what’s hard vs what’s easy

easy: eating an entire package of chocolate covered graham cracker cookies.

hard: feeling bad about it.

guilty

hard: telling yourself it is a good idea to get out of bed in the morning knowing that it just groundhog day all over again.

easy: remembering how much i hated groundhog day.

deja-vu

easy: convincing everyone cereal is a nutritious dinner, so are microwaved frozen taquitos.

hard: planning a decent dinner when pinterest lies to you 90% of the time about just how ‘easy and fun’ those ideas are.

time

easy: when everyone and everything in your life at the moment is going well. no one is in jail. no one requires medical attention. no one is in the principal’s office. everyone is fed. the house is even cleaned. so good, that i am personally calling the United Nations to tell them i really can fix all the problems in the world good.

hard: reality hits.

reality

easy: just give up and refer to the first easy listed in this post. you earned it. pretend life does not exist beyond your bed. pretend that you don’t have to deal with the general population seeing your children as so disabled, that they don’t get to have a say in the very basic choices in their lives. oh wait, that is their father (rude). pretend that your 18 year old, who has had months of absolute fantastic behaviors, suddenly regresses that past three weeks culminating in him head-butting you so hard in the pizza factory parking lot that you got to hear your nose cracking. i personally loved the parking lot setting, very outsiders, stay golden pony boy.

hard: getting out of bed and still walking that sexy walk every single day. so to anyone out there working the hard part, get out and get your sassy on, but first refer to the first easy listed on this post, consume, then go get the sassy on.

sassy

booby war continues

as you are aware, we have had fascination with boobies and all that goes with it for a while.

while swimming at our local rec center, benjamin, was delighted to see that the woman with the biggest breasts in the entire rec center and smallest bikini top come into the hot tub where he just happened to be relaxing.

me?

not so much.

“benjamin, don’t stare.” i reminded him.

and bless his heart, he did not, though it was an epic struggle.

i was feeling pretty good about our trip to booby paradise and thought we could leave the rec center having not made anyone uncomfortable and our heads held high, that is, until we were putting on our shoes.

“boobies!” ben said while pointing.

i turned to look and see him pointing at a man, who did have boobies, but probably did not need to have that fact pointed out.

another rec center, another walk of shame.

shame

on a different note, i looked over at emma during church yesterday, to see her reading her book about lizards and their mating rituals.

it was the most enlightening moment i had in church.

change

that’s not confrontational

you know what? the world stinks if you are considered disabled.

it gets a little bit stinkier if you are non-verbal and therefore considered voiceless.

and it gets the stinkiest when people insist you are more disabled than you are therefore holding you back from your full potential.

i was told using ‘you’ in a sentence was confrontational when describing the situation.

that’s not confrontational, what’s confrontational is the whole time i was talking to you, i was thinking you looked like gary shandling with a tan.

gary

“she will be a child her whole life.” i was told about emma and why she cannot decide whether or not she wants to go somewhere.

“even children get a choice to say no.” i countered.

“no they don’t.” i was told.

“i don’t know about you, but i do give my children quite a few choices.” i replied.

those of you who have been reading this blog for the long haul know there have been ups and downs with emma. know there have been grieving processes and celebratory jumps. yesterday i found myself grieving a little more.

when emma turned 18, i genuinely, truly, sincerely, thought she would have a little more voice. a little more freedom, and little more rights.

guess what?

she doesn’t.

it does not matter if she does not want to go. it does not matter if we have to force her out of the car. she should have a choice not to go. one choice in the mid-week visit is all that was requested.

being non-verbal does not make you silent, and that is the biggest travesty of all.

it does not matter. her voice does not matter.

and that, gentle readers, makes me confrontational.

angry-eyes

luckily i packed my angry eyes.

labeling, it’s not just for cans of soup.

i have children that have disabilities. so what? i am one of millions.

i have children who are labeled because of these disabilities. that does not get to go into the category of ‘so what.’ they are not a product.

they are rather unique. summer-fun-091 they have to be, this is an actual picture of the hubby.

i feel like i do a good job treating them as individuals, not labeling them or boxing them into areas that i feel they will do the best because of their disabilities.

this week, my son was hospitalized with onset type 1 diabetes. we were fortunate to catch this very early as benjamin is what i call a ‘free range urinator.’ meaning, he does not feel the overwhelming need to make sure all urine is in the toilet bowl. because of the free spirited peeing, i was able to notice his urine was becoming increasingly like cleaning up sugar water.

as we were heading over to the emergency room, my first thought was “there is no way we are going to be able to do this, he will not be able to handle the shots, he will have multiple melt downs, his life just got so much harder.”

basically, i pictured this the rest of our lives, multiple times a day. wwe after taking 5 people to hold him down just to do a finger prick, i felt my psychic abilities were spot on peering into the future for benjamin. but then he surprised us all, with the help of some valium to start.

benjamin is a rock star about taking shots, he astounded us all.

he even let his blood be drawn, and that is basically like Jesus raising the dead.

i had thought, judged, labeled, and had him wrapped for delivery before we had even started. gift i’m proud of that kid; proud that he can still show me what an idiot i can still be.

the first two days can say a lot about how your year will be

upon arriving home from work this morning, and walking into my humble abode, i was hit by a wall of poo smell.

