Thanksgiving Week

I've so looked forward to this week off. It's one of those "what do I do first?" weeks, so almost nothing got done until the last moment as I gave in to making a decision and just jumped in. About 9 cabinets organized later, I am ready to go back to work. Well, not ready as in "I can't wait" but ready enough that I am not dreading it. In fact--I kinda miss my little guys. I just hope they had a nice time relaxing at home enjoying their families. So, here's my fun in a nutshell:
1. Slept in until average of 10 AM every morning--and that's without any sleep aids. Just goes to show how anxious I am everyday that I can't sleep without a sleep aid during the regular work week.
2. Made 4 trips to Lowes, 2 by myself, to get the kitchen colors chosen.
3. Found the new counter and floor tiles. Now, to get them ordered...
4. Ate and ate and ate and ate. I actually thought about buying a girdle--that's how much I ate! I'll just have to starve myself until Christmas.
5. Stayed up late watching cable, movies I DVR'd, Spongebob, and movies we rented. I also exercised a little and played a handheld game every night before bed.
6. I had a lot of fun with my man, Greg. A lot, people. If you know what I mean...cough.
7. I ate and ate, did I mention that?
8. I did a lot of online shopping--but that is usual activity for me, so I don't know if it should count as my week off fun.
9. Hung out with my children, which I do anyway, but it was so nice to not have somewhere to be soon, something I had to do, or some place I had to take them. We had no conditions, no rules, no time limits--just pure relaxation together.
10. Bought 3 new tires. On my way to the temple a tire blew so I ended up spending the evening replacing it instead of doing temple work and going to a friend's b-day dinner. That blew as much as the tire did. The tire blew, the evening blew, and I blew ($375 bucks that is.)
If that isn't the most excitement you've had in a while, then just live my life for a day and you'll appreciate the slow pace I enjoyed this week. I am now preparing for a presentation tomorrow and work on Monday with school work to do in between. It's off to the races once again--most likely I'll finish last as usual.

SHOUT OUT

A shout out to my little friend Emma Ward! She has made school bareable for Kindsay by including her in play at recess. Kindsay loves to see a familiar and friendly face at school, and Emma is just the girl she needs! Thank you, Emma! You are very special.

Kindsay--Haven't figured her out yet.

Well today was the triennial--the big assessment. The new school psych said she read all Kindsay's past reports and was so confused by what she read that she did a full battery of tests on Kindsay. 24 pages. Results? Kindsay is confusing. She is consistently inconsistent. She can score 94% on one test and 1% on the next within the same subject. STRANGE. She now qualifies under Severe Emotional Disturbance (if you've ever met Kindsay, you'd know it was the anxiety that placed her in the category...she's a wreck socially), AND "autistic like behaviors" is the secondary qualifier (she has to smell everything and makes funny noises for starters.) Alas, still no solid answers--her x-rays and blood work results are still out there somewhere--but one thing we know for sure: she's one-of-a-kind.

Sisterly Love

The good thing is that my sisters (I have three--one older; two younger) and I are best of friends. We love getting together, talking on the phone, texting..whatever! Our children are best friends (all 16), so who would've thought that so many years ago we hated each other with passion.
Seriously...hated.
For one thing, I used to carve my little sister's name in all the furniture with a knife out of the kitchen. I figured when my parents go to ask, "Who did this?" they will barely get all the words out before they realize it was my sister! Who else would carve her own name into the furniture? Automatic bust. Hehehe.
Another example: One sister tried to pay a stoner chick in high school to beat me up. Sad thing is that I hung out with the goths, stoners, punks..so the girl was probably my friend. If only Kelly had enough cash for that one, we may not be so close today. How embarrassing for me.
My other sister only remembers me from childhood as one having made her my personal servant. I always deny that while I have her grab me a drink from the fridge (bad timing every time!) My older sister was Satan's little helper and the wicked witch rolled up into one person. She used to tease me because I was flat-chested and, let's face it, butt ugly. My how things have changed! Now she's my closest friend. My brother? He has his own story to tell.

I am an over-paid bathroom attendant.

My job is not glamorous...just ask my husband who has to hear all my day's complaints at 2:30 PM EVERYDAY as I drive home from work and vent with exasperation. I have 2 students who have to be taken to the bathroom and supervised. Not a big deal, except one of them thinks visiting the bathroom is pure enjoyment. She doesn't talk and wears a diaper that she can take off by herself, so all day she gives me the ASL sign for bathroom. We go to the bathroom...I stand and wait for her to do her thing...she stares at me...I stare at her...she shakes her head...I nod mine...she refuses to pull down her pants and sit on the toilet so I gesture for us to leave...she shakes her head...I nod mine:::::AHHHHHHHHH. We do this about 3 times a day (I send an aide with her the other 5 times and I turn down a sign for toilet about every 5 min.) The really hard part is that she snarls at me with bloody gums (I have reported this a few times now) and goes to pinch me. I started putting socks on her hands to send the message that there won't be any pinching on my clock. The other student is a male who cannot wipe himself. My co-teacher, a male, is a good sport and wraps a towel around his face like a bandit so he can attend to this task. This kiddo also cannot wipe his nose and he emptied his sinuses while I shrieked and ran the other way. Again, good old Shawn came to my rescue. "I will not eat for 3 days if I have to wipe his nose!" Shawn just laughs and wipes him down. I'm serious though. Green goo out of a fourteen-year-old...best appetite suppressant in the world. Even I don't want to lost weight that badly.

