Got together with one of my former coworkers today for lunch and had a great chat about the antics at the old place and various children we know and love. Misery shared and laughed at is misery negated, almost.
When I came home 2 hours later, the rest of the family was almost exactly as I'd left them, except The Man (TM) had switched which Web comic he was looking at. So I booted him out to run some errands and spent the next couple hours carving pumpkins with the kids. All 3 of them. Turned out nice.
We were going to work on Halloween costumes, too, but the boys couldn't decide (simultaneously) whether they really wanted to be a train (which I think would be fun and an easy and cheap costume for all 3), so we let it go for the moment. If nothing else, we have 3 pirate hats, some swords, and other miscellany lying around. I get to take all 3 of them trick-or-treating on Tuesday and hope our house doesn't get egged because no one will be home to hand out candy for a while. So I can't be everywhere at once.
Which reminds me, today, TM was talking to Punkin Boy about what a big boy he's getting to be-- "so big and strong" sort of thing. Punkin Boy vehemently denied this. "I'm not strong," he said. "Is Daddy strong?" TM asked. No, Punkin Boy answered, Mama is strong. As I lay curled up in a ball of pain on my bed, I whispered with tears in my eyes, "Thanks, baby. You just made it all worthwhile."
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Halloween Fun
Dudes. My dad sent this link to a fun little site for kids and anyone else with a lot of time on their hands. The boys have been carving pumpkin faces all day. This weekend we'll be doing it for real, and I've actually gotten some ideas. Check it out.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Pyrrhic Victory, with Pumpkins and Pizza
After weeks of (virtual) yelling, screaming, name-calling, hair-pulling, and outright threats (mostly one-sided), #1 Son's birthday weekend is ours (as specified anyway in the court document governing parental visitation), and the entirety of Mother's Day weekend belongs to Mommy Dearest. Which is fine. The split weekends are a hassle and really ought to be easily dealt with. By rational people. I'm sure this conflict will come back to bite us someday, since The Man stuck to the legal document as always and consequently Miss Thing didn't immediately get everything she demanded. Proof positive that he is evil and she is mistreated, of course. And then there was her "Why don't you just give me what I want instead of prolonging this conflict, which is hurting our son?!" This was after she threatened to kidnap the boy instead of abiding by the visitation doc. Because Mommy is always right.
But I'm not bitter. What I am is thrilled that we get to have a whole weekend to celebrate with our boy. I am making him a cake that I hope will look like a Moglin (at his request), and we'll be visiting the local pumpkin patch in the afternoon and eating homemade pizza for dinner. His little brothers are just as excited as he is; it should be fun. And it won't be interrupted by invaders from Hell. I'm so happy.
But at the back of my mind, I worry. These conflicts do bother #1 Son, and he doesn't know or care who's in the right, he just doesn't like confrontation. At some point this week, The Man asked which way he'd like to deal with the conflict, and he said basically "Give Mommy her way." I'm not sure whether that's because he really wanted to spend his birthday with her (hey, it would make up for a few years ago when she was supposed to take him for the birthday and never showed up) or whether he just can't stand her screaming. Doesn't matter, I suppose.
We were reading Matthew 5 (the Sermon on the Mount) tonight for family scripture study, and the latter half of the chapter really hit home. You know, the part about turning the other cheek and loving your enemies. "Agree with your adversary quickly" lest she take you to court and tell all sorts of slanderous lies about you and make your life way worse than it was before. Totally there. ("Good idea, O Lord." "Course it's a good idea!") Yeah.
But I'm not bitter. What I am is thrilled that we get to have a whole weekend to celebrate with our boy. I am making him a cake that I hope will look like a Moglin (at his request), and we'll be visiting the local pumpkin patch in the afternoon and eating homemade pizza for dinner. His little brothers are just as excited as he is; it should be fun. And it won't be interrupted by invaders from Hell. I'm so happy.
But at the back of my mind, I worry. These conflicts do bother #1 Son, and he doesn't know or care who's in the right, he just doesn't like confrontation. At some point this week, The Man asked which way he'd like to deal with the conflict, and he said basically "Give Mommy her way." I'm not sure whether that's because he really wanted to spend his birthday with her (hey, it would make up for a few years ago when she was supposed to take him for the birthday and never showed up) or whether he just can't stand her screaming. Doesn't matter, I suppose.
We were reading Matthew 5 (the Sermon on the Mount) tonight for family scripture study, and the latter half of the chapter really hit home. You know, the part about turning the other cheek and loving your enemies. "Agree with your adversary quickly" lest she take you to court and tell all sorts of slanderous lies about you and make your life way worse than it was before. Totally there. ("Good idea, O Lord." "Course it's a good idea!") Yeah.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Everyone's a Critic
I happened across this travel article on CNN.com today and was browsing through it 'cause boy, I need a vacation. It's all about beach resorts, and just looking at the pictures (instead of the snow on the ground outside) was very relaxing. As I reached the end of the "Pacific Coast" section, a comment caught my eye. It was about the Turtle Bay Resort (which was a Hilton when I spent my wedding night there). In the very first sentence, the writer says, "Turtle Bay Resort may underwhelm you as you enter the... uninspired grounds." I'm sorry, things may have changed since I was there last, but HUH? Take a look at the photos and see whether you're inspired or underwhelmed. I fully plan to be inspired as I go to bed now and reflect on the memories of eating guava cake for breakfast on the lanai with my sweetheart as I watched the waves break and felt the soft ocean breeze. I didn't pay any $900 a night, either. Who writes this stuff?
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Semi-Random Jots
Several things today. I was going to post yesterday when we got the first snowfall of the season. Which was, of course, right after one of the warmest few days since August. It's supposed to be back up to 60 tomorrow. This is just typical. What's weird is that it didn't snow in September this year.
Second, I've got my appeal to Social Security nearly finished. I was trying to work on it earlier while getting the kids ready for bed because the SS servers go down at night. But that's sort of like trying to juggle two pitbulls and a chainsaw. They'd never accept that I'm disabled if they knew about that...
Which reminds me, it's miraculous that Punkin Boy is even in bed by now. He's been sleeping until 9-ish every morning lately, which is great, but then he's been staying up till 11 or midnight, and that I can't handle. For one thing, I never get anything done. I was doing so well on finishing my novel, and then this started and all I've been able to do is sit with this 40-pound "baby chick" on my lap (this is his self-label) and read him the same book over and over. It is not a very good book. I guess I shouldn't complain at all. It's taken him 3 years to develop an affection for me; he was best friends with his daddy from the womb, but he only recently acknowledged my existence. So I ought to be grateful.
As for the other kids, dangit all but I want to compare them. I want to be so proud of my Pirate Boy, who uses terms like "syllabification" and "commutative property" in casual conversation and, when he runs out of homework, writes up quizzes and gives lectures about the material he's been learning in school. #1 Son calls him "The Brain" already.
