You Get What You Get

Passive Aggression

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 15:46:00 +0000

I have to say it somewhere, so I'll say it here. If you are in charge of an organization that holds a big event and you have employees who work on it and volunteers who work on it, and you write a public thank you naming only the employees -- who GOT PAID TO WORK ON IT -- but not the volunteers, you are not going to make a lot of friends.

I'm just saying.

And I realize that this has nothing to do with this blog or whatever, but it does, if you think of this blog as the place I go to dump all the crap I would otherwise carry around inside.

And that is all.

Variously.

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 17:56:00 +0000

1. I have this crazy-long post that I am STILL working on, and I may just give up and post it in parts or incomplete, because it's getting ridiculous and preventing me from actually POSTING.

2. My latest email to D's teacher:

Do you feel that it would be worthwhile for us to go to ARD and request an aide? I guess I have a couple of different thoughts -- in no particular order:

I desperately want D. to be able to function in the group, so that we have a chance of moving on to an inclusion classroom ultimately.

In the meantime, I want D. to acquire as many skills and learn as much as possible, and if that can only happen 1-on-1, then we have to do that as much as possible, so how can we do that within the constraints of the classroom?

If we give D. an aide, we run the risk of enabling his behaviors/making it to easy for him to hand tasks over to the aide.

Let me try to get a better understanding of what's happening in the classroom. What kind of group activities are you doing? And is D. physically getting up and walking away, or is it more of a tuning out? If the former, can one of your assistants stand behind him with hands on his shoulders to keep him in place and remind him that he needs to sit and stay? Weighted vest? Something like that? If the latter -- that's a sign that he is not understanding the material and needs the 1-to-1 in order to learn. In that case, maybe by bookending the group activity with a shortened, targeted, one-on-one lesson before and after. Then, he has to sit thru the group lesson, and even if he can't follow all of it, he's getting the info before and after, at his level. What do you think?

3. At the Day School the other kids attend, they are running a reading program. The kids have to read 10 books from a selected group of state award winners and write summaries. In cursive. Which this school never bothered to teach my kids, but whatever. Anyway, S. wrote 3 reports. I saw her work on them multiple times. And on Sunday she rewrote them again and I looked them over and she handed them in. And then her teacher sent home a note that said, "S. says you saw these, but I'm not sure if that's accurate."

Yes, that's right. She called my kid a liar.

And S. was hysterical because she had to redo them AGAIN, and she might not finish in time to participate in the ice cream social for kids who do the reports. And when I went to check on her in bed, she was crying, and she said, "You said they were OK, and she said they weren't good enough. I'm the only one in my class who couldn't do them." And So I went downstairs and sent the following email to her teacher:

S. showed me your notes on her Bluebonnet reports. While I agree that her reports are not great, there are several things I want you to know:

I did see her reports, but I don't like to correct all her mistakes at home. I think it's important that her teachers are aware of S's abilities, not mine.

S doesn't know how to write a proper book report. Part of this is a S. issue -- she has enormous difficulty differentiating important from irrelevant information -- but I really believe that part of it is that she has not had enough guided practice. She had those reports handed back to her multiple times, because I saw her writing them again and again. But, I feel like no one has taken the time to sit down with her and show her *how* to write a report.

S. was really sad that we didn't have time to sit down and redo her reports last night. She's upset that she won't get to be part of the social. And I think that it's a shame that a program that's designed to encourage reading and foster a love of it is leaving her frustrated and disappointed.

I'll work with her on these reports over the next few weeks. But I wanted you to know that she was telling you the truth when she said I saw them.

Her teacher replied:

Mrs. WG,

I assure you that I went over the summary writing process step-by-step in class more than once. Not to mention, the Gollywhopper Games summary was done or was supposed to be done in class. I first provided whole group instruction and then I sat down with students in small groups (groups of three) to provide more guided instruction. I certainly would not expect students to write a summary and not give them proper instruction on what to do. I can understand your frustration, but insinuating that I have shirked my responsibilities as S's teacher is quite offensive. It appeared to me that S was not following any of the guidance I was giving her and she was not completing the information that is required for the summary. At the same time, when the title of a book is not spelled correctly, it sets off a red flag for me. I sent the form home in an effort to make you aware of what information is required.

That being said, I don't have a problem with S attending the social on Thursday. You have made me aware that she is making progress toward completing the summaries more thoroughly and that is all I need to be aware of. I thought I made the students aware of this, but perhaps I was not clear enough. The summary portion is only one step in the process and I agree with you that it should not detract from the intended purpose which is to enjoy reading new books.

Got that? I offended her. Whatevs. Add her to the list of people who hate me. It's getting pretty long.

4. I got another email, from a different teacher, that was sent to all the parents of kids in the "Honors English" program for third, fourth, and fifth grades. Keep in mind the age of the students in question as we go through this.

Dear Parents,

I am very excited about this year's new honors reading and writing program and am proud to be teaching this section. Unfortunately, I have limited time with the students, and it is imperative that all assignments, especially homework, be completed prior to the students entering my room for their lessons. Please remember that learning is a building process and homework is essential to this development. The homework assignments are created to assist students' writing ability, reading comprehension, and analysis skills. These assignments are not optional.

My homework policy is as follows:

1.Homework is due when students enter the classroom. Work must be complete, stapled if necessary, and have a proper heading. Although work is accepted anytime prior to the deadline, no late work is accepted after the deadline. If you are absent the day the assignment is due, the assignment is expected the day you return. Long term assignments should be e-mailed to me the day they due if you are going to be absent.

2. Assigned reading is considered homework.

3. A complete heading must to be on all assignments.

Again, this program is only successful if students complete the outside work.

Thank you for your cooperation in this matter.

Now, it might have been helpful to tell parents AT THE START OF THE SCHOOL YEAR that you want papers stapled and headings written, because WE DO NOT READ MINDS. Also, the chances that I will EMAIL YOU MY FOURTH GRADER'S ASSIGNMENT BECAUSE SHE IS HOME SICK? NOT BLOODY LIKELY. Also, WTF?

