a "parenting" conference. The key assumption of this conference was that we were the experts on our own kids. We were specifically instructed in our three small group sessions (about 10 people plus a few moderators) not to 'rescue' and not to problem solve for others. We were there to enable ourselves to act within the educational system as advocates for our children. The Colorado Department of Education, who planned and hosted the conference with the help of experienced parents of children with disabilities, want us and our children to succeed within their bureaucracy. If that's not the most encouraging thing you've ever heard, well, I guess I can just say it's a very encouraging thing for me to hear.
• I do identify The Kid as a child with a disability, at least as defined by special educational law. I know some of you who read this and know The Kid and I have trouble with that. I am so grateful that the framework of IEP's exist, that there are laws to back up the accomodations that The Kid needs to be a student, and for that reason, his identity as a child with disabilities is actually a really good thing. He is a kid that without the right supports in place, can't possibly show his potential. Thank god for the IEP.
• Our story was rare, and bad, but not the worst. And I don't mean in his medical file, not at all. I mean in the way in which we have struggled with our school district, a little more than a year ago, to obtain reasonable special education services. I was told, "No, we can't do that" far more often than is reasonable or possibly even legal. The Kid's special educational entitlements were violated last year. I have been jaded and hurt by the general ed school that The Kid attended for Kindergarten and the first month of first grade, but now know that not only is this not normal, it is also extremely possible to counteract with specific language and specific actions on my part. I have learned what to do if I encounter the 'I won't do this for your child' response again.
• Most IEP violations take place because of ignorance, not because of spite. I need to teach myself to believe this in the case of last year's big time bad news, just to help me get over it. But also, these laws, the ADA, the IDEA, NCLB and the Colorado-specific special ed law are so complex, and teachers simply do not know them, and this is how violations occur. This conference exists to counteract this ignorance.
• I am worried about new things. Inclusion. The Kid will be heading from a very restrictive classroom environment to a less restrictive environment eventually. I don't believe this will happen until 2008, possibly not until the new school year, but it is going to happen. I am now scared of what happens when my highly intelligent young man goes back into a 'grade level' school, after having been in a classroom of 6, in a very fluid multi-age setting. He is behaviorally challenged, even in the classroom of 6, but he is also a leader there. He is, age-wise, in second grade. He is doing 3rd and 4th grade math and science. He is reading on grade level. He is writing like a first grader. How do you keep a kid with all of these gifts and challenges in a single-grade classroom? This is not a bad problem persay, but it is one that I had never considered until last weekend.
• Finally, THANK GOD FOR BLOGGING. Like I said, the seminar was split up between large lectures about disability law and IEP's, with the one smaller 'choice' breakout session, I went to the one about PBS, as I wrote earlier this week, and then punctuated with a meeting of a small support group each day. At each support group, I sobbed. I am completely incapable of talking about The Kid and his education to sympathetic ears without breaking down into sobs. One on one, I'm generally capable of being articulate and not crying a great river, but get me around a group of people looking at me and caring about what I am saying and having all been in that same place as me, I will lose it. I never cried in the big group lectures, either. Just in the small groups. So, support groups are kind of out for me. I'm not productive in them. In many ways, this blog is my support group. Important people read this blog and know me and are then able to know about what I'm thinking or feeling, and I don't have to sit around and tell them about it later at a party and end up red-faced and crying. I can also write and write and write and you won't be any the wiser if I sobbed through the writing or not. I can bare it all, or organize my thoughts. I'm so lucky to have you, readers (and I think I know each and every one of you, and most of you know me personally and know The Kid personally, and that helps so much).

Thanks for being my support group.

Oh, and Diane? There's snow above timberline. I woke up every morning to the snow machines blanketing Peak 9. Beautiful, pristine skies, bluer than you can imagine during the day, and more stars than you can count at night. I love Breckenridge.

Oops! My brain just exploded.

Whoa.

Did you guys read Shannon's post yesterday? I mean. Dude. Do you love her forever right along with me?

I couldn't write myself, as I was attending a three day conference called Parents Encouraging Parents put on by the Colorado Department of Education. It is for parents and support people (teachers, various kinds of therapists, educational advocates, doctors) involved in raising children with disabilities and exceptional needs.

It was seriously and in all honesty one of the best things I have ever done for myself as a parent, ever. I learned so much, and I got to stay in a cushy hotel room in Breckenridge. I had a beer or two. And I felt so in tune with 100+ people in the same room with me and at the same time. That's saying a great deal for me.

