You know how around this time every year, Oprah does her yearly Christmas sha-bang? Everyone gets toys, and gifts, and she shares all the wonderful things she will be giving away this year...
Yeah, I wish I could do that for you, but I can't. So instead, I'm just going to share some of the (material) things I cannot live without (no worries, I bought all this stuff myself and no one paid me to say any of this; although, that would be nice...):
SoftLips lip wonderfulness in the flavor of Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice... I have this stuff in my pocket or purse or diaper bag at all times. YUM!
The Wagon of Love. I have shared with you about my love for this wagon...honestly, it's changed my life. Everywhere we go, people ask about it as well. It's about the same price as a regular wagon, holds up to 150 pounds, and FOLDS to fit in the back of the car---when the third row is UP! Plus, one time the canopy got ripped, and I wrote to the company, and they were very awesome to deal with. That's always a plus.
If you have a G-Tube fed kid, I adore these little pads to go around the button. Jack never had trouble with his leaking much until, you know, our latest incident. Now he leaks all over the place. These little pads fit right around, and catch the goo! They are washable and super cute (and shipping is free and fast! Gotta love that!).
Perhaps you have a child (or adult) who can't swallow real well, and needs thickened feedings? On the record, I'm not a big fan of Thickeners anyway, from being a nurse. You fix it and you have to wait and wait for the liquid to thicken...ugh. We like this stuff...it's a gel! You just put it in your favorite beverage (in our case it's water, with a dash of Pedialyte for color), shake it, and it's ready!
That's about it. I LOVE my hand-me-down clothes from my sister in law. I ADORE my daily 7 PM phone conversations with Schmoopie. I'm not exactly high maintenance (although, I know someone, who may be married to Schmoopie, who is currently laughing and adamantly disagreeing--HUSH!).
Next...I'll present my Christmas wish. Honey, are you nervous?
Gratitude
Originally, when I started writing, it was because I wanted to share our adoption and the story with my family and friends.
Now, it's therapeutic for me.
There's also a part of me that wants to educate the world---you know, because I have nothing else to do---about being grateful.
Grateful for the mundane, the normal, the usual...
Let me tell you a story.
Yesterday, I met a man who had a 31 year old son who had many of the same issues as Jack. He has the same type of feeding tube, and we even use the same home health company!
He is well into his late 70s. This child is not his own flesh and blood.
We held hands and cried together. He looked at me, eyes red-rimmed and full of tears, and said, "It doesn't matter what the world thinks, because (insert boy name)looks at me and tells me he loves me a thousand times a day."
So many times, I personally peruse blogs or articles complaining about parenting. Complaints stem from lack of sleep to the angst of whining. We've all been there. Yet somehow, we need to see the beauty in the sleeplessness...in the selfless.
There are beautiful little creatures who adore us, no matter if we're grumpy or silly--if we've slept 3 hours or are aching from working.
Janson's Journal entry for today:
My best friend is my mom. Her name is Heather. She has brown hair and eyes. She has glasses too. They are black on the parts you can see but pink on the parts you can't. She is a few inches taller than me. Her favorite color is orange. She has a phobia of snakes. My mom is an R.N. or registered nurse. We are similar in many ways. We both have glasses, brown hair, and brown eyes. We are also dissimilar. I like snakes, but not spiders. She doesn't like snakes, but doesn't mind spiders. My favorite color isn't orange, but red. I am younger than her. I don't know how old she is, let me ask her.
Me: "How old are you? "
Mommy: "33."
Me: "Thank you."
And that is my best friend.
One paragraph. That's it.
And I am so grateful.
Now, it's therapeutic for me.
There's also a part of me that wants to educate the world---you know, because I have nothing else to do---about being grateful.
Grateful for the mundane, the normal, the usual...
Let me tell you a story.
Yesterday, I met a man who had a 31 year old son who had many of the same issues as Jack. He has the same type of feeding tube, and we even use the same home health company!
He is well into his late 70s. This child is not his own flesh and blood.
We held hands and cried together. He looked at me, eyes red-rimmed and full of tears, and said, "It doesn't matter what the world thinks, because (insert boy name)looks at me and tells me he loves me a thousand times a day."
So many times, I personally peruse blogs or articles complaining about parenting. Complaints stem from lack of sleep to the angst of whining. We've all been there. Yet somehow, we need to see the beauty in the sleeplessness...in the selfless.