This is the same #1 Son who doesn't bother doing his homework. He tells us every night that he's done with it, and we say, "Do you understand the consequences to you if you are lying?" and he says yes, and then we get yet another note from a teacher saying, "Your child's grade in my class has slipped to C- or below..." Today, it was from a teacher with whom he has several subjects, explaining why he is doing poorly in history, spelling/vocabulary, and reading. Reading, for heaven's sake! His best subject! This is the "make or break" subject for this grade, and he doesn't bother to do the work. What the heck is up with this?
The teachers are always so professional in their wording. Words like "distracted" and "disorganized" come up a lot. The one from the science teacher was pretty interesting-- "#1 Son was unhappy with a critical comment, began crying and hid under his desk." Oh come on. He's turning 12 this week and is acting like a 6-year-old. Except that Pirate Boy never does that. What the heck?
And before you start worrying too much, dear readers, I don't make these comparisons or comments (most of them) out loud. This blog is the place where I can get my worries out and maybe hear some advice (if any of you have any to share) about what on earth to do to help this kid whose DNA is half damaged and who has a lot of stress to deal with. (Yes, I do secretly exult over the superiority of my genetics. All other things being equal, my kid ROCKS!) We give him rules, have standards, love him, give him space, rein him in, expect his best, even threaten when necessary. (Currently, he must raise all his grades to a C or better before Christmas break, or he will be removed from the school he's in. This threat made him cry. We'll see if it motivates him to actually do the work.) What do we do next?
Second, I've got my appeal to Social Security nearly finished. I was trying to work on it earlier while getting the kids ready for bed because the SS servers go down at night. But that's sort of like trying to juggle two pitbulls and a chainsaw. They'd never accept that I'm disabled if they knew about that...
Which reminds me, it's miraculous that Punkin Boy is even in bed by now. He's been sleeping until 9-ish every morning lately, which is great, but then he's been staying up till 11 or midnight, and that I can't handle. For one thing, I never get anything done. I was doing so well on finishing my novel, and then this started and all I've been able to do is sit with this 40-pound "baby chick" on my lap (this is his self-label) and read him the same book over and over. It is not a very good book. I guess I shouldn't complain at all. It's taken him 3 years to develop an affection for me; he was best friends with his daddy from the womb, but he only recently acknowledged my existence. So I ought to be grateful.
As for the other kids, dangit all but I want to compare them. I want to be so proud of my Pirate Boy, who uses terms like "syllabification" and "commutative property" in casual conversation and, when he runs out of homework, writes up quizzes and gives lectures about the material he's been learning in school. #1 Son calls him "The Brain" already.
This is the same #1 Son who doesn't bother doing his homework. He tells us every night that he's done with it, and we say, "Do you understand the consequences to you if you are lying?" and he says yes, and then we get yet another note from a teacher saying, "Your child's grade in my class has slipped to C- or below..." Today, it was from a teacher with whom he has several subjects, explaining why he is doing poorly in history, spelling/vocabulary, and reading. Reading, for heaven's sake! His best subject! This is the "make or break" subject for this grade, and he doesn't bother to do the work. What the heck is up with this?
The teachers are always so professional in their wording. Words like "distracted" and "disorganized" come up a lot. The one from the science teacher was pretty interesting-- "#1 Son was unhappy with a critical comment, began crying and hid under his desk." Oh come on. He's turning 12 this week and is acting like a 6-year-old. Except that Pirate Boy never does that. What the heck?
And before you start worrying too much, dear readers, I don't make these comparisons or comments (most of them) out loud. This blog is the place where I can get my worries out and maybe hear some advice (if any of you have any to share) about what on earth to do to help this kid whose DNA is half damaged and who has a lot of stress to deal with. (Yes, I do secretly exult over the superiority of my genetics. All other things being equal, my kid ROCKS!) We give him rules, have standards, love him, give him space, rein him in, expect his best, even threaten when necessary. (Currently, he must raise all his grades to a C or better before Christmas break, or he will be removed from the school he's in. This threat made him cry. We'll see if it motivates him to actually do the work.) What do we do next?
Friday, October 13, 2006
All in the Family
Or maybe I should title this one "It's All About Me." As a spinoff of the trend of Googling oneself (and don't say you've never done it), I recently tried to "Wiki" myself-- that is, input my name into the Wikipedia search box to see what comes up. My name produces 17 hits, the first of which is Killer Klowns from Outer Space. (Second is Angie Dickinson, which is of course, not my name or anything like it. What the heck?)
This started because I discovered that my cousin has a Wikipedia entry. No, not Donovan, the cousin I usually brag about, but one I've been a lot closer to. Last I heard, Ryan was a ska promoter in Phoenix, but apparently he's moved up in the art scene in the past few years. It's his birthday this weekend and I was thinking of him, so I decided to finally dig up the New Times article his dad mentioned. Turns out he's got a much bigger Wiki entry than Donovan. Hmmm. On the other hand, Donovan's got an IMDB entry. Yes, there's some Wiki envy here.
You get the feeling I come from kind of an accomplished family. No joke. My little sisters form the backup group for a folk singer whose name is not on the tip of my tongue so I can't link to him. I'm not completely incompetent myself; the first Google hit you get when searching on my name is in fact a reference to me. As are 3 of the next 10 hits. Not too bad. Donovan became the host of a super-popular TV show at age 24. I really can't touch that. Then there's Ryan. In the last few years, he's become a punk/thrash frontman, a talk-show host, a comedian, a performance artist, and half a dozen other things. And just a few months ago, he put on a new suit, said goodbye to the scene, and headed off to be a missionary in Oregon. He was 19 years old.
Dudes. I am running so behind.
This started because I discovered that my cousin has a Wikipedia entry. No, not Donovan, the cousin I usually brag about, but one I've been a lot closer to. Last I heard, Ryan was a ska promoter in Phoenix, but apparently he's moved up in the art scene in the past few years. It's his birthday this weekend and I was thinking of him, so I decided to finally dig up the New Times article his dad mentioned. Turns out he's got a much bigger Wiki entry than Donovan. Hmmm. On the other hand, Donovan's got an IMDB entry. Yes, there's some Wiki envy here.
You get the feeling I come from kind of an accomplished family. No joke. My little sisters form the backup group for a folk singer whose name is not on the tip of my tongue so I can't link to him. I'm not completely incompetent myself; the first Google hit you get when searching on my name is in fact a reference to me. As are 3 of the next 10 hits. Not too bad. Donovan became the host of a super-popular TV show at age 24. I really can't touch that. Then there's Ryan. In the last few years, he's become a punk/thrash frontman, a talk-show host, a comedian, a performance artist, and half a dozen other things. And just a few months ago, he put on a new suit, said goodbye to the scene, and headed off to be a missionary in Oregon. He was 19 years old.