My brain is processing. Unfortunately for you, dear readers, you will be getting numerous posts on this conference for the next few days. I'm going to chew this sucker over for a long time. So, I have to move to the meaningful but trite... They read this to open the conference, to a packed house of dewy eyes:

WELCOME TO HOLLAND
byEmily Perl Kingsley.
c1987 by Emily Perl Kingsley. All rights reserved
I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability - to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It's like this......

When you're going to have a baby, it's like planning a fabulous vacation trip - to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It's all very exciting.

After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, "Welcome to Holland."

"Holland?!?" you say. "What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I'm supposed to be in Italy. All my life I've dreamed of going to Italy." But there's been a change in the flight plan. They've landed in Holland and there you must stay.

The important thing is that they haven't taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It's just a different place.

So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.

It's just a different place. It's slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy.
But after you've been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around.... and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills....and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.

But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy... and they're all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say "Yes, that's where I was supposed to go. That's what I had planned."

And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away... because the loss of that dream is a very very significant loss.

But... if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things ... about Holland.

Again with the Harry Potter

This is my first post of National Blog Post Month, wherein I have decided to torture myself and write a blog post every day of the month of November. What was I thinking?

But, being November 1, I must take the easy way out: Happy Halloween.

The Kid, again, went trick or treating as Harry Potter. If you need proof of how freakishly much this child has grown in a mere two years, you need only look below and then click here and here. Same costume. Not exactly the same Kid.

So anyway. Harry Potter. He plays with his Halloween costume and Harry Potter accoutrements year-round, so I totally manipulated him into being Harry Potter again. He was thinking about costumes of other [mostly lame] stuff like Pokemon and Superman, but I told him, "Dude. If you are Harry Potter again this year, I'll buy you a Firebolt." And ding! Harry Potter again. My philosophy? If you are going to spend $25 (or more!) on your kid for Halloween, make damn sure there will be full-year use of the costume.

Plus, he's just such a good Harry Potter.

Dear Universe,

Thank you.



A year ago, The Kid was struggling with sanity, going into the hospital, and I was in survival mode such that I had a million emotions all at once, and yet none at all (which is to say I cried all the time but I couldn't tell you what I was thinking, at all). Never in a million years did I think that exactly a year later, I would have a new person in my life to put so much hope and love and receive so much joy and optimism. My baby neice was born yesterday, a perfect 6lbs 5oz of babydoll bliss and soft skin and coos and sweet baby head-smell. She is my sister's, of course, my sister who also happens to be my best friend and finest confidant. The joy, the optimism, the hope of a new baby. I couldn't ask for more.

And as far as my message to Baby Q goes, I must say, Thank you. Thank you for choosing my sister and my brother in law and my neice and nephew. Thank you for coming. Oh, and as The Kid and Kurt Vonnegut like to say, "Welcome to Earth." You know all of the secrets of the universe right now, and will for about three more days. Can you please tell me some of them?

Things I'd Love to Write About Right Now

I'm in that place where I'm thinking a lot, up late, but completely and totally unable to coherently write anything. I want to write. If I could only hone this craft, I believe I could be a writer. I'm okay at this. But, I've had this lifelong issue with actually getting things written. In 6th grade, I won this mystery short story contest put on by a local talk radio station. I was the proud winner of two autographed novels by a couple of mystery novel writers, I have no idea who they were or the first clue what the books were about as I never ever even tried to read them, but I got to go on the radio and talk about writing, which was a really cool experience. I remember telling my parents that day that it was going to be the best day of my life. I remember my mom telling me that she honestly hoped I would have better ones that that. And Mom? I so totally have.

Anyway, the story was about how I lost my creativity. I can't quite remember the particulars about this story, and I'm sure we could locate it somewhere in the labyrithine basement of my mom's house, but I know it involved some kind of neurotransmitters acting as private detectives for my poor, forlorn brain stem robbed of it's creativity. I believe the neurotransmitters located the creativity somewhere in my gut, where some evil bacteria was planning to have me poop it out with last night's dinner. The lesson in that story? Take Acidophilus. Also, this writer's block shit I have had again and again and again (does anyone who was my friend through the evil horrible writer's block that was my last semester in college, when I had to write my honor's thesis, still read this blog and care to comment on my propensity to sit at a computer and not have the first clue how to write down all that I've been talking about incessantly for 18 months care to attest to this fact?) is something of which I've been painfully aware from a very young age.