There are beautiful little creatures who adore us, no matter if we're grumpy or silly--if we've slept 3 hours or are aching from working.
Janson's Journal entry for today:
My best friend is my mom. Her name is Heather. She has brown hair and eyes. She has glasses too. They are black on the parts you can see but pink on the parts you can't. She is a few inches taller than me. Her favorite color is orange. She has a phobia of snakes. My mom is an R.N. or registered nurse. We are similar in many ways. We both have glasses, brown hair, and brown eyes. We are also dissimilar. I like snakes, but not spiders. She doesn't like snakes, but doesn't mind spiders. My favorite color isn't orange, but red. I am younger than her. I don't know how old she is, let me ask her.
Me: "How old are you? "
Mommy: "33."
Me: "Thank you."
And that is my best friend.
One paragraph. That's it.
And I am so grateful.
Addendum...dum...dum...
Yeah, so that earlier post---I lied.
Yep, I'll be the new Internet hoax.
So, shortly after I hit "post," Jack was complaining about his "no-no." I looked at it, and it was rather inflammed and oozy and his tummy was all bruised.
Sebi decided that we should call the doctor. The doctor told us to get on our ponies and get to the MoMo, where he would be waiting for us***.
We literally walked in the door, signed consent, and Jack was whisked away. They put him in a room, and (held him down while he was screaming bloody murder) changed his feeding tube, investigated for any internal trauma, and handed him back to me.
Dr. R doesn't mess around! He also may have mentioned that perhaps Jack should remember this, so he doesn't do it again. heh.
There ends my day. From that point on, Jack's been on top of me. I'll take the love.
*** Interestingly enough, it turns out if the doctor is waiting for you, things move way more quickly than if, say, you are waiting on the doctor.
Sorry for lying. I didn't mean it! xoxox
Yep, I'll be the new Internet hoax.
So, shortly after I hit "post," Jack was complaining about his "no-no." I looked at it, and it was rather inflammed and oozy and his tummy was all bruised.
Sebi decided that we should call the doctor. The doctor told us to get on our ponies and get to the MoMo, where he would be waiting for us***.
We literally walked in the door, signed consent, and Jack was whisked away. They put him in a room, and (held him down while he was screaming bloody murder) changed his feeding tube, investigated for any internal trauma, and handed him back to me.
Dr. R doesn't mess around! He also may have mentioned that perhaps Jack should remember this, so he doesn't do it again. heh.
There ends my day. From that point on, Jack's been on top of me. I'll take the love.
*** Interestingly enough, it turns out if the doctor is waiting for you, things move way more quickly than if, say, you are waiting on the doctor.
Sorry for lying. I didn't mean it! xoxox
The G-Tube Shuffle
Last night, Jack had wet through his bed, so at 11 we were changing his sheets. Sebi handed him to me to cuddle and replaced the wet sheet with a dry one. As I lifted Jack back into the Prison Crib, somehow the tubing got all tangled, and before we knew it--the tube was OUT!
OUT, I tell you!
Like, the button came completely out and was still partially inflated, OUT!
Someone, who looks a lot like my husband, said a few choice words, and then went tearing down the stairs to find me a syringe and the lubricant to get the tube back in. He flung stuff around, cabinets slammed, lights were turned on.
I sat with Jack, with my hand over his stoma, apologizing. It was an accident, but for some reason, it felt like my fault. I didn't want to hurt him.
Stompy McStompALot buzzed back into the room with enough supplies to do surgery on my bed, and was breathing like he'd run a marathon. He was shaking. He was scared.
I was not. I was nervous because this had never happened before. I wasn't sure Jack's stoma was OK. I wasn't sure if we should call a doctor.
I replaced the button, gave Jack some pain meds (he does not his tube being replaced---it hurts), and hooked him back up.
He slept. I held him and kissed his forehead. I cried.
We don't understand, and we never will. We don't know why God thinks we're capable of taking care of Jack.
This morning, Jack woke up just fine. He gave me the sleepy, slack-eyed smile. He let me hold him for a minute and smell his head (which smelled a lot like PediaSure!) and kiss his sweet little cheeks.
It doesn't matter that we don't have the answers.
OUT, I tell you!
Like, the button came completely out and was still partially inflated, OUT!