Dudes. I am running so behind.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
I Love My Social Worker
(How sick is it that I even have a social worker? Argh! But fortunately, it's not turning out to be such a bad thing after all. Geez. )
Yes, Darci the S.W. came by today. First, she came by while I was at my writers group (which happened to be in Cheyenne this morning--brrr!) and left her card. That was pretty cool, I thought. If she really thought she'd catch us at something, she wouldn't warn us like that. So I came in and fed Punkin Boy ('cause yes, I do that) and had some lunch too. Then I straightened up a bit.
While I was finishing up the dishes, Darci came by again. She looked apologetic. "Let me guess," I said. "You got another crazy phone call." Apparently. Claiming we don't feed any of our kids anything, even banana bread. She explained that she had to investigate and had talked to the kids yesterday. They seemed fine, she said (thank you very much), and asked if it would be too much trouble for me to let her look in my kitchen at the food I claim to have. Oh sure, come on in.
Sorry for the mess, I said, I've been working. (Yay, I had another project, but yech, the state of my house!) This time, she said it wasn't so bad, so I felt better. I explained about the church welfare system and mentioned that I had multiple cuts of meat in the freezer and fresh veggies and fruits in the fridge. "Mind if I look?" Darci said. Nah, go ahead. She seemed really impressed and amazed. But she believed me. That felt good, like my sanity had been restored.
We talked for a while about the situation and how sometimes #1 Son likes to exaggerate slightly to set his "mommy" off on one of her rampages. He thinks it's funny (*Jack*), and it would be if it didn't affect our family like it does. She is quite amazingly insane and wants no truck with reality if it means agreeing with me or The Man (TM). (She's still going on about how he's trying to steal her time with her baby, when in reality it's her threatening to kidnap him when he's supposed to be here with his father. Sheesh.)
So anyway, Darci and I had a very nice chat. We talked about how skinny #1 Son is and how skinny his dad was when he was younger. How he eats more than I do, and I certainly don't weigh 75 pounds. Dang fast metabolism. How sweet Pirate Boy is and how he loves to talk about his pirate crew to anyone who'll listen. And how healthy all the boys seem to be and how she'll just be closing out this incident and making a note in case of future psycho phone calls.
YES! I love my social worker.
Yes, Darci the S.W. came by today. First, she came by while I was at my writers group (which happened to be in Cheyenne this morning--brrr!) and left her card. That was pretty cool, I thought. If she really thought she'd catch us at something, she wouldn't warn us like that. So I came in and fed Punkin Boy ('cause yes, I do that) and had some lunch too. Then I straightened up a bit.
While I was finishing up the dishes, Darci came by again. She looked apologetic. "Let me guess," I said. "You got another crazy phone call." Apparently. Claiming we don't feed any of our kids anything, even banana bread. She explained that she had to investigate and had talked to the kids yesterday. They seemed fine, she said (thank you very much), and asked if it would be too much trouble for me to let her look in my kitchen at the food I claim to have. Oh sure, come on in.
Sorry for the mess, I said, I've been working. (Yay, I had another project, but yech, the state of my house!) This time, she said it wasn't so bad, so I felt better. I explained about the church welfare system and mentioned that I had multiple cuts of meat in the freezer and fresh veggies and fruits in the fridge. "Mind if I look?" Darci said. Nah, go ahead. She seemed really impressed and amazed. But she believed me. That felt good, like my sanity had been restored.
We talked for a while about the situation and how sometimes #1 Son likes to exaggerate slightly to set his "mommy" off on one of her rampages. He thinks it's funny (*Jack*), and it would be if it didn't affect our family like it does. She is quite amazingly insane and wants no truck with reality if it means agreeing with me or The Man (TM). (She's still going on about how he's trying to steal her time with her baby, when in reality it's her threatening to kidnap him when he's supposed to be here with his father. Sheesh.)
So anyway, Darci and I had a very nice chat. We talked about how skinny #1 Son is and how skinny his dad was when he was younger. How he eats more than I do, and I certainly don't weigh 75 pounds. Dang fast metabolism. How sweet Pirate Boy is and how he loves to talk about his pirate crew to anyone who'll listen. And how healthy all the boys seem to be and how she'll just be closing out this incident and making a note in case of future psycho phone calls.
YES! I love my social worker.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Unreal
After all the psychosis surrounding our kids' eating habits lately, I've been a little more, let's face it, self-conscious about the dinners I serve and so on. So last night, as we sat around the dinner table eating big plates of spaghetti florentine, I joked to #1 Son, "So, are you getting fed lately?" It was only half a joke, really, but he laughed. Today I had a lavish dinner including a glazed ham and baked potatoes with the works, on the table ready to eat by 5:30, which was when I expected The Man (TM) and the older kids to walk in the door from school. TM has to leave again by 6:30, so I try to serve the meals so as to have as much relaxation and "family" time as possible on our hurried days.
Well, by 6:00, when TM hadn't shown up, I had started to get worried and Punkin Boy had started to get really hungry. I decided to put the meat and potatoes on TM's plate and pour the milk, so he'd be all ready to eat when he walked in. A few minutes later, I gave in and served Punkin too. And then I seriously started praying. At 6:15, the garage door opened and our missing boys arrived, #1 Son sporting a splint on his right hand. Oh good. There was very little time for explanation, but I gathered that the finger that we had thought yesterday was only jammed actually has a fracture, and the missing time was spent in the urgent care clinic. TM got the X-rays on a CD-ROM, which was kind of a relief because at least we had evidence that it wasn't any worse.
I was already formulating an email to Hell when someone brought up the subject of dinner (yes, here it is, still somewhat warm, miraculously) and how someone still thinks they don't eat. And TM asked, "Did CPS stop by today?" Ummmm, no. Should they? Apparently, they said they might. When did they say this? Oh, when they were giving our kids the third degree in the vice principal's office today after receiving yet another call from "a concerned citizen." Saying things to our kids like, "Tell the truth; we know you're not getting any food at home." Dear heavens.
Dorothy has dealt with this crud before, so she knows how awful it can be. I'm glad I'm not the only one this stuff happens to. Fortunately, our kids know the difference between "We get food" and "We don't get food" and they stuck to their guns, according to their accounts. Geez. How do you fight this garbage? We've already shown a social worker the inside of our pantry. We've explained that we get our food for free from our church welfare system, wonderful thing that it is, and we will continue to do so until we get back on our feet financially. As amazing as it may sound, it's true. And having obtained as much food as we want (because yes, that's how it works), why would we refuse to feed it to our children? Only a lunatic could believe that.