And so, I have all of these fabulous posts in this brain of mine, while some evil bacteria is instigating bowel movements imbued with my precious, precious gifts of gab (that guy in Dr. Strangelove was so right, it is all about the bodily fluids), and I can't seem to get them out on time if at all, and so, in short:

1. I can't stop thinking about The Sopranos finale. It's been three weeks now. I may need to find a support group.

Do any of you watch the Sopranos? Because dude. It ended with the most magnificent mindfuck of any and all mindfucks I've ever been, um, victimized (?) by. I BAWLED when that last scene started. I knew, since forever ago (Entertainment Weekly obsession, thanks), that the final scene had been filmed at Holsten's (which sounds like the world's best place for a Sundae Sunday), and as it started, I said, "It's Ending!" The last scene was all anticipation and anxiety, that first time, and as it cut to black, I thought, wow. David Chase is an asshole. He just refuses to end this story. But how beautiful, how fitting, how ambiguous, how just like the hours and hours of film already devoted to these characters:



I watched the entire episode again, immediately. And I noticed Tony peeling the orange. And that orange cat obsessed with the picture of Christophuh. And the guy in the Member's Only jacket going into the bathroom, as if following the script from The Godfather. Also, Onion Rings which are Best in the State are to The Sopranos are what Veal that is Best in the City is to The Godfather.

The intervening weeks have only made me crazier. I read that the color scheme of the final scene is only grays and blacks and oranges (it is), Member's Only is the title of the episode in which Tony is shot, previously, and the man in the diner is wearing a Member's Only jacket. Episodes prior to the last, Tony talks to his brother in law, and this conversation is alluded to moments before this last scene, that you wouldn't probably hear a gunshot, that everything would fade to black. And Meadow. She can't parallel park. But she tries twice, unsuccessfully. That third time? Bingo. Tony? First time he's shot, unidentified black males, bottle of orange juice in his hands, not killed. Second time... In the gut, doesn't die. Third time? Perhaps?

So, now I'm kind of thinking Tony is whacked in that scene. But how beautiful and horrific and torturous of David Chase to make us figure it out.

Buon Anima Sopranos. Thanks for fucking with my brain, still.

2. Camp. The Kid has been going to a special needs day camp for the last two weeks, his final week is coming up. It's been FANTASTIC. I'm completely humbled, as I've now met kids and parents of kids that have challenges that so far outweigh our own, that I feel like I can never ever complain again for the rest of my life. I wish every child could go to camp with these kids, get some perspective, learn some empathy, and learn that a child with autism, or cerebal palsy, or any other of the myriad disabilities that exist in this world, are children, are funny, get grumpy, have great days, have bad days, eat food, love swimming, like challenges, and jokes, just like any child, I don't know. I think the world would be a better place if more people gained that perspective.

Also, The Kid is in such a great environment at this camp. He benefits from the people employed there. He still has some tough moments, needs guidance and could definitely not function in a 'camp' or daycare that didn't have staff trained to cater to his needs, but the overall prognosis is AWESOMENESS. Overall, awesome. He is having fun, he is working SO HARD to stay calm, to work the social skills and calming skills that he's learned in the last year in his various therapuetic settings, I seriously could not be more proud of him.

3. My best friend forever is moving back to Canada. I have this entirely beautiful post planned, not specifically about Shannon and her marriage, but about marriage in general, how it mystifies me. How marriage must be so preferable to singlehood, that so many people make the choice to not be single. But I have no concept of that whatsoever. I can't imagine, at all, having another person in my life (other than The Kid) so important, that I would change my course for him. I simply don't own that handbook. What's the deal with that?

But also, Shannon, specifically, is moving back to fucking Canada. Land of socialised health care (and British spelling). I know the distance won't hurt our friendship, I'm not worried about that at all. She's got me for life, and she knows that. She's pulled me into her her incidious web of love and friendship, and I will never be able to escape the pull of being a friend to such an interesting, intelligent and, well, hot woman. But I won't be able to babysit for her from Canada, and that makes me sad. As does the prospect of memorial day weekends without her.

4. Wilco's new album is fantastic. It makes me think of The Beatles. And hot days. And hot days when I used to be able to drink 8 beers on a Thursday afternoon. How is it that an album released in 2007 can make me nostalgic for 1997?

The Hold Steady is the best band in America right now. They make me think of Bruce Springsteen, but I never ever really thought about Bruce Springsteen before, because I'm of the generation sandwiched one layer too young to 'get' him. They are making me reconsider Bruce Springsteen.

Amy Winehouse makes me want to drink to excess in a way that Cat Power does not.

5. There's the fabulous academic shitstorm going on about the diagnosis of bipolar in children. It begins, I guess, with the death of Rebecca Riley, about whom I've written on this blog. The Boston Globe has been a hotbed of this coverage, as has the NY Times.

First up, one Dr. Biederman of Mass General in Boston is challenged on the bipolar child paradigm.

Next, some doctor from Walnut Creek, CA calls Dr. Biederman a murderer.