Someone, who looks a lot like my husband, said a few choice words, and then went tearing down the stairs to find me a syringe and the lubricant to get the tube back in. He flung stuff around, cabinets slammed, lights were turned on.
I sat with Jack, with my hand over his stoma, apologizing. It was an accident, but for some reason, it felt like my fault. I didn't want to hurt him.
Stompy McStompALot buzzed back into the room with enough supplies to do surgery on my bed, and was breathing like he'd run a marathon. He was shaking. He was scared.
I was not. I was nervous because this had never happened before. I wasn't sure Jack's stoma was OK. I wasn't sure if we should call a doctor.
I replaced the button, gave Jack some pain meds (he does not his tube being replaced---it hurts), and hooked him back up.
He slept. I held him and kissed his forehead. I cried.
We don't understand, and we never will. We don't know why God thinks we're capable of taking care of Jack.
This morning, Jack woke up just fine. He gave me the sleepy, slack-eyed smile. He let me hold him for a minute and smell his head (which smelled a lot like PediaSure!) and kiss his sweet little cheeks.
It doesn't matter that we don't have the answers.
It Started on Saturday...
Saturday was the absolute-most-perfectly-beautiful day that we've had in a long time! After spending the better part of a month either under quarantine or recuperating, I (and the kids too, I'm sure!) was in desperate need of some Vitamin D. We still wanted to be careful about Jack, so we put him in the Wagon of Love, and just walked Savannah.
It was a perfectly lovely way to spend a few hours...
Late in the afternoon, Janson had an appointment with the eye doctor. We had noticed her not being able to read the TV (you know, because it's so small?!).
She sat up in the chair and the doctor showed her the eye chart, and asked her what she could see.
Janson: "E"
Dr.: "OK honey, what else?"
Janson:"That's it. Just E!"
Needless to say, we came home sporting some rather fashionable spectacles! Wanna guess what color they are?
Yesterday, I worked. Occasionally I do that, you know. I actually go to my real place of employment. I was having a halfway decent day until I got a phone call from my Beloved. Well, actually, to be fair to him...the girls that I work with knew there was something going on, because he never agrees to "hold" for me...he says "Just have her call me back." He was holding, so the girls were worried.
Turns out, Jack didn't feel that it was necessary for Janson to have glasses. So, while she was reading, he walked up, snatched them off her face, and broke them. Not Even 24 Hours After They Were Purchased!
But wait...there's more.
Today was our first day back amongst the living. We got up and left for Therapy, when I get another frantic call from Sebi. He had received a call from our neighbor (for those of you who follow me here: YEP, THE neighbor with the golf balls!). Seems as if Owen, the WonderDog, was running the streets. After quite the search, we do have him, but it wasn't looking good. Janson was in tears...I was mad. Typical.
Why does this stuff bother me?
Because I'm a perfectionist. I don't know why (yes I do...it's my father's fault). However, having the life that we now have is forcing me to not be perfect. Quite frankly, I'm not dealing with it well. I don't know how to make it better. I can't fix it. I can't magically turn things around.
I don't like feeling like this...I'm a Mom. Mom's fix things. They make the world right.
Sigh.
It was a perfectly lovely way to spend a few hours...
Late in the afternoon, Janson had an appointment with the eye doctor. We had noticed her not being able to read the TV (you know, because it's so small?!).
She sat up in the chair and the doctor showed her the eye chart, and asked her what she could see.
Janson: "E"
Dr.: "OK honey, what else?"
Janson:"That's it. Just E!"
Needless to say, we came home sporting some rather fashionable spectacles! Wanna guess what color they are?
Yesterday, I worked. Occasionally I do that, you know. I actually go to my real place of employment. I was having a halfway decent day until I got a phone call from my Beloved. Well, actually, to be fair to him...the girls that I work with knew there was something going on, because he never agrees to "hold" for me...he says "Just have her call me back." He was holding, so the girls were worried.
Turns out, Jack didn't feel that it was necessary for Janson to have glasses. So, while she was reading, he walked up, snatched them off her face, and broke them. Not Even 24 Hours After They Were Purchased!
But wait...there's more.