Well, by 6:00, when TM hadn't shown up, I had started to get worried and Punkin Boy had started to get really hungry. I decided to put the meat and potatoes on TM's plate and pour the milk, so he'd be all ready to eat when he walked in. A few minutes later, I gave in and served Punkin too. And then I seriously started praying. At 6:15, the garage door opened and our missing boys arrived, #1 Son sporting a splint on his right hand. Oh good. There was very little time for explanation, but I gathered that the finger that we had thought yesterday was only jammed actually has a fracture, and the missing time was spent in the urgent care clinic. TM got the X-rays on a CD-ROM, which was kind of a relief because at least we had evidence that it wasn't any worse.
I was already formulating an email to Hell when someone brought up the subject of dinner (yes, here it is, still somewhat warm, miraculously) and how someone still thinks they don't eat. And TM asked, "Did CPS stop by today?" Ummmm, no. Should they? Apparently, they said they might. When did they say this? Oh, when they were giving our kids the third degree in the vice principal's office today after receiving yet another call from "a concerned citizen." Saying things to our kids like, "Tell the truth; we know you're not getting any food at home." Dear heavens.
Dorothy has dealt with this crud before, so she knows how awful it can be. I'm glad I'm not the only one this stuff happens to. Fortunately, our kids know the difference between "We get food" and "We don't get food" and they stuck to their guns, according to their accounts. Geez. How do you fight this garbage? We've already shown a social worker the inside of our pantry. We've explained that we get our food for free from our church welfare system, wonderful thing that it is, and we will continue to do so until we get back on our feet financially. As amazing as it may sound, it's true. And having obtained as much food as we want (because yes, that's how it works), why would we refuse to feed it to our children? Only a lunatic could believe that.
Monday, October 09, 2006
It's Not Really Funny
It's finally happening. #1 Son is starting to question his mother's sanity. He came to me a couple days ago and asked, "Why does my mom think all these weird things are true, when everybody tells her they're not?" Good question, kid. Not that I can answer it for him. My best strategy in this case is a sort of Socratic approach. But mostly I keep quiet and let him talk. "I tell her I eat a lot, and she thinks I'm starving!" I know. Sigh. "And remember when she thought I had a concussion?" Yes. Sigh.
He eventually decides that she just isn't understanding what's being said to her, and that maybe he shouldn't make things so complex when he talks to her. "I'll use very small words," he says with a grin.
OK, now I've gotta go stick my face under a pillow and LAUGH.
He eventually decides that she just isn't understanding what's being said to her, and that maybe he shouldn't make things so complex when he talks to her. "I'll use very small words," he says with a grin.
OK, now I've gotta go stick my face under a pillow and LAUGH.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Thursday 13: Big Screen Edition
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Gah!
Why are people so crazy? I'd just really like to know. Like f'r'instance the board of our homeowners' ("community") association (also abbreviated Comm'y Ass.), which functions like the headquarters of the SS for our small, impoverished neighborhood-- putting the fear of Hitler into the masses. You get marginally comfortable for a while, then you get a summons (i.e., a threat) for a crime you're pretty sure you didn't commit and don't think is really a crime anyway.
We got one today. It says that we must restore our yard to lush green health in the next week or face a severe penalty. Sorry, could you repeat that? You want us to replace our grass in mid-October for why? And how do you propose we do this? Not your problem, I see. Gah!
And then there's the usual psycho up to her antics again. Dear heavens, I wish she'd get the natural consequences of her actions, just once. At the very least, being that stupid and/or crazy ought to be severely painful. She ought to feel like I do all the time. Gah.
[Updated about an hour later: I should give an example besides what The Man blogged about in that link, for those who don't feel like clicking. She calls up to yell at The Man because they haven't reached an agreement on changing visitation for this month or something. Any excuse really. Then she talks to #1 Son, who didn't do his homework this weekend because, well, she had to take him to a hockey game. And a football game. He came home sounding like Janis Joplin, with no homework done. So tonight she yells at him about it because gee, it wasn't her fault, scheduling his every waking hour of visitation with fun-fun-fun stuff because otherwise he might not like her or something. So she asks if he's done with his homework for tonight. He says no. He also says (looking for a way to distract her?) that his dad had threatened that he wouldn't get dinner if he didn't do his homework as soon as he got home tonight. Well, he did go straight in and do it, and he did get dinner. He got seconds. But Miss Thing springs to the conclusion that we're starving her baby! Haven't we been over this before? So the yelling continues. And so on.
Did I mention that it's because of this psycho person that we can't get out of this psycho "community"? Gah.]
We got one today. It says that we must restore our yard to lush green health in the next week or face a severe penalty. Sorry, could you repeat that? You want us to replace our grass in mid-October for why? And how do you propose we do this? Not your problem, I see. Gah!
And then there's the usual psycho up to her antics again. Dear heavens, I wish she'd get the natural consequences of her actions, just once. At the very least, being that stupid and/or crazy ought to be severely painful. She ought to feel like I do all the time. Gah.
[Updated about an hour later: I should give an example besides what The Man blogged about in that link, for those who don't feel like clicking. She calls up to yell at The Man because they haven't reached an agreement on changing visitation for this month or something. Any excuse really. Then she talks to #1 Son, who didn't do his homework this weekend because, well, she had to take him to a hockey game. And a football game. He came home sounding like Janis Joplin, with no homework done. So tonight she yells at him about it because gee, it wasn't her fault, scheduling his every waking hour of visitation with fun-fun-fun stuff because otherwise he might not like her or something. So she asks if he's done with his homework for tonight. He says no. He also says (looking for a way to distract her?) that his dad had threatened that he wouldn't get dinner if he didn't do his homework as soon as he got home tonight. Well, he did go straight in and do it, and he did get dinner. He got seconds. But Miss Thing springs to the conclusion that we're starving her baby! Haven't we been over this before? So the yelling continues. And so on.
Did I mention that it's because of this psycho person that we can't get out of this psycho "community"? Gah.]
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Monday, October 02, 2006
Thank You Very Much
Science has now proven what many of us parents already knew to be true about kids and their viewing habits as related to academic performance. (And after all, that's where my priorities lie, not indulging their desires to vegetate, much as I sympathize.) Check out the story on CNN.com.
To recap:
To recap:
- No TV on school nights.
- No TV in your room.
- No R-rated movies, period.
Cool. Thanks.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Maternity
Tonight I'm feeling motherly. The Man (TM) was gone most of the day on errands and things, taking one or the other of the little boys with him and leaving the other with me. (#1 Son is off with Mommy this weekend.) So I've had a lot of mom practice today. When TM came home at dinner time with Pirate Boy, the little guy went straight to his room to lie down, so I didn't see him for a while. Eventually, I heard him sniffling and went to check on him, though he was reportedly "taking a nap."