So, I wrote her back and asked if, by chance, either of my daughters had done something to prompt this email. And she replied that S's entire class had not completed their homework, "and I cannot teach in this manner."

Lady, you have issues.

Wow, I feel much better now.

Can you help?

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 20:35:00 +0000

The note from D's teacher:

Mrs. WG,

D. is a wonderful child, but he is not always interested in our group activities in the classroom. He always feels tired or bored I guess. However, he works very well when I give him my undivided attention and work with him one-on-one which I can't do all the time. Is he getting enough rest and sleep at home?

By the way, he loves to work on the Leap Frog station, which is a good educational tool, and I'm using it as a reward for him when he finishes his work.

Do you have any suggestions? I appreciate your cooperation.

Thank you.

OK, peeps. He's not tired or bored. I mean, maybe he is, but that's not the problem. The problem is that when he doesn't understand what's going on, he tunes out completely. So, um, what do we do about that? I want him to be able to function as part of the group. How do we get there? Any brilliant ideas? Please?

Thank you.

Oy.

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 17:39:00 +0000

I have received TWO blog awards lately, and I am in the process of writing this awesome post -- seriously -- but it's taking some time. Sorry.

In the meantime, because I love you, I thought I would share the horribly depressing story of My Trip to the Grocery Store.

I had purchased some refrigerated cookie dough the other day, and I realized that in my deal-seeking-ness, I had actually wound up purchasing two packs of non-kosher cookie dough. So I had to go return them today.

I walked into the store and got in line at the customer service counter. The woman at the front of the line was asking questions about her half-eaten birthday cake. The woman behind her had a cart full of groceries, all in bags, her receipt in her hand, and three small children.

When the cake lady finished, the woman with the groceries stepped up and said, "I need to return all of this," and gestured to the full cart.

"All of that?" the cashier said.

"Sorry," the woman said, her eyes wide. It took me a couple minutes to figure out that she was trying not to cry. I'm telling you, my heart was breaking, and I wish I'd had the cash on hand to buy this lady her groceries. I keep thinking about those kids.

Oy.

The Dark Days

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 00:49:00 +0000

Sometimes D. can pass for normal. Sometimes, we are out and about, and he is quiet and cooperating, and he makes almost appropriate comments, and smiles and says hi in response to a stranger's greeting, and I know they don't know anything's wrong. Sometimes I get to pretend my kid is normal.

Then there are days like today.

Today, I returned home with a car full of groceries. D. spied the ice cream bars, so I gave him one. Then he saw the tubs of Pringles. And that, my friends, is when all hell broke loose. D. wanted Pringles, and he wanted them RIGHT NOW, and he was NOT going to take no for an answer. And to make his point clearly, he threw himself into a fit the likes of which you have probably never seen.

Imagine 110 pounds of muscle coming at you, fists flailing, legs kicking, teeth gnashing, all the while screaming at a decibel that could shatter glass. The girls were in the kitchen, and I quickly yelled for them to get out of the way, leave the area. They didn't need to be told twice.

D. kept up his fit for over 20 minutes. Twice, Mr. WG came out of his office and took D. upstairs, and twice D. returned, still screaming. It was horrific, and it was a not-too-subtle reminder that while my kid may pass for normal at times, he is definitely NOT neurotypical.

This kind of fit is the kind of thing most people just don't get about D. It's the reason I don't want to go to events, outings, whatever -- because I'm tired, and because I can't bear to think of what it would be like if he pulled this in public. It's unfair to his sisters, his brothers, and frankly, to us. I love him so much, but when he gets like this, I just want to make him someone else's problem.

And then, of course, I feel terrible for that thought. Because as much as I didn't ask for this job, D. certainly didn't ask for this sentence.

Sometimes, I am not a very nice person.

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 14:09:00 +0000

Scene: an outdoor carnival, sponsored by our local Friendship Circle, a group that provides assistance and support to the families of children with special needs. The carnival is in celebration of Sukkot, the holiday we are currently in the middle of.

When we arrived, one of the organizers spotted me and set my kids up with wristbands entitling them to all the rides they want for free, plus a meal ticket for every member of my family, also at no charge.

A few minutes later, I spotted a good friend and went over to say hi.

"I'm kind of annoyed," she said. "I thought this was free, but it's $15 for the ride pass and the food costs money, too."

"It's free for us," I said, a little smugly.

"What? Why?"

"Because I have a kid with special needs. Wanna trade? I'll pay the 15 bucks."

Heh.

The Amazing True Story of the $500 Gift Card

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 19:23:00 +0000

There are a couple of blogs I started reading when I got into the couponing thing. One of them, Life as Mom, has a great Frugal Fridays feature I always enjoy. Back in July, one of the links in that feature took me to Nicole's Nickles, and I began reading about her experience with online offers.

If you're even a little bit interested in doing an online offer or a $500 gift card or some other prize, you MUST read up first. Start with these:

http://www.nicolesnickels.net/2009/03/infamous-3634-wii-and-wii-fit.html
http://www.nicolesnickels.net/2009/04/more-online-offers.html
http://www.nicolesnickels.net/2009/06/online-offers.html
http://moneysavingmethodsonlineoffers.blogspot.com/

In addition to those posts, I read every comment and FAQ I could get my hands on, and then I took the plunge.

On July 26, I created a new GMail address, sat down with my spreadsheet, and took about 2 hours to go through and complete my offers. I followed every rule -- copied and pasted all terms of service into a monster document, printed screenshots, whatever, and I carefully noted all cancellation dates.

The next 10 days were hard. My silver offers approved the next morning. Gold came a few days later. And then, right at the 10-day mark, my platinums approved. I printed, filled out, and mailed my paperwork.