Today was our first day back amongst the living. We got up and left for Therapy, when I get another frantic call from Sebi. He had received a call from our neighbor (for those of you who follow me here: YEP, THE neighbor with the golf balls!). Seems as if Owen, the WonderDog, was running the streets. After quite the search, we do have him, but it wasn't looking good. Janson was in tears...I was mad. Typical.
Why does this stuff bother me?
Because I'm a perfectionist. I don't know why (yes I do...it's my father's fault). However, having the life that we now have is forcing me to not be perfect. Quite frankly, I'm not dealing with it well. I don't know how to make it better. I can't fix it. I can't magically turn things around.
I don't like feeling like this...I'm a Mom. Mom's fix things. They make the world right.
Sigh.
Special Needs Marriage...
It is not easy.
It is not always fun.
Having a special needs child---no matter what the disability---puts a strain on a marriage.
There are financial strains that no one expected (and men are all about the money, right?) like the trips to the doctor, specialists, and therapies. Jack's bills come in monthly, and we are in shock...an arm for feeding supplies, a leg for therapy, and my all time favorite---his braces cost a kidney a pair! Granted, we are thankful for the insurance we do have, but he's expensive!
This is not easy on a husband. The husband is reared to provide: the roof overhead, food on the table, wood on the fire.
There are social strains. As a couple, we don't go out. We haven't been on a date in a bazillion years. Seriously, it's hard. It is really hard for us to sit in a restaurant and enjoy ourselves---while watching "normal" people take for granted the true blessings in their lives. It kills me when parents don't enjoy the little things---the grin of getting the first slice of pizza, or the squeals of joy when the boats go through the port. When we do manage to go be in social situations, the conversation always goes to: "Well, how is Jack?" Then we get the sympathetic head-tilt-and-nod (note: We don't want your sympathy).
There are emotional strains which far surpass any other strain. There is pain involved---actual, physical pain. The heart breaks. Realizations are hard. While we will always have hope, at some point we have to be realistic too. There will probably never be a football scholarship to someone's favorite SEC school. He will probably never be the valedictorian of his class. He may never know the sheer joy of a fresh, hot praline...
For the wife, it's painful, but it's OK.
Why?
Because...we are nurturers. We see this stuff as it's-going-to-be-OK-as-long-as-I-am-in-control issues.
For the husband, this hurts. The dreams you wanted to have for your kid suddenly vanish, and there's not a thing you can do about it.
So, I guess that explains the something like 85% divorce rate amongst special needs parents?
Nah. Not so much.
In the end, after the diagnosis, after surgeries, after all the pain....you are left with your spouse. At 2 in the morning, with a toddler swimming in tube feeding, you are left with your spouse. When doctors give you news that takes the breath from your chest, you are left with your spouse. On all fours, sobbing for the millionth time over things you cannot change, you are left with your spouse.
As special needs parents, we fight so hard all the time. We should fight for our marriages the same way. No one plans for life to happen the way it does. It's predestined (thank you Presbyterian upbringing).
Personally, we have fought--with each other and for each other. I will continue slaying dragons, doctors, and IEP's forever with Sebi. I will continue standing up for my family with him, and for him. He's worth it.
It is not always fun.
Having a special needs child---no matter what the disability---puts a strain on a marriage.
There are financial strains that no one expected (and men are all about the money, right?) like the trips to the doctor, specialists, and therapies. Jack's bills come in monthly, and we are in shock...an arm for feeding supplies, a leg for therapy, and my all time favorite---his braces cost a kidney a pair! Granted, we are thankful for the insurance we do have, but he's expensive!
This is not easy on a husband. The husband is reared to provide: the roof overhead, food on the table, wood on the fire.
There are social strains. As a couple, we don't go out. We haven't been on a date in a bazillion years. Seriously, it's hard. It is really hard for us to sit in a restaurant and enjoy ourselves---while watching "normal" people take for granted the true blessings in their lives. It kills me when parents don't enjoy the little things---the grin of getting the first slice of pizza, or the squeals of joy when the boats go through the port. When we do manage to go be in social situations, the conversation always goes to: "Well, how is Jack?" Then we get the sympathetic head-tilt-and-nod (note: We don't want your sympathy).
There are emotional strains which far surpass any other strain. There is pain involved---actual, physical pain. The heart breaks. Realizations are hard. While we will always have hope, at some point we have to be realistic too. There will probably never be a football scholarship to someone's favorite SEC school. He will probably never be the valedictorian of his class. He may never know the sheer joy of a fresh, hot praline...