Ack! What is going on? My precious Pirate Boy looks like he's been beaten in the face repeatedly and is having a really hard time breathing. What the ----?! Poor little guy croaks out that he is probably allergic to cats and wonders aloud if we have any medicine. Poor little sweetie. Fortunately, we did have a couple of doses of children's Benadryl left, and I soaked a washcloth in cold water for him to put on his poor puffy purple eyes. He tells me that's what "the lady" did, too.
Oh yes, the lady friend of Daddy's that you guys spent 2-3 hours with this afternoon instead of coming home after your errand, or at least after you started getting sick. I'm not even going to mention "without calling home." I'm not. She's an old professional contact of Daddy's, after all. Shut up, I know it's Saturday and he's not working.
Anyway, Punkin Boy was also feeling a little needy today; he was up last night until nearly 11 and then up again by 7 a.m. with his brother. Dang, what do you eat, spark plugs? And he was up until after 9 again tonight, with no nap. But fussy and whiny and wanting Daddy when he wasn't home and wanting to be read the same book 100 times. Well, that's pretty standard, really.
But my thoughts keep straying to my good friend Kory O, who was supposed to have her baby this week, or that was the intent of scheduling labor induction on Thursday afternoon. She's my age, having her first baby, and he's a whopper (not unlike my Punkin Boy, whom I had by c-section thank-you-very-much). Now, I've had a couple of inductions myself, so I know that they take a good long time, even when they go well. But dangit, it's Saturday night, and I still haven't heard anything. I'm worried.
OK, let's think about what we know about having labor induced. First, when you show up at the hospital at the time they scheduled you for, they inevitably send you home because somebody else is already in labor and after all, you can wait. Even if you can't, you can. Go home and wait another day or two. (With my first, I had to wait from Friday until Monday. Those punks.) Eventually, though, they will let you in and the real fun begins.
So let's see, maybe she didn't get in until Friday afternoon... OK, then they take a year putting in all the IV needles because at 9 months along, you're swollen like a beach ball and you have no veins near the surface. The ones they do find either roll over or burst, turning you a lovely shade of black in no time. That kills a couple hours. Then they start the pitocin drip.
For a while it seems nothing is happening, but you start to get a little irritable. More irritable. If you're me, your husband develops a nasty case of the hiccups that nothing-- including a trip to the emergency room-- will cure. This will make you homicidal within another two hours. You will banish him for a while, then get lonely and scared and call him back. Then the cycle will repeat. Occasionally, a nurse will appear to check your vital signs. This will irritate you more.
You may try to listen to music, do crosswords, or read. Everything will irritate you in short order, and you will fling it aside and pace around the room, if there's space. You will start feeling like you're having menstrual cramps and think "Now we're getting somewhere." But you're not. Trust me; you'll be able to sleep through these, no problem. And you do.
No, it's not until about 1 p.m. of the second day that things get interesting-- again, if you're me, but I hear this isn't uncommon. At some point, you enter what my childbirth-class teacher called "the speeding car." Suddenly, there it is, full-blown labor, and it takes your breath away. Things after that get a little blurry, but you will start crying out for the drugs. If you're me, you do the tame stuff, the analgesics that last for a couple hours maybe. They might even knock you out. If you're Kory, you're wily enough to have asked for an epidural right up front. No messing around, just make the pain stop. I am a little leery about epidurals, but I won't tell the horror stories here.
The rest depends a lot on mother and baby and a little on the doctor and hospital. I never did dilate enough to deliver a full-size baby, and finally, about 28 hours into the process, the doc suggested maybe I might consider a c-section. Yay. That would be about... now, if Kory had to start a day later than she was scheduled. So I guess I don't have to worry too much unless I don't hear from them tomorrow. I'm sure they'll call. Or email. Or something.
I worry. They have no relatives in the area, and nobody will be arriving to help, even if things go awry-- his family lives half a world away, her parents are in the next world. Her brother and his wife just had a baby a week or two ago-- with Downs Syndrome and a heart defect. They have enough to deal with. So I worry. Ten years ago, I'd have been there for her, with her. But now all I can do is worry and pray and write about it. Did I mention worry? Aye.
On the up side, Pirate Boy is feeling better and can actually breathe enough to sleep tonight. Well, that's a relief.
Ack! What is going on? My precious Pirate Boy looks like he's been beaten in the face repeatedly and is having a really hard time breathing. What the ----?! Poor little guy croaks out that he is probably allergic to cats and wonders aloud if we have any medicine. Poor little sweetie. Fortunately, we did have a couple of doses of children's Benadryl left, and I soaked a washcloth in cold water for him to put on his poor puffy purple eyes. He tells me that's what "the lady" did, too.
Oh yes, the lady friend of Daddy's that you guys spent 2-3 hours with this afternoon instead of coming home after your errand, or at least after you started getting sick. I'm not even going to mention "without calling home." I'm not. She's an old professional contact of Daddy's, after all. Shut up, I know it's Saturday and he's not working.
Anyway, Punkin Boy was also feeling a little needy today; he was up last night until nearly 11 and then up again by 7 a.m. with his brother. Dang, what do you eat, spark plugs? And he was up until after 9 again tonight, with no nap. But fussy and whiny and wanting Daddy when he wasn't home and wanting to be read the same book 100 times. Well, that's pretty standard, really.
But my thoughts keep straying to my good friend Kory O, who was supposed to have her baby this week, or that was the intent of scheduling labor induction on Thursday afternoon. She's my age, having her first baby, and he's a whopper (not unlike my Punkin Boy, whom I had by c-section thank-you-very-much). Now, I've had a couple of inductions myself, so I know that they take a good long time, even when they go well. But dangit, it's Saturday night, and I still haven't heard anything. I'm worried.
OK, let's think about what we know about having labor induced. First, when you show up at the hospital at the time they scheduled you for, they inevitably send you home because somebody else is already in labor and after all, you can wait. Even if you can't, you can. Go home and wait another day or two. (With my first, I had to wait from Friday until Monday. Those punks.) Eventually, though, they will let you in and the real fun begins.
So let's see, maybe she didn't get in until Friday afternoon... OK, then they take a year putting in all the IV needles because at 9 months along, you're swollen like a beach ball and you have no veins near the surface. The ones they do find either roll over or burst, turning you a lovely shade of black in no time. That kills a couple hours. Then they start the pitocin drip.
For a while it seems nothing is happening, but you start to get a little irritable. More irritable. If you're me, your husband develops a nasty case of the hiccups that nothing-- including a trip to the emergency room-- will cure. This will make you homicidal within another two hours. You will banish him for a while, then get lonely and scared and call him back. Then the cycle will repeat. Occasionally, a nurse will appear to check your vital signs. This will irritate you more.