Again with the history?

OK...another story that should remain in the recesses of my mind, yet here it is being laid out before you like a buffet in Vegas. This time, I am the devil. I'm not saying I was the worst sister ever, but I was among good company if you really must know. All of us were mean to each other, so I got a zing in every now and then and am PROUD of it! I actually teamed up with my older sister for this, which was unheard of back then. Now we are a daring duo, two peas in a pod, but back then, it was a death wish for me to even look at her. My sister, just fifteen months younger than I, (yeah...I was "the baby" for a very short time, another HMPH! to add, hehe) was and still is a deep sleeper. But, my older sis and I dared ask, HOW deep is that sleep? Little sister, I will call Kelly (see pic, center) since it is part of her name, would literally crash at 3 PM, much like half her children do now, which is good old-fashion karma. Picture it, later into the evening, once Char and I have been put to bed in the same room with Kelly, and the two of us are bored and wide awake. Nothing we do wakes this child. Two pairs of eyes lock and share the same terrible thought. Char grabs a block and sticks it down the back of Kelly's underwear. Kelly rolls over and doesn't even flinch, block and all. Again, two pairs of eyes lock. Another block is added to the underwear. Another roll and still no response from the living dead. Two eyes now with raised brows. Hmmm. This time, I grab a big, fat rock and put it down the back of her underwear. Amazingly, Kelly rolls in agitation, but does not stir from sleep. Bwahahaha! This continues, as sick as we were, for a little while, until we cannot find anything small enough to fit but large enough to wake her. Not much later, my father bursts into the room in his tightie-whities to find out who is making all the noise. The whole family had gone to sleep and were now waking because of the racket. My dad, bless his heart, was half asleep but blazing mad about being out of bed when he had work at 4 am. Char and I were taken back in fear and without even thinking we both pointed at Kelly. He didn't notice she was in a coma because he didn't call us on our fib and come after us. We dove for our beds just in case he noticed she was not part of our late night shananigans. Dad never noticed; instead, he reached for Kelly's legs, flipped her on her stomach, and paddled her behind with his hand. I suppose I don't have to say, but I will--that woke her up.

Kindsay is Crooked

Ugh...not again! When I had Kindsay I was at a different doctor for months on end. The poor kid was poked fifteen times in her hand on one visit alone because the phlebotomist couldn't find a vein. Here we are again...blood tests, x-rays...bleck. At least I've got good insurance, twice over. This time we noticed her hips are crooked. One sits higher than the other? Even her CVRC counselor said, "Hey, her hips are crooked!" Back to the doctor. Dr. Jones, awesomist dr. ever, at first looked at her feet and noticed they stood inward. I had taken her to a podiatrist a year or so ago about that and was told it would be fixed with time, when she goes through her adolescence. WRONG! Dr. Jones said. This is probably the fourth time a doctor of his expertise and wisdom has said that about another doctor who misdiagnosed Kindsay. After looking at her back, he wrote out an order for x-rays down her spine, legs, and ankles. He also wanted genetic blood tests done. Kindsay slowly began sinking behind the door, biting nails, sucking hair, etc...When we left the office she said, "Let's just go, just go now." I could tell her anxiety was heightening, so I turned the other way instead of home to go to the hospital and get it done. We'll see what the results are...to be announced. Say a prayer that it's all good.

Here we go back in time....

Pantsing was a pasttime in junior high--during a time when sexual harassment was only a myth. Looking back I could've been a recipient of some serious compensatory cash, but that's not the kind of person I am (blah blah). Instead, I just pants back. When I say pants, I mean the pants, literally, especially during P.E. It was me and this one kid named Steve Jones, black guy...really smart...funny, super nice...but he was my pantsing buddy. We took turns going at each other, like tag but with pants. Those gym shorts just slipped like my tongue when I'm in an awkward social situation. No one got hurt, no one ever paid much attention even. It was just a little yank, some drawers, then a pull back up and all was well. Until the final blow (the verbage is at a loss now, there's no helping all the words), on the soccer field.
Picture it, 1987 on a spring day (because it was PE not real soccer, okay soccer freaks?), we were all out on the field, boys and girls. I was a few yards in front of the goalie, Jason Mueller, who was pretty cute, but never was an interest of mine. The game was on the other end of the field, so my team must have been doing pretty well, like I cared. I hung back, not even watching the game. I must've been thinking about something because I was so oblivious to EVERYTHING. Steve Jones, what an opportunist, was not in la-la land. No, friends, he was calculating. Right now, he must be making big dollars somewhere taking advantage of poor, vulnerable people who are looking the other way. I'm standing on the field when suddenly I feel my shorts go down my legs. They don't go down as in "oops, slip" grap 'em and back up. They went D O W N my legs. But that wasn't the worst part. Steve, still the reigning king of pantsing, had grabbed my underwear (that's what they were when I was in 8th...no one wore thongs, that was weird). The breeze was free to roam in the parts that don't get a lot of fresh air. My bare bottom was free for Jason to check out. I grabbed the clothing (multiple) back up and heard the laughter getting louder. Five black girls were standing to the side. One of them screamed, "She got hair!" Very mature, what...you don't have hair? How old are we? In eighth grade, everything is embarrassing, so you can imagine how that one did me in. At least my butt was cute back then. Now if he had done that yesterday?...Sexual harassment suit for "all he got," that's all I can say. (my head is doing the 'attitude' bob as I write that.) Now that is history I'm proud to share with my posterity.