For the wife, it's painful, but it's OK.
Why?
Because...we are nurturers. We see this stuff as it's-going-to-be-OK-as-long-as-I-am-in-control issues.
For the husband, this hurts. The dreams you wanted to have for your kid suddenly vanish, and there's not a thing you can do about it.
So, I guess that explains the something like 85% divorce rate amongst special needs parents?
Nah. Not so much.
In the end, after the diagnosis, after surgeries, after all the pain....you are left with your spouse. At 2 in the morning, with a toddler swimming in tube feeding, you are left with your spouse. When doctors give you news that takes the breath from your chest, you are left with your spouse. On all fours, sobbing for the millionth time over things you cannot change, you are left with your spouse.
As special needs parents, we fight so hard all the time. We should fight for our marriages the same way. No one plans for life to happen the way it does. It's predestined (thank you Presbyterian upbringing).
Personally, we have fought--with each other and for each other. I will continue slaying dragons, doctors, and IEP's forever with Sebi. I will continue standing up for my family with him, and for him. He's worth it.
Left Field
At some point, I was hoping that, somehow, our perpetual black cloud would stop hovering over our heads.
I'm often wrong.
Surgery. After a long night of little sleep, we arrived at our appointed time--to sit and wait forever. Jack did well and was easily entertained by a plethora of Wall-E stickers which were bestowed upon him by the Child Life Specialist (who, in my opinion, was way too mouthy. She sat in Jack's room for, I kid you not, 20 minutes, telling us her life story and the stories of most of the other patients (hello HIPAA?)...she was given grace due to the stickers).
Around 10:30 AM they doped him up with some Versed to get him to the OR. The OR nurses and the Anesthesiologist came to take him from me and he freaked out. This made me happy...which is so wrong, but he hadn't wanted anything to do with me, and suddenly he knew which side of the bread was buttered, and I was OK with it. Until I wasn't. And I cried. Because he screamed. All the way to surgery.
Then, the Great Wait began. This is the part I despise. Sitting there. Nothing to do. Worrying. Thinking about the worst case scenario. Sebi had gone for my coffee, and Jack's other surgeon stopped to talk to me.
Dr. Thorax: "Hey! Is Jack here again?"
Me: "Uh-huh. He's in with Dr. Ear."
Dr. Thorax: "I thought that was him...."
Me: "Him who? Dr. Ear, or Jack?"
Dr. Thorax: "Well, he was in the OR next to mine, and I was SURE I heard him screaming..."
Me: "You're not making this better..."
Dr. Thorax: "Yeah, sorry...well, if you need anything...."
Me: "bye..."
We waited....comforted by the thought of my child screaming for me.
Around 11:42 (give or take a few seconds), they called to tell me he was done and they needed me. I, once again, heard him before I saw him. Only when I saw him, I didn't know if I should laugh or cry. He was clawing and biting at the nurse, all while screaming "MAMAMAMAMAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
I climbed in the bed with him and just held him. He was less than happy---and he hasn't been since.
Dr. Ear came to talk to me while we were in the post-anesthesia area. He said the surgery went as well as it could have. Unfortunately, Jack had apnea while in the OR and PACU (post-anesthesia care unit)after his tonsils and adenoids were removed. He said that he feels that Jack's apnea is more a direct link between his brain and his body, than it is from his tonsils/adenoids. Dr. Ear wants to help more on Jack's case, and he offered to talk with Dr. Lung as well. He said that kids with CP (affecting the child's mouth/swallowing) usually have trouble with breathing because of the low tone in their throat muscles. This could explain a lot, but at the same time, it doesn't give anyone much optimism regarding our little man's swallowing.
Dr. Ear sent us home--partly because he didn't want Jack in Swine Flu Central, and partly because he has the G-Tube, so we can control what he takes in--even if he doesn't want to drink his thickened stuff. Jack spent the afternoon drooling all over my chest--because God forbid I move a muscle. He also slept the night that way (I'm slowly regaining the feeling to my extremities).
But that's OK. I held him. He wanted me. We needed each other.
I'm often wrong.