At that point, Mr. WG became suspicious. A W9? What the heck for? Well, I'm a freelancer, and I fill them out all the time for my clients. It's reportable income.

I mailed my paperwork with delivery confirmation. I tracked it online. When I saw that it had arrived at the "pick up point," I waited, and two weeks later I emailed to ask them why my status hadn't changed. I got an email back telling me that they needed additional information -- they claimed my WhitePages.com info didn't match up with my claimed info, and I needed to send a copy of my driver's license to prove I live at my address.

I faxed over the requested information with a detailed letter within an hour. By then, Mr. WG was in agony, convinced my identity was being stolen.

Two days later, my status online was updated to reflect that my gift had been processed and would be sent "within 6 to 8 weeks." And then, a week or so ago, FedEx dropped off my $500 gift card.

And that is the story.

Untitled

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 16:38:00 +0000

1. At Back-to-School night at the Jewish Day School, I stopped by a bulletin board where the kindergarten class has posted projects. Each had written his or her name on the paper. "Wow," I said to my best friend, whose son's work was featured. "Look how well he wrote his name! That's amazing!"

"They all did that," she said. "They're in kindergarten."

"Great!" I said brightly. "I'll just go cry myself to sleep!" I felt awful after I said that, because, well, just BECAUSE, but I really do forget that this is the class D. should be in and that the things the rest of the kids are doing are NORMAL.

2. My husband ordered new cell phones, because he likes new things. I, however, am old and crotchety and don't like to learn new technology. So I hated the new phone he got me, and I REALLY hated the fact that in ordering new lines of service he managed to stick us with new numbers that we cannot change to our old numbers. Wireless number portability? Not so much, when you stick with the same company you've been with for nearly four years but insist on ordering your phone through a deal only offered to new customers. Thanks, babe. But, by whining and complaining, I got my husband to buy me a new Blackberry Pearl to replace my old Blackberry Pearl. So, you know, it's all good.

3. I think D. hates the new speech therapist. I'm also not sure how much I like her. I'll keep you posted.

4. It is 11:48 on Friday morning, and I have made exactly NOTHING for shabbat. Granted, we're eating lunch out tomorrow, but still. NOTHING.

5. You know how you see those offers online where it says, "Get a Free [Whatever] -- Participation Required."? Well, I did one, for a free $500 Visa Gift Card AND a Michael Jackson King of Pop t-shirt. (The gift card was really just the bonus, of course.) Anyway, it totally worked. My kids stole the shirt, but the girt card is tucked into my wallet, where it will live as Grocery Budget Money for a few weeks.

6. I am SO not looking forward to Yom Kippur.

Is the world crazy, or am I?

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 18:29:00 +0000

You be the judge.

1. I emailed the school principal requesting a meeting to discuss S. and detailed my concerns. I received this reply:

I'd like to invite all teachers, along with you and me, together to discuss [S]'s needs. This way we can all share ideas and implement a few. And, we will all be on the same page. It will be tricky to get everyone together, but with notice, I think it can be done..probably around lunch time. I will email her teachers to inform them we all want to meet and find the time that works best for them. Once I do that, do you think you can make yourself available for that time?

I agreed to be available and received:

ok, I just emailed the teachers so will hopefully have some information about when we can meet by tomorrow afternoon.

Several days passed. I wrote to ask for an update. I received:

My sincere apologies because I scheduled a time to meet with [S]'s General Studies teachers for yesterday at 12:15 but then I had to cancel and rescheduled for today at 12:15. I was going to share the information you gave me, forgetting that you would like to attend the meeting. I've talked to [the teachers] and we can still meet today at 12:15 if that is good for you, but if not, we can meet tomorrow at 12:15. Which day would you prefer?

Who's crazy?

2. I email the principal the following:

I am interested in several of your new endeavors, specifically, the parent book club (possibly, depending on what exactly it entails), the Bluebonnet program, the spelling bee, and the gardens. I am NOT volunteering to get all of these off the ground, but I am happy to be involved in all of them. Can you tell me what's involved in the Bluebonnet program? And what are the plans for the parent book club? Fiction, nonfiction, Judaica, what? Thanks!

I receive the following reply, sent to me and two other parents:

Dear Ladies,
Thank you for your kind offer to volunteer to make this program a success! Our librarian and I would like to meet with you this Wednesday, the 16th at 8:00 for about 30 minutes in the library. I look forward to working with y’all. : )

Who's crazy this time?

3. The phone rings at 10 past 9 am, also known as ten minutes after the housekeeper should arrive. It is her son, speaking in barely intelligible English. Something about his mother being late. How late? He doesn't know. Two hours later, I am at Target with the baby when the daughter -- who is 12 -- calls with slightly better English. Her mom is sick and can't come today. Ten minutes later, Mr. WG calls to tell me the daughter -- who is TWELVE -- showed up at our house to clean and care for my children for the day. Her mom DROPPED HER OFF and left. He neglected to mention that she came with her 3-year-old brother in tow.

Seriously, who's crazy here?

Variously.

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 20:44:00 +0000

1. On Sunday night, the new housekeeper called to ask if we wanted her to work on Monday. Um, yes? OK. She came with her daughter. At one point, we were talking with them, Mr. WG and I, and Mr. WG asked if they had ever been to San Antonio. No. Why not? "Because we don't have time and money," the daughter said. She did not add, "you moron." Mr. WG followed up with, "How about Galveston?" "Yes," said the daughter. "We've been to Galveston. We were going to go today, but..." and the end of THAT sentence of course is "but you made my mother come to work, you bastard." Or, "Mr. and Mrs. WG SUCK and are going STRAIGHT TO HELL." Either one works, really.

2. D. has a friend in school. Desperate mother that I am, I gave my name, phone number, cell phone number, and email address to his mother. Are you surprised that I haven't heard from her?