You may try to listen to music, do crosswords, or read. Everything will irritate you in short order, and you will fling it aside and pace around the room, if there's space. You will start feeling like you're having menstrual cramps and think "Now we're getting somewhere." But you're not. Trust me; you'll be able to sleep through these, no problem. And you do.
No, it's not until about 1 p.m. of the second day that things get interesting-- again, if you're me, but I hear this isn't uncommon. At some point, you enter what my childbirth-class teacher called "the speeding car." Suddenly, there it is, full-blown labor, and it takes your breath away. Things after that get a little blurry, but you will start crying out for the drugs. If you're me, you do the tame stuff, the analgesics that last for a couple hours maybe. They might even knock you out. If you're Kory, you're wily enough to have asked for an epidural right up front. No messing around, just make the pain stop. I am a little leery about epidurals, but I won't tell the horror stories here.
The rest depends a lot on mother and baby and a little on the doctor and hospital. I never did dilate enough to deliver a full-size baby, and finally, about 28 hours into the process, the doc suggested maybe I might consider a c-section. Yay. That would be about... now, if Kory had to start a day later than she was scheduled. So I guess I don't have to worry too much unless I don't hear from them tomorrow. I'm sure they'll call. Or email. Or something.
I worry. They have no relatives in the area, and nobody will be arriving to help, even if things go awry-- his family lives half a world away, her parents are in the next world. Her brother and his wife just had a baby a week or two ago-- with Downs Syndrome and a heart defect. They have enough to deal with. So I worry. Ten years ago, I'd have been there for her, with her. But now all I can do is worry and pray and write about it. Did I mention worry? Aye.
On the up side, Pirate Boy is feeling better and can actually breathe enough to sleep tonight. Well, that's a relief.
So I'm a Druggie or Something
I am seriously considering getting a new doctor. It's a shame, really, because this guy seems to know his stuff and trust me to give him accurate information. But his assistant is an idiot. Normally, that doesn't affect me too much, and I've been willing to cope with it to have a good doc who can deliver. But recently, during the disability evaluation, a woman from the Social Security office called about a note that was in my medical file. "Are you employed? Because it says here that you've been checking your blood pressure at work." Um, no. Not employed. No work. Can't work, remember? Maybe it's a reference to my blood pressure being high because of my work a year ago? She sounded extremely dubious, and I don't blame her. What the heck? I'm thinking it was a note meant for someone else's file and it got put in mine by mistake.
But then there was my latest adventure, and I'm ready to commit bodily damage on the dimwits who work at that clinic. It started when I noticed that I was getting a little low on my pain meds and decided to call for a new prescription. (Percocet requires a new paper prescription written every time you get a new supply, it being a mind-altering drug and all.) This was last week-- i.e., the third week of September-- remember that.
I guess the trouble started because I needed the new script to be the same strength as I'd been using for a long time instead of the new one the doc had given me the last time I was in. (My discount plan doesn't cover it, so it costs an arm, a leg, and most of the small intestine.) I called and explained the situation and specified the strength and dosage that I needed. The doc's assistant (Idiot Girl) called back and said I could pick up the paper. Great, I said. The Man (TM) picked it up and fortunately brought it home before stopping at the pharmacy. "Um, this is only for half the amount I need," I muttered. It being Friday evening, I had to wait until Monday to call back and ask them to correct the mistake.
So Monday morning I called, thankful that I still had a couple days' worth of pills left. The person who took my call apologized, but the doc wouldn't be in again until Tuesday. OK, fine. Except of course that TM doesn't have a free minute on Tuesdays (or Thursdays) while the clinic is open and will be unable to get it until Wednesday. Well, fortunately, I had enough meds left to survive that long.
On Wednesday, TM being worried about me, he took the script directly to the pharmacy and had it filled. When he brought it home, I took one look and screamed. It was twice the dose it should have been, so it cost well over $150. Money, I need not add, that we couldn't spare. Dear heavens, how hard is this? How many times did I specify what strength and dosage I needed? (Yes, I was in full "critical Mom" mode.) OK, the clinic's still open, let's see if we can get this fixed today. I called and left yet another message but again had to wait for Idiot Girl to call back and tell me it was ready.
Well, she didn't call on Wednesday. Thursday morning, her bright but dim voice came over the line, "We've got it right this time. Sorry for the inconvenience." Inconvenience? Really? I have exactly one more pill left-- that's 6 hours' worth-- no car, and no way to get this thing filled today. And in fact, no way to get it filled tomorrow until late afternoon. So, in fact, I faced nearly 24 hours of not just unmitigated pain but (what I didn't know) the excruciating torment of opiate withdrawal. Oooh, inconvenient, that.
By 7:30 p.m. Thursday, the Percocet had worn off and my muscles were seizing up. I took a large dose of ibuprofen, but it had no effect. By midnight, my every nerve felt as if it were on fire. I couldn't sleep, but at some point, the pain overwhelmed me and I passed out. It also woke me a bit later. I repeated this cycle several times before morning. When TM and the older kids left for school, I was having a hard time breathing because it hurt too much to move even that little bit. I couldn't even croak out, "Only 9 more hours." I wanted to blog about it; my brain was still alert enough to find the situation interesting, but I physically couldn't do even that much.
Punkin Boy was pretty good, and didn't jump on me or head-butt me or anything, and that helped a lot. Still, it was a marathon. And I was just wondering whether I could make it through that last 2 hours, when miracle of miracles, the garage door opened and in rushed TM with a pharmacy bag in his hand. He looked like nothing less than an angel of mercy bringing deliverance to a tormented soul. It took a while for the effects of the withdrawal to leave me, but much of the pain took a most welcome powder and I was able to smile again.
I'm feeling better, but I'm still looking for a new doc.
But then there was my latest adventure, and I'm ready to commit bodily damage on the dimwits who work at that clinic. It started when I noticed that I was getting a little low on my pain meds and decided to call for a new prescription. (Percocet requires a new paper prescription written every time you get a new supply, it being a mind-altering drug and all.) This was last week-- i.e., the third week of September-- remember that.
I guess the trouble started because I needed the new script to be the same strength as I'd been using for a long time instead of the new one the doc had given me the last time I was in. (My discount plan doesn't cover it, so it costs an arm, a leg, and most of the small intestine.) I called and explained the situation and specified the strength and dosage that I needed. The doc's assistant (Idiot Girl) called back and said I could pick up the paper. Great, I said. The Man (TM) picked it up and fortunately brought it home before stopping at the pharmacy. "Um, this is only for half the amount I need," I muttered. It being Friday evening, I had to wait until Monday to call back and ask them to correct the mistake.
So Monday morning I called, thankful that I still had a couple days' worth of pills left. The person who took my call apologized, but the doc wouldn't be in again until Tuesday. OK, fine. Except of course that TM doesn't have a free minute on Tuesdays (or Thursdays) while the clinic is open and will be unable to get it until Wednesday. Well, fortunately, I had enough meds left to survive that long.