Surgery. After a long night of little sleep, we arrived at our appointed time--to sit and wait forever. Jack did well and was easily entertained by a plethora of Wall-E stickers which were bestowed upon him by the Child Life Specialist (who, in my opinion, was way too mouthy. She sat in Jack's room for, I kid you not, 20 minutes, telling us her life story and the stories of most of the other patients (hello HIPAA?)...she was given grace due to the stickers).
Around 10:30 AM they doped him up with some Versed to get him to the OR. The OR nurses and the Anesthesiologist came to take him from me and he freaked out. This made me happy...which is so wrong, but he hadn't wanted anything to do with me, and suddenly he knew which side of the bread was buttered, and I was OK with it. Until I wasn't. And I cried. Because he screamed. All the way to surgery.
Then, the Great Wait began. This is the part I despise. Sitting there. Nothing to do. Worrying. Thinking about the worst case scenario. Sebi had gone for my coffee, and Jack's other surgeon stopped to talk to me.
Dr. Thorax: "Hey! Is Jack here again?"
Me: "Uh-huh. He's in with Dr. Ear."
Dr. Thorax: "I thought that was him...."
Me: "Him who? Dr. Ear, or Jack?"
Dr. Thorax: "Well, he was in the OR next to mine, and I was SURE I heard him screaming..."
Me: "You're not making this better..."
Dr. Thorax: "Yeah, sorry...well, if you need anything...."
Me: "bye..."
We waited....comforted by the thought of my child screaming for me.
Around 11:42 (give or take a few seconds), they called to tell me he was done and they needed me. I, once again, heard him before I saw him. Only when I saw him, I didn't know if I should laugh or cry. He was clawing and biting at the nurse, all while screaming "MAMAMAMAMAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
I climbed in the bed with him and just held him. He was less than happy---and he hasn't been since.
Dr. Ear came to talk to me while we were in the post-anesthesia area. He said the surgery went as well as it could have. Unfortunately, Jack had apnea while in the OR and PACU (post-anesthesia care unit)after his tonsils and adenoids were removed. He said that he feels that Jack's apnea is more a direct link between his brain and his body, than it is from his tonsils/adenoids. Dr. Ear wants to help more on Jack's case, and he offered to talk with Dr. Lung as well. He said that kids with CP (affecting the child's mouth/swallowing) usually have trouble with breathing because of the low tone in their throat muscles. This could explain a lot, but at the same time, it doesn't give anyone much optimism regarding our little man's swallowing.
Dr. Ear sent us home--partly because he didn't want Jack in Swine Flu Central, and partly because he has the G-Tube, so we can control what he takes in--even if he doesn't want to drink his thickened stuff. Jack spent the afternoon drooling all over my chest--because God forbid I move a muscle. He also slept the night that way (I'm slowly regaining the feeling to my extremities).
But that's OK. I held him. He wanted me. We needed each other.
An Open Apology to the Television
Dear Very Large Television That I Formerly Hated:
When Sebi bought you, nearly 5 years ago, I was hateful to both of you. I loathed your imposing presence in my living room. I despised the way you sucked my husband in to your high quality HD world, keeping him from me. My daughter was even coerced in to mind bending submission as soon as your 50" of goodness was powered on.
Last week, you slowly began your descent to the Television Afterlife, and I was glad. Sebi, Janson, and Jack lamented your loss---like someone ran over their puppy (I was only really upset when I couldn't watch GLEE....).
My husband had purchased you at COSTCO in 2004. Way back then, COSTCO had this awesome return policy---if anything you purchased broke, they would refund your money. Clearly, as they discovered the errors of their ways, they changed the policy in 2007 to You Can Only Bring it Back if it Breaks in the First 90 Days. He called the closest COSTCO (which is 2 hours away in Charleston), and they assured him, that because he purchased it prior to The New Policy, they would grandfather us in.
Large and Obnoxious Television, I now love you. We walked in to that COSTCO with your sadly broken remains, and were handed a gift card for your original price in 2004. With that gift card we purchased the following: a new TV, a chest freezer, 2 cutting boards, 900 wipes, 20 pounds of chicken breasts, 4 whole chickens, 20 pounds of baby back ribs, 2 pot roasts, 6 pounds of pork chops, a pork tenderloin, lobster Rangoon, 144 bagel bites, 16 liters of Coke, 50 pounds of dog food, sippy cups, 2 gallons of olive oil, 500 red cups, 2 gallons of antibacterial hand soap, juice boxes, Chicken Bakes, 10 pounds of meatballs, 6 quarts of chicken stock, 18 boxes of Velveeta mac and cheese, a box of easy mac, a flat of diced tomatoes, a Flip Video Camera, and a PlayStation 3.