“oh.my.gosh. did the dog poo?” i asked.

“no, that was us, we have just all been pooing this morning.” replied one of my poo smelling children.

i took matters into my own non-smelling poo hands and got the matches to light the candles.

i still had my stocking hat on, which my hair lives vicariously through, so it has braids.

braids

somehow, in the process of striking the match, it broke in half, flew end over end, and landed on my hat.

therefore, catching my hat on fire.

while still on my head.

“@#$%” i said, while sucking in smoke, ripping my hat off my head.

“what happened?” my poo smelling child asked.

“i just set myself on fire!!”

she just stared at me.

things i learned while on fire, although briefly.

1) i could never be a smoker, just the one mouthful and my dreams of sexy smoking were over.

smoker

2) it is only 2 days into the new year and i have already set myself on fire.

it is going to be one helluva year.

the hubby’s dreams of barf fest came true

the flu has officially hit stodmornia.

yeah, it is an actual place. why do i know this? i live there.

first it started with the infamous lunch room barf-a-rama, which we later found out did indeed have people scurrying and falling over backwards, literally, to get away from the action.

then we brought the action a little closer to home with the sink suddenly becoming a beacon for barf. for some reason, this particular child refuses to barf in the toilet.

note to owners of bathroom sinks, they were not meant to handle barf, plunger may be needed to de-clog residual barf.

plunger

not to be outdone, the next action was brought to us by the over-confident ‘i think i can make myself not barf’ participant.

he could not, he did, and the bed needed to be cleaned.

he kept a bowl handy from then on out, even when we have tried to convince him he is no longer barf prone.

the next action barfing figure is a little unnerving to me still.

this participant showed no sign of barfing. in fact, he ate a hearty snack, followed by a hearty dinner. not 30 seconds after the hearty dinner was completed, he immediately barfed in the sink.

again.

the damn toilet is literally 6 inches from the sink.

plunger needed yet again.

plunger

not to be deterred by a little barf, my child asked for dessert 30 seconds after finishing barfing.

“that is eating through the pain!” the hubby proudly exclaimed.

i personally was contemplating what exactly my womb created and who the heck eats right before and right after barfing?

the next participant in the barf-a-rama was the man who wished for it all, the hubby.

knowing the hubby as i do, and loving the hubby as i do, he did not fail me.

i got a play-by-play of the whole episode X2.

if that ain’t love, i don’t know what is.

at the moment, all’s quiet on the barf front, but the day is young and there are still three barf fest virgins holding on to their virtue.

puke

dad vs mom

i am working a lot of hours right now, these hours are are usually between 12 am and 9 am.

hell’s hours.

when i get home, i try to take a 2 hour nap and then sleep 2.5 hours at night before work.

in other words, i am beautiful right now.

haggard

while napping this morning, emma’s school phoned saying she had just puked on herself and others during lunch.

there were 3 calls and 2 texts.

i left thinking i was the worst mother ever, my daughter was at school needing me and i was not there.

i got to school apologizing profusely for making them wait close to 45 minutes before i got there.

“we did not even know she was going to throw up, she was laughing right before and right after.”

that is just how emma rolls.

we found her laying down in the nurse’s office, giggling and listening to music.

i called the hubby, who happened to be almost to the high school to get emma because they called him when they could not get me, and wept my guilt over the phone.

“i am the worst mother.” i said while crying. “she had to wait, they could not get a hold of me because i was sleeping!”

we met at the house where i continued to lament and feel mom guilt.

“to tell you the truth,” the hubby said. “i was hoping it would have turned into a vomit fest.”

and there you have it, the crux of all things different about women vs men, mom vs dads, working mothers vs working fathers.

my scenario running through my head: death, destruction, weeping and wailing.

chaos

the hubby’s scenario running through his head: a puke fest worthy of a movie scene.

puke

i think it’s time i packed my guilt luggage and have a stay-cation in the hubby’s brain for awhile.