On Wednesday, TM being worried about me, he took the script directly to the pharmacy and had it filled. When he brought it home, I took one look and screamed. It was twice the dose it should have been, so it cost well over $150. Money, I need not add, that we couldn't spare. Dear heavens, how hard is this? How many times did I specify what strength and dosage I needed? (Yes, I was in full "critical Mom" mode.) OK, the clinic's still open, let's see if we can get this fixed today. I called and left yet another message but again had to wait for Idiot Girl to call back and tell me it was ready.
Well, she didn't call on Wednesday. Thursday morning, her bright but dim voice came over the line, "We've got it right this time. Sorry for the inconvenience." Inconvenience? Really? I have exactly one more pill left-- that's 6 hours' worth-- no car, and no way to get this thing filled today. And in fact, no way to get it filled tomorrow until late afternoon. So, in fact, I faced nearly 24 hours of not just unmitigated pain but (what I didn't know) the excruciating torment of opiate withdrawal. Oooh, inconvenient, that.
By 7:30 p.m. Thursday, the Percocet had worn off and my muscles were seizing up. I took a large dose of ibuprofen, but it had no effect. By midnight, my every nerve felt as if it were on fire. I couldn't sleep, but at some point, the pain overwhelmed me and I passed out. It also woke me a bit later. I repeated this cycle several times before morning. When TM and the older kids left for school, I was having a hard time breathing because it hurt too much to move even that little bit. I couldn't even croak out, "Only 9 more hours." I wanted to blog about it; my brain was still alert enough to find the situation interesting, but I physically couldn't do even that much.
Punkin Boy was pretty good, and didn't jump on me or head-butt me or anything, and that helped a lot. Still, it was a marathon. And I was just wondering whether I could make it through that last 2 hours, when miracle of miracles, the garage door opened and in rushed TM with a pharmacy bag in his hand. He looked like nothing less than an angel of mercy bringing deliverance to a tormented soul. It took a while for the effects of the withdrawal to leave me, but much of the pain took a most welcome powder and I was able to smile again.
I'm feeling better, but I'm still looking for a new doc.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
In Security
I had this post all planned out in my head last night. I was going to write it up during the day, but then I thought it might be tricky accomplishing that with a preschooler hanging off my elbow or stepping on my shoulders. So I put it off. Naturally, by tonight, I am brain dead and glassy-eyed and can only vaguely remember the topic, which was The Response from the Social Security People to my Disability Application.
When The Man (TM) handed me the envelope and said, "Social Security sends their love," I had the sinking feeling that they had rejected my claim. I didn't want to open it. But I didn't want anyone else to open it, either. So I waited until after dinner (like my appetite wasn't already ruined), popped it open, and scanned down through the bureaucratese to the good stuff. Yep, they rejected me, all right.
Now, I wasn't really surprised and I wasn't really being negative about the situation. TM had thought I was, but then he talked to a bunch of people at school and around town about it, and they all agreed that everyone gets rejected the first time; some even said it takes an average of three tries before you get accepted-- unless you hire a lawyer for your appeal. Then it's almost automatic.
I think it's important to note that in general my esteem for various government agencies is a lot higher on average than most people's simply because I've worked for and with them. (This will come up again later.) But boy, my respect for the SS people just sank.
I remember part of my rant (and believe me, it was going to be a rant-- and probably still is) involved my first reaction to their pronouncement-- specifically, the words "Are you stupid, or just evil?"
Well, my first reaction, after I stopped laughing enough to breathe. Because although they did accept my statement that I can no longer do the job I worked at most recently (i.e., magazine editor), I should easily be able to return to my previous career as an intelligence analyst! Oh, of course! Without the ability to sit or stand very long and with my mind constantly clouded by the pain medicine... sure, involve me in our country's security, have me writing reports that our president will use to determine whether to choose peace or war... sure.
OK, some of you out there are cynically nodding to yourselves and going, yeah, I always knew that was what went on there... except it doesn't. If I even applied to get my old job back, even provided that I had a chance of moving back to the suburban D.C. area, they'd take one look at my test scores and laugh me out of town. Seriously. I'm still laughing, and it's not even funny. (But that link is. Click it and weep.)
OK, so here's the deal. They tell me I have 60 days from receipt of this letter (and they know when I got it, of course) to ask in writing for a hearing in court. Then I have to sign form xyz-590/3 etcetera, etcetera. Then I have to complete an appeal form telling more about my medical condition since I filed my claim. THEN, a judge will inform me (by the ever-trusty US Postal Service) when my appeal hearing will be. It is bound to be impossible to make. They feel the need to tell me, however, in BIG BOLD PRINT that it is important to go to the hearing. 'Cause I'm stupid or something.
Only, apparently, I'm not. This was their reasoning behind denying my claim. And I quote:
No, seriously. I'm starting to get the feeling that the answer to my earlier question is the second option. But then TM picks up the letter from where I've dropped it in my gales and convulsions of laughter. He starts reading about the hearing stuff. "You have the right to an attorney... if you cannot afford an attorney... groups who can help... Wait. If you hire an attorney, we will withhold 25 percent of your benefits." Uh huh. And this is because what? Oh yes, because if you hire a lawyer, you're almost certain to win the appeal, and therefore....
I think we have our answer to the earlier question: evil.
When The Man (TM) handed me the envelope and said, "Social Security sends their love," I had the sinking feeling that they had rejected my claim. I didn't want to open it. But I didn't want anyone else to open it, either. So I waited until after dinner (like my appetite wasn't already ruined), popped it open, and scanned down through the bureaucratese to the good stuff. Yep, they rejected me, all right.
Now, I wasn't really surprised and I wasn't really being negative about the situation. TM had thought I was, but then he talked to a bunch of people at school and around town about it, and they all agreed that everyone gets rejected the first time; some even said it takes an average of three tries before you get accepted-- unless you hire a lawyer for your appeal. Then it's almost automatic.
I think it's important to note that in general my esteem for various government agencies is a lot higher on average than most people's simply because I've worked for and with them. (This will come up again later.) But boy, my respect for the SS people just sank.
I remember part of my rant (and believe me, it was going to be a rant-- and probably still is) involved my first reaction to their pronouncement-- specifically, the words "Are you stupid, or just evil?"
Well, my first reaction, after I stopped laughing enough to breathe. Because although they did accept my statement that I can no longer do the job I worked at most recently (i.e., magazine editor), I should easily be able to return to my previous career as an intelligence analyst! Oh, of course! Without the ability to sit or stand very long and with my mind constantly clouded by the pain medicine... sure, involve me in our country's security, have me writing reports that our president will use to determine whether to choose peace or war... sure.