When we left, we were giddy...and we still had money on the gift card, so we filled the car with gas! Driving home, I never even thought of you.
L.O.T. may you rest in peace...and thank you for the contribution you made to my family!
With a Heart (and Tummy) Full,
Heather
When Sebi bought you, nearly 5 years ago, I was hateful to both of you. I loathed your imposing presence in my living room. I despised the way you sucked my husband in to your high quality HD world, keeping him from me. My daughter was even coerced in to mind bending submission as soon as your 50" of goodness was powered on.
Last week, you slowly began your descent to the Television Afterlife, and I was glad. Sebi, Janson, and Jack lamented your loss---like someone ran over their puppy (I was only really upset when I couldn't watch GLEE....).
My husband had purchased you at COSTCO in 2004. Way back then, COSTCO had this awesome return policy---if anything you purchased broke, they would refund your money. Clearly, as they discovered the errors of their ways, they changed the policy in 2007 to You Can Only Bring it Back if it Breaks in the First 90 Days. He called the closest COSTCO (which is 2 hours away in Charleston), and they assured him, that because he purchased it prior to The New Policy, they would grandfather us in.
Large and Obnoxious Television, I now love you. We walked in to that COSTCO with your sadly broken remains, and were handed a gift card for your original price in 2004. With that gift card we purchased the following: a new TV, a chest freezer, 2 cutting boards, 900 wipes, 20 pounds of chicken breasts, 4 whole chickens, 20 pounds of baby back ribs, 2 pot roasts, 6 pounds of pork chops, a pork tenderloin, lobster Rangoon, 144 bagel bites, 16 liters of Coke, 50 pounds of dog food, sippy cups, 2 gallons of olive oil, 500 red cups, 2 gallons of antibacterial hand soap, juice boxes, Chicken Bakes, 10 pounds of meatballs, 6 quarts of chicken stock, 18 boxes of Velveeta mac and cheese, a box of easy mac, a flat of diced tomatoes, a Flip Video Camera, and a PlayStation 3.
When we left, we were giddy...and we still had money on the gift card, so we filled the car with gas! Driving home, I never even thought of you.
L.O.T. may you rest in peace...and thank you for the contribution you made to my family!
With a Heart (and Tummy) Full,
Heather
I'm Down with IEP (Yeah, You Know Me!)--Part Deux
It's over. And it begins.
The IEP meeting was this morning, bright and early. Shirley Sourpuss, and CrackerJack Judy walked in and started spewing off all the things that are wrong with Jack. Then they talked about some of the good points (which is always good). After listening to Sourpuss ramble for awhile, they got to the good stuff: goals and what they're going to do. He qualifies to be considered home bound because of his immunocompromised state. He, based on the greater than 2 standard deviation failure of his evaluations, also qualifies for speech and a teacher weekly. They labeled him as---you might need a paper and pencil, he's got a ton--Severe Speech Language Impairment, Significant Developmental Delay, Other Health Impaired, Severe Articulation Delay, and he will also qualify for Adaptive Technology. This school thing is going to be complicated...
So, Shirley Sourpuss comes on Fridays and CrackerJack Judy will be here bright and early Monday mornings. I'm glad I have nothing else to do, like, ever...
The IEP meeting was this morning, bright and early. Shirley Sourpuss, and CrackerJack Judy walked in and started spewing off all the things that are wrong with Jack. Then they talked about some of the good points (which is always good). After listening to Sourpuss ramble for awhile, they got to the good stuff: goals and what they're going to do. He qualifies to be considered home bound because of his immunocompromised state. He, based on the greater than 2 standard deviation failure of his evaluations, also qualifies for speech and a teacher weekly. They labeled him as---you might need a paper and pencil, he's got a ton--Severe Speech Language Impairment, Significant Developmental Delay, Other Health Impaired, Severe Articulation Delay, and he will also qualify for Adaptive Technology. This school thing is going to be complicated...
So, Shirley Sourpuss comes on Fridays and CrackerJack Judy will be here bright and early Monday mornings. I'm glad I have nothing else to do, like, ever...
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