9/11 : Bittersweet

I just wanted to point out that 9/11 is a day of happiness for me, but of sorrow as well. While I remember vividly watching the towers fall that day, little did I know that I would be pushing out my fourth and last child a year later. I cried as I watched the towers fall, no sounds emitting from my mouth...just the flow of tears as I stood in horror. I went to school that day, afraid as usual of missing something important, only to be kept in the class as the university took measures to protect those who shared nationality with the enemy. Upon my release, I rushed home to my three babies. That December, when my husband's brother came to visit, a little oopsie daisy that turned into the best thing that happened to me became a reality as I vied for my husband's attention. It was when the last box was carried into our first home that my contractions started at midnight on 9/11. As my husband lay his head down for the first time that day, I tapped him on the shoulder and told him it was time. Only a few hours later, our 9 lb 7 oz baby boy was celebrating his birthday. A packed hospital that day with other new babies, I spent much time alone as my husband ran about getting our girls into school and finalizing moving details. Now, six years later, my baby boy, Ty, gives me a reason to be happy on that horrific day. Instead of calling it 9/11, we call it 9-7 on 9-11. Happy Birthday, Ty Ty...and a moment of silence please.

Y Me History

Just to have a little "get to know me" time, which is not because I am the "Me Monster" as Brian Regan so aptly named an ego maniac, I thought I'd add a story here and there about the old me. Again...cheaper than therapy is a good old home remedy (a blog). I grew up down the way from where I currently live with a house full of females, one crazy male, and a father who didn't spend much time at home. (does this sound familiar, anyone?) I was number two of five with the lone male tailing behind the Hormonal Four (would've had a band if any of us had talent.) My poor mother, bless her locked bedroom door heart, had to do much of the raising alone. I liked to sleep in, unlike my three sisters, and would get up long after they had wiped out what little food we had to eat. By the time I went to the kitchen for breakfast, all that was left were remnants of store-brand sugar cereal lining the cracks of the wall behind the curtains where my sisters would think they were sneaking the cereal at dawn. I, of course, was left with store-brand Cheerios, or what we called Toastios, or some shredded wheat business. When I did resign to eating such blandness until I dumped a half pound of sugar on it, my sisters would go further to have fun with me. Just as I go to put the first bite into my mouth with all that was left of the silverware (an enormous serving spoon meant for Thanksgiving Day only), I would hear "bwahahahas." Looking back, I should've kept going, but in my naivety, I had to ask what the deal was. My older sister (see photo insert), who still apologizes profusely for acting on behalf of Satan my entire adolescence, bursts out laughing again. In between snorts, I hear her say something about having stuck that last spoon in her bum. I look at the giant spoon then back at her, questioning the unquestionable, wondering how and why she would do such a thing. Again, naive. In my hunger, which was desperate, I shrugged my shoulders to show them I didn't care, only to lift the spoon high above my head, then drip the contents into my mouth so as not to touch the spoon with my lips. It was okay, I guess, to allow my food to go down with bum juice on it, just as long as it did not touch my lips. And I remember thinking, this spoon does smell a little like her bum. The power of the mind, or lack thereof.

The Beeping

You all know how much fun Kindsay is. When I say fun, I mean that I can say she is fun three days after the trauma occurs, but not a moment before. As exasperated as I always am about how she DOESN'T keep her room in the remotest possible way of being entered, she managed to add another element of exasperation. I walked by the other day, only to hear a beeping noise, like an alarm, along with wafting food scents, coming from her room. As though I had taken a wrong turn and thought I was actually in the kitchen, I did a double take. Alas, I was only in the hall, just past her room. As I turn to question the unquestionable, she exits her room with a bowl of hot oatmeal, blowing it business as usual, looking at me like, what? She had found Greg's old classroom microwave and installed it at the foot of her bed. I ran to see what other appliances lined the wall and was thankful to find that his refrigerator had not been brought in from the garage as well. Then it dawned on me, she can't get that thing in here alone...unless she figures out that the dolly sitting five feet behind it will easily cart it into the room without effort. So cross your fingers, ladies and gentlemen, that my special little appliance savant doesn't make any connections. Otherwise she'll be wondering how to get a toilet in her room and will thus not have to leave her room for anything but to get on her bus for school. Don't tempt me.