I believe, as I've said before, there will be some refining of what constitutes "bipolar" and what does not, in children, that will hopefully come out of this. And perhaps, doctors will consider options other than medication (or along with) to help treat the behaviors. We've been doing incredibly well lately on a slew of supplements and very slight dietary changes (this could be item #6, but I'm not quite ready for that yet).

Then, the NY Times cannot be outdone. Of all doctors making money from pharmaceutical companies, psychiatrists rank number one. This could be due to the fact that it is difficult to have large fund raisers for research of mental illness, simply for the fact that there is such a cultural stigma on it (Susan G. Komen Foundation being and established charity for a disease--breast cancer-- which is largely accepted and commiserated with in our country, which what I'm thinking about here[in no attempt to devalue the great things they've done or the importance of cancer research!!!]), but also, numbers this large, it's hard to imagine that there would be no influence on the research. Like, who is funding research on schools and mental illness in children (environments that are more helpful vs medicating and then fitting square pegs into round holes). I've been battling this bipolar child shit for three years now, and have not found a single doc who knows the first thing about natural supplements until our current psychiatrist did say that Omega 3 is beneficial. No changes to diet suggested. No vitamins, no testing of the rest of his body (specifically his digestive tract!!!).

Anyway, as a spectator, it's been interesting, and if you are interested, you may also want to follow the sport from Furious Seasons, a psyciatric-establishment-dubious website, and a great resource for the latest and greatest in the field.

6. I wish I could blog about my sisters. They are fascinating.

Maybe if I could ever figure out how to write, I could write the best novel of all time based on those three women.

So, yes, I've managed to keep Daisy the kitty alive for a full eleven days. Well, there was a close call there in an incident involving a three inch wedge heel and a tail, and I'll tell you, I pulled through that one, barely. The cat? She ran away just in time for my faceplant into the couch.

So other than that, not much is going on here. Did you know that you can watch a kitten grow?

Last week:

This week:
Alright, I realize this may be something only I can see, but seriously, bitch is porking out on the kibbles (okay, I used a bad word there strictly to move from the PG rating I got so I can be more "adult" like her and her and him).

Did you know that a kitty will always need to take some 'personal space' as soon as you decide it's time to clean out her litter box? And that you will never, ever tire of watching a kitten run full speed down a hallway to make a 90 degree turn on hardwood?

In a week, this kitty has gone from angel lover baby to gonzo mischief maker and impulsive killer of any and all moving (or not moving) limbs (or extremities, or clothing, or hair, or noses) on any individual human in her vicinity. In short, she is a kitten.



Also, did you know that if a cat is befouled by falling into a tub being emptied of bathwater, she will return to the scene of the crime to investigate, as if the place had offended her, and you better believe she is going sort this shit out here and now and if there are any loose toes on the way she will definitely be violently pouncing, biting and attacking them with her wet self because, what are you looking at?

In non-kitty news, the sunsets in Denver have been sublime this week. The Kid and I have become connoiseurs.


He's also huge. You can watch him grow as well, like Bamboo. Or Kitties.

Introducing Daisy

I finally broke down. Last night, we brought home a new family member, a little girl kitty, Daisy. Isn't she just the cutest?



The Kid just loves her, and more importantly, she really loves The Kid. We all stayed up way too late last night playing and playing and playing, and then waking up at an unnecessarily early hour for a Saturday to continue the playing and playing and playing. Naturally, by late afternoon, this was the scene:




So, you'll have to excuse me while I spend the next few days talking in a higher register and playing with catnip toys.

What Will the Rockstar Scare Sound Like?

You know, the band that The Kid and Mr. Lady's kids will be starting in about 10 years? Haven't you wondered what kind of music our kids will be listening to (and in my case, making) in the future? Here's my theory...

I know that B likes his indie rock and/or nerd rock, like Weezer. The Kid has recently been exploring his country roots, but still just wants to scream into microphones and be famous. His hard rock growl has already been perfected. Like, seriously. L is going to bring the sweet pop sounds, and she'll totally end up pulling a Stefani and be more famous and successful working on her own projects. And T. Well, something makes me think (bad connotations be damned) that he might bring a little old school Michael Jackson flava:

Seven!

Tonight, at bedtime:

Me: Good night, sweetheart. Happy Birthday.

The Kid: Hey mom, you know what? Tomorrow, I get to wake up as a seven year old for the second time!

Me: That's awesome, Kid.

The Kid: I know. I love this age.

I can't begin to tell you how happy I am that it is 2007. 2006 was a challenge, to put things in the most optimistic way possible. But in 2007, things so far are good for The Kid and I. Four whole days into 2007, and I can tell you all is well.