3. Save me from myself. I am reasonably certain that people behind me in line at the grocery store do not care about Baby A's microtia. And yet, when they say things like, "Oh, what a cute baby!" I INVARIABLY respond with, "Yes, and his ear? It's going to be fine. It's called microtia, and there's surgery, but not now. When he's older. He has no external ear canal." And the people slowly back away, and I STILL KEEP TALKING.

4. We canceled cable yesterday. I ordered a Netflix plan for $13.99/month, which lets us have 2 DVDs at a time, plus access to their full library of on-demand movies and TV shows. I also used some Amazon gift certificates earned via Swagbucks to buy a Roku, which lets us watch all that Netflix content right on the TV. Cable was costing us about $50/month, so I'm pretty psyched.

5. I am slowly getting my life back under control. Slowly, slowly, but I am almost on a regular working schedule. Just in time for the Jewish holidays!

Ahead of My Time

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 02:30:00 +0000

D's NICU was in a hospital fairly close to our former home. To drive there, we drove down Burbank Blvd. and turned right onto Sepulveda, past the two-story Target, and then on to the hospital.

When D. left the NICU, we brought him home and thought things would get better. And they did, and they are -- but I was a long way from healed. I'm still a long way from healed. And a couple weeks after D's NICU stay, I needed to go to Target, so I set out from home, down Burbank, right on Sepulveda, and suddenly -- I turned around, drove the other way, and found a different Target.

People told me it would pass.

I had another baby, and then I had one more. And I thought I might pump a little milk for this one, so that the housekeeper (who starts TOMORROW, yo!) could feed Baby A. sometimes, so that I can work, or go out for lunch, or rest. And I asked around about a pump, specifically an Avent Isis manual pump. And everyone I know offered me an electric Medela Pump-in-Style. And I started hyperventilating.

When D. was in the NICU, I had to use that electric pump to establish a milk supply. It was a whole week before I nursed him. That pump, to me, symbolizes the start of a terrible, terrible time in my life, and there is NO WAY I am EVER going to use it again.

Everyone thinks I'm nuts. Well, everyone except the New York Times. They get it.

Now, granted, my kid didn't spend 100 days in the NICU, but our time there was horrific, in part because we had a full-term kid who was SICK and no one knew why. I told everyone back in the day that I had PTSD, and they all laughed. And when I declined the electric pump, they laughed again. In fact, one person actually told me she had an Avent Isis, but she wouldn't let me use it because it couldn't be sterilized. WTF? Is it me, or are people just plain WEIRD?

Anyway. I feel vindicated. But I wish I didn't have to.

Breathe in, breathe out

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 13:51:00 +0000

Oy. So, I had to take a break from everything because I had a baby and camp ended and school didn't start and there were FIVE CHILDREN in the house and it was crazy and the housekeeper is only scheduled to start NEXT MONDAY. But then three kids started school on Thursday and D. went back today, and I thought I could catch my breath and take a week to just enjoy baby A.

I know, it's funny, right?

So, D's bus came at 6:17 am, and off he went. And Mr. WG took the other kids to school at 7:15, and baby A and I sat down on the couch to watch some Monk on DVD.

Mr. WG called my cell phone, which was in my office, so I let it ring while I changed a diaper. Then I called him back from the house phone, and he told me he was going by D's school to check on him.

He called the house phone a few minutes later. The school, of course, is chaos. I remember it from last year. So he asked for D's teacher, Mrs. L., and was told, "Oh, she's no longer here." Wait, haven't I seen this flick before? Mr. WG was able to locate D, ascertain that he was fine, and sneak away quietly.

Call waiting beeped, and I ignored it. (I keep canceling call waiting, and yet, IT ALWAYS BEEPS.)

I told Mr. WG that I would speak with the principal of the school, and we hung up.

My cell phone rang. I found it and answered. It's the day school. S. threw up, and she says she threw up at home.

Liar, I nearly shout, but contain myself. "Did anyone SEE her throw up?" I asked. And then I actually said, "I mean, I love S., but I KNOW S. Does she have a fever?"

No, and no. Well then, send her on back. She's not coming home.

I called D's school and left a message for the principal. Opinions, please. Am I nuts to think that when you switch the teacher for the special education class, you could maybe trouble yourself to INFORM THE PARENTS?

UGH. Positive attitude. Serenity now. Breathe in, breathe out.

Things That Have Been Said to Me Recently

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 03:23:00 +0000

By my father, on the way to the airport: "I really think you should have your tubes tied. It's just that if you've already had two with... anomalies... your chances skyrocket for something worse."

By my midwife, a few days before Baby A. was born, as she waited for a contraction to see if she could feel my cervix, and I lay half nekkid on my bed: "A little awkward, yeah."

By Z., later that day, upon hearing that her father had touched the baby's head: "What, you stuck your hand down Mommy's throat?"

By the little girl who sat behind me at the Wiggles concert on Sunday, as I was wearing a bandanna as a hair covering: "Are you a pirate?"

Regularly scheduled posting is set to resume later this month, when the children return to school.

Because I love you.

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 18:37:00 +0000

Enjoy. And thank the non-Jewish midwife's assistant who took pictures of the baby when he was born on Shabbat.

Sweet Baby A., just born.

After the brief hospital visit when Mommy was ecstatic and Daddy was exhausted.

Z. holding Baby A. at 2 days old.

S., in her new glasses, holding Baby A.

D. looking at Baby A. LOVE THIS PIC.

J. holding the usurper of his place. But seeming to be OK with it.

My Weekend, by WG

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 21:40:00 +0000

Friday.

Four-thirty p.m. I'm sitting at my computer. The food for Shabbas is cooked -- we're having two new families for lunch. I feel the baby move his head, and as I so often do, I pee a little. I am a classy girl. I go to the bathroom, and for whatever reason, I use the little strips my midwife gave me to test, and I see that, in fact, what's come out of me is amniotic fluid.