OK, some of you out there are cynically nodding to yourselves and going, yeah, I always knew that was what went on there... except it doesn't. If I even applied to get my old job back, even provided that I had a chance of moving back to the suburban D.C. area, they'd take one look at my test scores and laugh me out of town. Seriously. I'm still laughing, and it's not even funny. (But that link is. Click it and weep.)
OK, so here's the deal. They tell me I have 60 days from receipt of this letter (and they know when I got it, of course) to ask in writing for a hearing in court. Then I have to sign form xyz-590/3 etcetera, etcetera. Then I have to complete an appeal form telling more about my medical condition since I filed my claim. THEN, a judge will inform me (by the ever-trusty US Postal Service) when my appeal hearing will be. It is bound to be impossible to make. They feel the need to tell me, however, in BIG BOLD PRINT that it is important to go to the hearing. 'Cause I'm stupid or something.
Only, apparently, I'm not. This was their reasoning behind denying my claim. And I quote:
"Although these conditions may cause you concern, a recent exam showed that you are able to think, reason, communicate, remember and follow instructions, and act in your own best interest."Because any condition short of Terri Schiavo's is not the same as, or anywhere near as bad as, being disabled. I begin to sense a plan here. A plan to save Social Security. The means are simple: Never pay out any claims again! Mwahahahahaha!
No, seriously. I'm starting to get the feeling that the answer to my earlier question is the second option. But then TM picks up the letter from where I've dropped it in my gales and convulsions of laughter. He starts reading about the hearing stuff. "You have the right to an attorney... if you cannot afford an attorney... groups who can help... Wait. If you hire an attorney, we will withhold 25 percent of your benefits." Uh huh. And this is because what? Oh yes, because if you hire a lawyer, you're almost certain to win the appeal, and therefore....
I think we have our answer to the earlier question: evil.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Talkin' 'bout Pirates
Well, our pirate household enjoyed Talk Like a Pirate Day. Pirate Boy was particularly good and only said "Shiver me timbers!" when he was on the playground and not in the classroom. It was one of our long and painful days, so I had to use the threat of keelhauling to get the little pirates to go to bed, but they didn't make me follow through.
After that, I turned to the most appropriate entertainment I could think of, and fired up the Pirates! game. It's got great atmosphere any old time. But do you know what it does on September 19?
It talks like a pirate, of course.
After that, I turned to the most appropriate entertainment I could think of, and fired up the Pirates! game. It's got great atmosphere any old time. But do you know what it does on September 19?
It talks like a pirate, of course.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
A Backward Glance
This week has been a time to stop and look back for many people. I let my mind wander back 5 years to my thoughts and feelings as the world got a little more dangerous, a little crueler. I didn't dwell too long on my feelings relief and accompanying guilt, but maybe I should. Maybe I will sometime.
This week (in fact, today) marks another disconcerting anniversary: I've officially been out of work for 1 year. For a whole year now, my family has been living on donations, student loans, temp jobs, and whatever else we can scrounge. I don't like it. I especially don't like it now that the disability determination people are looking askance at my claim that I can't work enough to support our family, and our bank is sending notices that gee, a few days ago we didn't have any money at all in our account (wouldn't it have been nice to know at the time-- no, they slam us with half a dozen fees and then send the "please deposit..." note).
Sorry. I know it's my fault for not having enough money in the account in the first place. It's supposed to be there, and it would have been there but somehow that phone call to the VA didn't get made this month and gee, there goes a thousand dollars we really needed. Aaauugh! Waaaah...
OK, stop. I'm moaning and complaining again. It's back to the desperate scrabble for us, but it's really amazing that we're still living indoors and keeping our children fed and clothed. In fact, it's a miracle. And for that miracle and all the others, I am grateful.
And... tomorrow is another anniversary-- this one of a much different type. Tomorrow is the birthday of my sweetheart husband. We're growing old together, and it feels pretty good.
And hey, on Tuesday, I get to talk like a pirate. Heh.
This week (in fact, today) marks another disconcerting anniversary: I've officially been out of work for 1 year. For a whole year now, my family has been living on donations, student loans, temp jobs, and whatever else we can scrounge. I don't like it. I especially don't like it now that the disability determination people are looking askance at my claim that I can't work enough to support our family, and our bank is sending notices that gee, a few days ago we didn't have any money at all in our account (wouldn't it have been nice to know at the time-- no, they slam us with half a dozen fees and then send the "please deposit..." note).
Sorry. I know it's my fault for not having enough money in the account in the first place. It's supposed to be there, and it would have been there but somehow that phone call to the VA didn't get made this month and gee, there goes a thousand dollars we really needed. Aaauugh! Waaaah...
OK, stop. I'm moaning and complaining again. It's back to the desperate scrabble for us, but it's really amazing that we're still living indoors and keeping our children fed and clothed. In fact, it's a miracle. And for that miracle and all the others, I am grateful.
And... tomorrow is another anniversary-- this one of a much different type. Tomorrow is the birthday of my sweetheart husband. We're growing old together, and it feels pretty good.
And hey, on Tuesday, I get to talk like a pirate. Heh.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
9/11 Tribute: Jeffrey Earle LeVeen
Jeffrey Earle LeVeen, killed at age 55 on September 11, 2001. This is what I started from: a name and a photo. Well, just a name first. And I wondered what else I could learn about him by searching the Web. Quite a bit, it turns out. This was a man who truly lived.
Jeff LeVeen, a partner and senior vice president at Cantor Fitzgerald, enjoyed his financial and career success, reporting for work at the WTC by 7:30 most mornings. He loved to play golf and had won many trophies in various tournaments. But most of all, he reveled in his roles as a husband, father, friend, brother, and colleague. He was full of life and love and shared those abundantly with others in his life. You can find some tributes here. (I hope. The link wasn't working when I tried it tonight.)
Here's a quote from my favorite article about this energetic man who thoroughly enjoyed life:
His wife Christine called him "the most positive person I ever met." When the time came to find individual pictures of him for the memorial Mass at St. Mary's in Manhasset, Christine faced a difficulty that typified her husband's life: He was almost never photographed alone.By day, Jeff LeVeen of Plandome, N.Y., was a chieftain in the financial world, a partner at Cantor Fitzgerald, an Ivy Leaguer and the owner of two well-appointed homes and a golf handicap of 3. By night, he was a rock groupie who attended nearly a dozen Dave Matthews concerts a year.
This beautiful couple had five children, Jeff Jr., Betsy, Andrew, Katie, and Meg, who were their father's proudest achievement."All our photos showed him with his arm around the kids or they had their arms around him. He was never alone," she said. "That's the kind of man he was."
Jeff LeVeen, it's a privilege to have met you. See you after the show.
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