Why do I love 2007? Let me list the ways...

• The Kid is kicking life's butt right now. He is calm, when he is not calm he is reasonably redirectable. He's "graduating" from Hospital School tomorrow and will head back out into the public school system on Tuesday.
• My sweetheart of a cousin very randomly gave me his copy of Veronica Mars Season 1, and that will only lead to girls nights, which are always a good thing. Shannon? I can smell the champagne and nail polish, yo. Will you braid my hair? Peggy, you are so invited.
• While I'm still fighting the insurance companies to pay our huge amount of claims from 2006 and no psychiatrist within our shrinking insurance network will provide care for The Kid, the lead attending at the hospital The Kid has been both inpatient and attending school called me today and agreed to provide us ongoing psychiatric care at a reduced rate at his private practice. He said he cares a lot about The Kid and wants him to succeed. Me too, Doc, and thank you.
• I'm enjoying work again for the first time in months. It's the thrill of the hunt, I think. Like, today? I brought in about $30,000 of potential new business, and I'm feeling like I am back on top of my shit there. And, I don't want to cry as I drive into my parking garage, which is always a good thing.
• I am fresh off of visits from so many of my favorite people on this earth over the week between Christmas and New Years, only to be anticipating a visit from my favorite Tiger on earth, Jaci, next weekend. I have so many great friends, my family is the best, this just has to be the best of all possible worlds.

Does it ever warm up in this country?

The coming superstorm has come and superstormed all over us. The city of Denver has been ransacked. Chaos reigns in the streets. I fear that I will never get out of my parking lot:
The Kid screamed in anquish:

Okay, not so much anguish. But at some points in his trek about the snow covered condo complex we call home, all I could see was the blue hood of his parka. It was up to his head, yo.

And while I secretly, or not so secretly, love the weather and excuse to stay in my pajamas at all hours of the day and night, I did not like spending hours trying to dig my car out of this snow, only to realize that my HOA would not be coming to plow our parking lots until tomorrow, or possibly ever, rendering my hard work and sore muscles all for naught, as I will never, ever be able to back into (and then drive out of) the 4 foot drift of snow that is directly behind my vehicle. Or, I will have to shovel out my parking lot my damn self. But at any rate, I will not be making it to work tomorrow either. But I still need to work. So, please, call a whambulance for me immediately.

Also, because of this storm, my playdate with Mr. Lady, Alison and Sarah has been indefinitely postponed. This really sucks because I've not been able to hang out for an entire evening sans children with Mr. Lady for approximately 5 years (I'm so not kidding about this, am I Shannon?), nor with Sarah for any appreciable time since we were in Indiana at a wedding, and her friend and I saw fit to laugh at her when she broke her thumb the night before she had incredibly important guest book duties at a wedding we would be attending the next day. Alison, however, I've seen recently, thank GOD, but I simply don't see her enough. So anyway, I'm bummed about the postponement. However, it WILL happen. It must.

So, I guess, watch what you wish for. On one hand, I've got all the pajammy jam time I've been praying for as of late, but on the other, I'm stuck in my house with an awesomehouseparty.com junkie who is going a little bit stir crazy. He also eats me out of house and home, so much so that he has turned to eating snow to fill his insatiable appetite:

I actually love blizzards, however, for this exact reason: it's the best excuse to be stuck at home for days with just me and The Kid. The Kid and I have had so much time on our hands, we've developed a new sport, Snow Wrestling, and we've figured out that The Kid can "oink" Jingle Bells, while I simply cannot make my pig noise go fast enough to create any kind of rhythm. It's really hard to explain, but it's simply awesome. The Kid completed a charming art project, I've eaten about 3 candy canes today because The Kid always decides at the last minute that he actually does not want a candy cane in his hot chocolate. Basically, all moms need ME time. It's huge, in trying to keep the semblance of sanity in family life. But all families also need US time. For us, this blizzard is a time out. No appointments, no rushing around. (I'm so about to go all Goonies on you here). Out there, it's "their time" (their time!). During a blizzard, well, you get the rest.

Happy Turkey

My sister, who recently arrived for the holiday from Boston, has brought me my very first Sudoku book. I'm afraid I will not be posting for a few days as I am now frantically obsessed.

I, for one, am thankful for Sudoku. For bringing the idiotic obsession that I have not known since tetris back to my life.

I'm thankful for a few other things too, like clean water, good family, my sunshine of a child, but mostly Sudoku.

Better Blogging Through Technology

Or, at least, another video post:



The Kid competed in his first Karate Tournament yesterday. I think he did fantastically well, except I guess when he almost punched his judge!