I go to Mr. WG's office (which, because we both work from home is the room off the kitchen) and call the midwife, so I can tell them both at the same time. I have no pain, no contractions, and the midwife says she'll call in an hour, unless she hears from me before then.

I prepare the bed. Mr. WG bakes a cake. Yes, really. The midwife calls back at 5:30. I'm still not having contractions or pain, but I'm feeling terribly nervous. Full of adrenaline. Waiting for something to happen. We agree that unless I call her earlier, she'll come over at 8 pm.

Mr. WG arranges for a friend's housekeeper to come clean the kitchen. He tells me he needs to go buy bittersweet chocolate for the cake he's baking. I am somewhat stunned that he thinks that LEAVING THE HOUSE is a good idea. But he goes.

I text our standby babysitter, and she says she'll come over. Some time later, she arrives, and three of my children leave with her. Z. stays behind.

The midwife arrives. We discuss options and decide that she'll check me to see what's going on. What we find out is, we seem to have a high, slow leak of amniotic fluid, there is a forebag, and I am about 5-6 cm dilated, but really stretchy. The midwife's two assistants arrive. I offer everyone food. They decline, but feel I should eat. I decline. Mr. WG and Z. eat.

I rest, for lack of anything better to do. Z. falls asleep.

By 11:30, I'm still not having any contractions that actually hurt, although I seem to have made it to 8 centimeters. The midwife breaks the forebag of waters, and I begin having real contractions, the kind you can feel, at around midnight. Not long after that, I tell them that I'd like to push. My cervix is still a tiny bit posterior, so the midwife basically holds the lip back for a couple of pushes, and then we're at the beginning of the real game.

I push. Mr. WG gloves up to catch the baby. I push. They tell me I'm doing great, that the baby is trying to navigate his way out under my pelvic bone. I ask if I can help him, and they tell me I could get into a full squat. This would mean moving, which I'm open to doing, but I can't remember how, and it hurts. I push, and I hear the midwife say, "We're not moving." I think she means the baby is stuck, and then I realize she means that I'm not going into a squat.

I push. I can feel the baby's head. Just like that, just like that, they say. Good job, just like that.

I push, and there, there, there, is that head, and they tell me to wait, someone says wait, and I breathe and I wait, and I hear the suctioning, and Mr. WG is saying Oh my God, and what feels like hours later they say, OK push, and I push, and there are shoulders and they say wait and they say push and there is the slippery body gushing slipping out and the pain is still there but much less and he is on me and crying and Mr. WG is right there, and they are both amazing. It is 1:08 am Saturday morning.

Saturday.

They take the baby and wrap him and put his hat on and give him back and I ask if I can nurse him and someone says, not quite yet, which bothers me, but I can't quite tell why. And I deliver the placenta and the cord is clamped and cut and I look at the midwife, and I say, "What aren't you telling me?"

She sighs and lifts the baby's hat to show me his right ear, which is malformed. It's... it's like it's folded over on itself. There's no hole. "I don't know why that is, and I hate it when I have to tell a mother that her baby is not perfect, and that's what you're seeing," she says.

I watch her closely. They work on the baby some more, rubbing his back. Someone brings over the oxygen for blow-by.

"What's wrong?" I ask them, and they tell me his heart rate and his breathing are too fast. But not to worry. It will take him some time to adjust.

But they still look concerned, and I keep thinking that I have been in this movie already, and I didn't like it the first time around.

Time passes. They continue checking him, and his numbers are still elevated. They let me nurse him. It takes him a few tries, but he eventually latches and nurses. There is much discussion, which ends with this: Mr. WG and the midwife will go to the hospital with the baby. I must stay at home to rest. Mr. WG tells me he will call me with updates.

"You promise?"

"I will call you," he says. And he leaves, and we know that once the baby gets to the hospital, he won't be home for at least a day, maybe two, and I am sobbing in bed, and Z., who we woke up to meet the baby, holds my hand. She falls back to sleep. I try. I drift off, and the phone rings.

Mr. WG says, "We got here, and his heart rate is fine. We're still looking at his respiration. I'll update you in an hour or two when I know more. Try to rest."

I can't rest. And ten minutes later, the midwife calls. "I snuck around the corner to call you," she says. "Your husband thinks you're sleeping, but I know you're waiting to hear. The baby's breathing is fine, everything is fine, and they're talking about discharging him."

My own heart soars. "Tell him not to be afraid to be aggressive," I tell her. "If he thinks he should take the baby home, tell him--"

"I don't need to tell him anything," she says. "He's amazing. He knows how to advocate for his kid."

Twenty minutes later, the front door opens and immediately is caught by the latch originally installed to keep D. from leaving. The midwife's assistant leaps up to open the door, and there they are, Mr. WG and my baby, and I am so happy that I can't stop crying.

"He's fine," Mr. WG says. "I saw the numbers. He's fine. He's perfect."

I nurse the baby a bit, and the midwife asks if she can hold him so we can sleep a little. I let her, and we try.

Interlude.

I realize that many Orthodox Jews would not have called from the hospital. Although the vast majority if not all would have taken the baby to the hospital on Shabbat, a great number would not have returned home until after Shabbat. We chose to do differently, and anyone who has a problem with that who has not been in the same situation, well, your opinion is irrelevant to me, because you just have no idea what it feels like. If you have been in the same situation and decided differently, that's cool too -- but I'm not interested in hearing about why you think what I did was wrong. Until you are actually sitting in God's chair for the day, you don't get to tell me what's right and wrong. Defensive much. WG? Why yes, thanks.

Saturday, continued.

At 6:30, the midwife left, and Mr. WG, the baby, Z., and I all slept. At 8:30, I woke up and went to brush my teeth. I heard my kids come in the front door with the babysitter, and then they were all there, in my bed, kissing and hugging and happy.

Within 20 minutes, the babysitter had herded them all back out the door to shul. Mr. WG followed closely behind, with instructions to make sure no one stole our lunch guests. I did not cook $40 worth of brisket to have it go uneaten. (Actually, Mr. WG cooked it, because he is awesome.)

