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.

your mom walked on the moon

this weekend, walking on the moon seemed like child’s play.

the berlin wall coming down was like taking candy from a baby.

candy

living in space for 1 year was like having a maid, cook, manicurist, and pedicurist waiting on you all day, every day.

the manny/mayweather fight was like watching an episode of barney.

manny

this weekend i measured pancakes with a ruler, then figured out the measuring cup to use to make 4″ pancakes.

i figured out 3 oz of hash browns into measuring cup measurements.

i figured out 55 goldfish is 1/2 cup.

27 cheetos puffs are 3 servings.

i counted gol’ darn chips.

individually.

this weekend, during my silent freak-out all night long, i was fairly certain i put benjamin in a diabetic coma because he had a low blood sugar reading at bed time.

then he slept in till 9:30 the next morning, solidifying my freak out.

i am finishing up legal guardianship for emma, dance for emma, dance for rosy, end of school year projects for ella, emotional break down for rosy, track practice, softball practice, track meet/softball tournament on the same day, and keats is still looking for a job.

HIRE HIM!

this weekend i felt like this:

cat

but by golly, there is not a carb that has not been counted.

atkins diet never looked so appealing.

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 real reason the seahawks won

i just want you all to know the real reason for the seahawks’ miraculous win, was because my daughter prayed they would.

and as soon as she said ‘amen,’ she immediately knocked on wood to avoid the jinx,┬átherefore covering both religious and pagan rituals.

and that, dear readers, is how you raise a child.

luckysaid no one ever.

can’t unring that bell

i will be 43 this year.

in that 43 years, i have not ever used the mother of all bad words.

that’s right, the ‘F’ word.

fudge

not only did i decide to use it.

i used it 3 times in a row.

while yelling.

while at work.

and at someone who may or may have been my supervisor.

and as my tongue suddenly decided to take a walk on the wrong side of the tracks, all i could think while yelling this word was: ‘my mother will kill me.” except i used her first name in my head. “frances will kill me.”

i am in my 43rd year of life, a mother myself, owner of a home, car, bills, and old enough to yell profanities if i darn well feel like it. but still, thoughts of what my mother would do if she had been standing there pop into my head.

soap

and that, gentle readers, is the power of this name.

frances