The guests came. They happened to be a PICU Fellow and his family and a pediatric GI Fellow and his family. So we put them to work, checking out the baby. They agreed that he was gorgeous, and said the ear is what it is, and we'll deal with it.

The midwife came in the middle of lunch to check on everyone. She had already done some checking and she gave us a name: microtia. Literally, small ear. More common in boys, more common on the right side. Sometimes associated with some syndromes that involve other structural facial abnormalities, none of which seem to be present in my son. Workable. Reconstructive surgery exists. Hearing may or may not be affected.

The guests ate, enjoyed, had fun, as did we. They left. I rested. Other visitors came. The house was full of kids and laughing and smiles. Hearts were light and full. Ambulatory children were sent to bed as Shabbat ended.

We called our families. Z. returned, having put her siblings to sleep, and called my parents. "He's great, except for his ear. But that's OK. He has another one!" she tells them. I give them more detail, adding the information Mr. WG has found via Dr. Google.

We called friends. Some came to visit. And finally, we sent Z. back to bed and took the baby to our room to sleep.

Only, it turns out the baby had other ideas, none of which included sleep. Until 3:30 am. And J. was up at around 1 am, screaming at Z. to give him apple juice, to put him a show, to give him this or that. And it was a long time before the house was quiet.

Sunday.

Four of my children are at the pool with their father. My baby is sleeping the sleep of the innocent in my bed. My parents arrive tomorrow. Our friends brought us a Pack n Play and a lasagna. My best friend -- in a show of what true friendship is -- did my CVS run for me. Mr. WG did the grocery shopping. We spoke to the pediatrician and our friendly neighborhood audiologist, and we have a plan for tomorrow and for the week.

It's important to check the baby's hearing. If the unaffected ear is completely unaffected, all is well -- speech and language development should be fine. Then we work on the affected ear, first to find out what it has, structurally, and then we base decisions on that. Mr. WG says we really need to buy more lottery tickets, though. We seem to beat the odds quite a bit round here.

Epistle: To Z., On the Occasion of Her Tenth Birthday Having Been Some Two Weeks Prior

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 16:55:00 +0000

First of all, Z., I would like you to please STOP GETTING OLDER, because it is absolutely insane that I have a child who is TEN.

Next, I realize how pathetic is is that we are nearly two weeks past your birthday and I am only just now getting this letter written. This, my dear, is what it means to be part of a large family with a disorganized mother. Get used to it, because it's not going to get any better after this next baby shows up. And frankly, consider yourself lucky, because I just noticed that I never bothered to write a letter to S. this year when she turned 8. In FEBRUARY.

Now then. On to you.

Where to begin, Z? Where to begin? Your birthday wishes this year amused me. Your Amazon wish list consisted entirely of stone jewelry and Webkinz. Unbeknownst to you, I told everyone not to buy you any more Webzink. So you used your Target gift card to buy one for yourself, thereby demonstrating yet again that you can outsmart me at every turn.

You wanted an arts and crafts party. Fortunately, I know my own limitations, so I was happy to hire another mom to run the craft part of the party, which worked out fairly well.

Your grandparents sent you birthday cards featuring Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers. I remember when your birthday cards had little girls with balloons. You mentioned casually that you don't like Hannah's new music, only her older songs, which I think is good. I think her older songs are more kid-friendly, but maybe I'm wrong. I generally am, when it comes to you.

You still hate being asked to help out, but you are sometimes in the mood to help unprompted.

I was all set to homeschool you next year, but you changed your mind. I'm sad about this, because I think it would have been fun, it would have helped us get along better, and you would have learned a lot. And I would have, too. So we'll have to find different ways to do that learning next year.

It astounds me daily that you are a person in your own right, with your own likes and dislikes. Your refusal to taste onions. Your enjoyment of latch hook. Your stubbornness. Your friends. Your enemies. Your friends, again.

You amaze me. You infuriate me. You delight me. You rail against me. I disappoint you. You forgive me. I love you.

It's getting harder to write these letters and put everything you are into words. But just remember the important part: I love you so much.

Happy Belated Birthday.

Love,
Mom

Seriously, Universe, if you have something to say, just say it already.

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 18:08:00 +0000

On Monday, I got in my car and headed out to pick up my kids at camp. As I sat in the garage, I forwarded a text to Mr. WG highlighting the babysitter's availability for the week and asking him to choose an evening. Then I left.

About four minutes later, the car in front of me stopped abruptly, for no apparent reason. I slammed on the brakes and stopped. The car behind me hit me.

The car in front of me then made a u-turn and drove away. I sat very still, processing the fact that I had been hit from behind. I am, you may recall, nine months pregnant. Slowly, I pulled my car out of traffic and got out.

I walked over to the other car, the car that hit me, and a 17-year-old girl got out. "Why'd you stop?" she screeched.

"I stopped to avoid hitting the car in front of me," I said, hand on my large belly.

"I just got this effing car," she shouted.

"Is that your baby in the back?" I gestured to the 2-year-old sitting in a car seat.

"My baby brother," she said, barely glancing at him.

I called Mr. WG. He did not answer. I continued to call him every 15 seconds for the next 10 minutes or so until he did finally call me back and I could tell him that I had been rear-ended. In the meantime, I copied down the girl's insurance information. She didn't have her driver's license with her. She was extremely unconcerned about the fact that she had hit a pregnant woman, although the guy she had in the front passenger seat -- maybe 18 or so -- did ask if I was OK.

My most pressing concern was that I needed to pick up the kids at camp. Why it did not occur to me to ask someone else to do this is beyond me, but whatever.

When Mr. WG called, his most pressing concern was my health and safety. I kept telling him I was fine and repeating that I had to get the kids. He reminded me that I was pregnant. I allowed as that was true, but I still had to pick up the kids, and was there any other information I should get from this girl?

Eventually, I got back in the car and drove to camp, got my kids and the carpool kids, and drove home. I called the midwife and left a message for her. The instant I got home, I reminded Mr. WG that he had to take the girls for an eye exam. He left, somewhat reluctantly.

From the road, he called USAA and began reporting the claim. D. and J. decided to make life easy for me by screaming hysterically and wanting all kinds of things -- apple juice, ice cream, cereal, whatever. All things that required me to continually get up and get stuff.

USAA called to get my recorded statement.

Mr. WG texted to tell me that S. needs glasses.

My boys continued screaming.

The midwife didn't call back.

I paged the midwife.

Nothing.

I paged again.

Nothing.

I called. No answer. Repeat.

And then -- a phone call! Right as Mr. WG called to say he was on the way home, the midwife called.

After some conversation, we determined that she had received my pages but had not noticed her pager go off, and she was horrified to discover this. (The next morning she told me it had been on vibrate, and she is now obsessively checking it. Also, she gave me her schedule for the next few weeks and how to reach her in different places.) We also determined that since I could feel the baby, I had no spotting, no bruising, everything seemed fine, whatever, it had already been a few hours, that we could forgo the 5-hour monitoring the hospital would do.

Blah blah, ok, fine. I went to bed.

The next morning, we finished filing the insurance claim, and Mr. WG went to drop off the car and pick up the rental. He came home with a sedan. It seats five. We are a family of six. Soon to be seven. And we drive carpool. So this whole five-seater is slightly inconvenient, but we are managing. Not well, but we are managing.

And everyone I talk to has a story about a car crash in the ninth month that threw them into labor. And yet, here I am, still pregnant. Not in labor.

Thank God, nothing serious happened. But really, don't you think the universe could cut me a break now and then?

Yes. Just... YES.

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 16:23:00 +0000

What she said.

Infuriating

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Sun, 21 Jun 2009 20:51:00 +0000

The world is frequently an infuriating place. Take Thursday, for example. I took D. to OT; we got there a few minutes early and sat in the waiting room.

A minute or so after we entered, another mother and her daughter entered. The speech therapist who we see came out to greet them. It was obviously their first time, and the speech therapist asked the woman, "You're BeautifulGirl's mom?"

"Yes," said the woman, and from her speech it was immediately obvious that she was Deaf.

"OK," said the speech therapist. "So, I'm going to take her back, and in about 25 minutes I'll call you back to observe the last few minutes of the session and to talk to you about what we did."

The mother asked a few questions, the therapist answered, and then the mother signed and spoke to her daughter to tell her that this is the speech therapist, and you're going with her, see you soon.

A few minutes later, D. went with the OT to his session, and the woman and I were left alone in the waiting room. She had seen me sign with D -- we use basic signs, like "Sit in chair" and "Stop," and a handful of others.

"Do you speak sign language?" she asked aloud and signed.

"Only a little," I told her. "I studied a little a while back, but I've forgotten a lot."

"No, you're very good!" she told me. Liar. But that's not the infuriating part.

The receptionist called the woman over and said, "So you're the mom? I spoke to your mother on the phone."

"Yes," said the woman. "She makes my calls for me, because it's very difficult for me to use the phone."

"Whatever," said the receptionist. "Look, you need to pay $10 today, and then we're billing your insurance. So they'll mail you an EOB. Watch for it in the mail, and let us know when you get it."

Except that when she said all that, she was looking down at her pile of papers, thereby making it very difficult for the Deaf woman to read her lips. So the woman said, "I'm sorry, I didn't understand you."

Whereupon the receptionist sighed and began speaking as one might to a three-year-old. Which I found infuriating.

I told the OT afterwards, and I have a call in to the owner of the clinic, because, dude? NOT COOL.

And if you didn't find that infuriating enough, how about this? Unlawful discrimination rears its ugly head at Abercrombie & Fitch, home of clothes for kids who want to look like pimps and tramps. Anemployee in their London store was banished to the stockroom because her prosthetic arm violates their Look Policy.

Seriously, doesn't that just make you want to scream and throw things?

I Share Because I Care

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 00:54:00 +0000

This evening was pizza night chez WG. As you may know, Mr. WG doesn't eat dairy. Well, that's not quite true. Chocolate, ice cream -- these he eats. But milk, cheese, yogurt -- not only does he not eat these, but he goes ON AND ON about how disgusting they are and how they stink and he hates them and how can we eat it and why am I cooking it -- you get the picture.

Anyway. Pizza night. So, I made two pizzas for normal people (tomato sauce, garden-fresh basil, and cheese), and one smaller pizza for Mr. WG. Sometimes I make individual pizzas for everyone, and then mine can be full of things like avocado and red onion and pesto and stuff. But sometimes I am not enormously pregnant. So, whatever.

Mr. WG's pizza looked sad, with only tomato sauce and fresh basil. So I took some garden fresh peppers. But they are regular peppers, not spicy. But I had some weird peppers in my fridge, so I took those, too. And a small container with some diced jalapeno peppers from a jar, that Mr. WG says are not at all spicy. So I made him 3-pepper pizza.

Then I blew my nose. And .000003 seconds later, I discovered that the strange peppers in my fridge were GOING TO KILL ME.

Peeps, my nose was ON FIRE. So I went to the Internet and started looking up "Hot pepper in my nose" and variations on that theme. And then, to the great amusement of my family, I poured a glass of milk and stuck my nose in it for 10 minutes.

Once my nose was not burning anymore, I washed and scrubbed my hands for a while. And then, like half an hour later, I rubbed my eye. And apparently my handwashing was insufficient, because all of a sudden MY EYE WAS IN FLAMES.

So I refilled the glass of milk, soaked a washcloth, and held it to my poor eye, convinced I would lose my vision.

I seem to be surviving now. Barely.

And I am NEVER making Mr. WG his own pizza again.

Almost Exciting.

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 13:50:00 +0000

I really hope I'm not the only mom who cries when she realizes there is AN ENTIRE WEEK between the end of school and the start of day camp.

Anyway, I have big plans for this week, among them: ~~teaching my children French, improving their handwriting, creating a variety of arts and crafts projects from popsicle sticks and pipe cleaners~~ not killing anyone.

I actually made up a very nice plan for cleaning one room of the house each day, using my children as ~~slave labor~~ helpers. And after that, we're going to fix the global economy and create peace and harmony in the Middle East.

OK, so far today, I've managed to screw up my schedule and miss D's OT appointment, and it's only 9:07 am. I just rescheduled it for 11:15. The best part is that his OT is actually a good friend, so it's totally not awkward that I'm a loser moron who can't remember to show up.

Also, as I type this post, I am constantly switching windows to chat with my new virtual assistant in India. Yes, really. I hired this company last week, and today is our first day working together. I will be taking copious notes on the process and how it goes, because that's what I do.

So, here's to the last of my sanity, and I hope to survive this week.

Beyond Interlude and into Totally Random

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 17:37:00 +0000

There's a truly disturbing video on the Internet of some Jewish American kids in Jerusalem spewing racist expletives about President Obama. Now, I don't care whether you like Obama or not. I don't actually know if I like him or not -- I didn't vote for him, for my own reasons. But these kids, these drunk kids, are freaking morons. And I hope, I really hope that the Jewish world is working actively to identify them and kick them out of whatever program they are on. Because they don't deserve to be there.

And no, I'm not linking to the video, but you can find it if you really want to hear drunk American teens using four letter words as every possible part of speech.

Interlude

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 14:53:00 +0000

I have a lot of real stuff to blog about, but these are crazy times:

D. finished school on May 27 and has been home every day since. About 7 of those days he spent sick.

Mr. WG also got sick.

So did J.

And S.

Good times, peeps, good times. In the midst of all the fun, I have been trying to maintain some semblance of order in our home and in my work life. I would say I am failing miserably on both counts. Oh, well.

I do have some happy news to report, however. Thanks to careful shopping, coupons, and gift cards for transferring prescriptions, I spent $1.78 at CVS yesterday for 2 bottles of shampoo, 1 bottle of conditioner, 1 bodywash (all Dove), 1 package of Charmin toilet paper (16 double rolls), 4 12-packs of Coke, and I'm pretty certain there was something else I bought, but I can't remember.

Then I hit the grocery stores for the real food. Our meals for the week:

Sunday: Chicken fajitas
Monday: Meatballs and rice
Tuesday: BBQ at my daughter's school
Wednesday: Pizza
Thursday: Sloppy joes
Friday: Shabbat dinner -- chicken, burrekas/sauce, rice, soup,
Shabbat lunch: cholent

I spent a total of $95 at two stores, and that includes what I spent on two packages of kosher chicken, overpriced shredded kosher cheese, 6 boxes of brand name cereal, and so on. I am finally getting the hang of this couponing thing, and I am quite pleased with the results.

Of course, after my successful shopping trips, I took my daughter to Target to buy a bike that we've owed her for several months, and for the first time in MONTHS I spent more than $100 at Target. But $80+ tax was the bike and the helmet. The rest was specialty batteries, toilet paper, and waffles. Not terrible, but still a damper on my otherwise great deal day.

This morning, I have already: put in two loads of laundry, had coffee and oatmeal, had two large glasses of water, invoiced several clients, posted per contractual obligation to the site where I do that, taken D. to CVS to get in on the diaper deal (btw, I personally called corporate CS and verified that the deal is legitimate, and I requested that the cashier manually print my ECBs, which she did. Now the question is if I go back and do it again when it's actually in their computers, since the 3 packs I bought today won't officially be listed as reaching the offer limit. Ah, morals.), and conspicuously avoided working on the large work project that has been on my to-do list for a month. I have GOT to make progress on the damn thing so I can GET PAID.

Look for fairly boring ramblings from me until the kids start camp, when I'll resume my regularly scheduled brilliance. Until I have a baby.

Why do I do this to myself?

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Wed, 27 May 2009 13:19:00 +0000

Yesterday, D. had an awards ceremony at school. The information sheet said that his class was performing at 6, and that I should have him in his classroom no later than 5:40.

I took D. out of therapy a few minutes early so that we could be at the school on time. We arrived, and discovered a great throng of people crowded into the lobby. No one was allowed back to the classrooms yet, although it was 5:40, or even a few minutes later.

Now, remember, this is a school of preschoolers and kindergarteners, and there are several PPCD classes. So you have kids with issues, as well as small children, none of whom really do well in the midst of chaos and crowds.

So, they eventually called us back to our classrooms, where the kids were going to rehearse their song before adjourning to the stage to perform for the whole audience.

Now, I get that I set these ridiculously high expectations. I have dreams of coming to see my child sing a song and having him actually make some effort to participate. I know that D. is delayed, but I guess I figured that in a class full of children with delays, he might be, oh, you know, able to keep up.

I have video of D. in the classroom and on the stage, not participating AT ALL. Sitting, slack-jawed, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. Worse, on stage, one of the classroom aides is behind him, holding his arms to do the motions of the song that he is not even attempting to sing, motions that he is making no effort to do, and he looks... well, more disabled than I have ever seen my son look.

I guess what I'm wondering is: how much do I suck that I can't just GET IT ALREADY and MOVE THE HELL ON. Is there a point at which I will stop sobbing on the way home from these events? When I will just look at my son and beam with pride, rather than wanting to crawl into my closet and cry?

Is it really so much to ask that I get ONE school performance out of this kid? Seriously, what's wrong with me?

In Case You Are Curious

the_writer_girl@yahoo.com (WriterGrrl) — Tue, 26 May 2009 15:23:00 +0000

Something about this post just... oh, I don't know... speaks to me.