I’ll probably never be able to explain why I was universally hated by my nursing school class. I’ve tried to explain it before, but it makes so little sense to even me, that I give up after awhile. It’s not like I’m a hate-able person (who really thinks they’re hate-able anyway?), quite the opposite, actually.

But I started nursing school and was promptly dumped into a class of people I didn’t know, who knew each other, and who didn’t like infidels infiltrating their elite ranks. Or something. Whatever.

Looking for any port in a storm, I sat next to a girl who had been in my statistics class, whose name was Melissa. She was a nice girl, a single mother as well, and we hit it off decently. She had another friend who was a bit closer to my mother’s age, high strung as hell, but seemed like a nice person. It wasn’t exactly who I’d have chosen to hang with had the pool of candidates been any larger, but we all managed.

Until midway through the semester when things got…weird.

Now here’s the part I need to be pretty careful in mentioning properly, because as pompous as I can appear, it’s not really who I am. Bush-beating-around isn’t something I do very well, so I’ll just go ahead and say it the way it is.

I’m a good student. I’m an excellent test taker, and I’d never wanted to be a nurse: I’d wanted to be a doctor. I changed career paths when my son was born, and I found the nursing classes to be frightfully simple while many of my classmates floundered. This, I’m aware, angered many of my competitive classmates who were both aware of my dislike of my new profession and the fact that I reliably beat their test scores.

While I didn’t exactly tell them that I’d beaten their scores, the word would travel like syphilis and pretty soon I’d be getting the death stares I’d gotten accustomed to.

Melissa and her friend were no different. And they seemed to take particular issue with my habit of occasionally skipping lecture sessions to sleep in. The “lectures,” if you can call them that, were all on Powerpoint and downloadable off the web, and were literally read by the teacher. For 4 hours a day.

Pointless, yes. I could read them easily on my own and manage just as well, if not better.

But this angered Melissa and her friend, whose business it was not, and I began to notice a distinctly chilly vibe when I’d greet them. It was clear that they were angry with me and my obviously irresponsible actions, and so I began to steer clear of them. I mean, I’m not a sadist.

During the summer between my junior and senior year, I received a diagnosis of Crohn’s disease, which, while certainly not cancer or anything quite as deadly, is not something that at the age of 23, you really want to hear. Knowing the words “colostomy bag” and “bowel resection” are in your future doesn’t exactly inspire one to smile broadly and save some kittens from a burning building.

It’s an ugly disease, and it’s easily found in a book called “100 Diseases You Don’t Want To Get,” right up there with Ebola, SARS and HIV. It’s not something I often talk about because it makes people uncomfortable. It’s a gross subject, that’s for sure, and it’s not one that is easily worked into polite dinner table conversation, so for the most part, I didn’t and still don’t often mention it. People don’t exactly want to hear that you’re shitting 20 or more times a day and in constant pain, especially when there’s no real cure, nothing that really makes it go away.

It’s led me to the pearly gates of our local ER more times than I can count, due to mismanagement on the part of my former GI, the one who gave me my initial diagnosis. At the time I was diagnosed, the only drug that helped was not covered by my crappy student insurance, so I just grinned and bore it. I couldn’t afford the medicine back then, so I just rode the wave.

Pain management was laughable as my GI “didn’t want me to get addicted,” so I had to hit up the ER on the days when I just couldn’t handle it anymore. And some days, the pain is simply unbearable. Chronic pain, to those of you blissfully unaware, is exhausting (especially when you have no real means of relief) and wears on your soul in a way you’d never imagine. I’ve had to lay in bed to recover from a particularly bad flare up because I am so exhausted that I cannot stand properly without wobbling.

Crohn’s is, of course, not a diagnosis that is easy to come by. There’s no definitive test for it, only a gathering of data from a multitude of different yet humiliating tests. Let me tell you why I have little to no shame: I have shat in buckets. Many buckets. I have had to carry said buckets around collecting stool for days on end. Then I have had to drop these buckets off at labs where some poor soul is stuck fishing around in my poo.

I have had to have a camera shoved down one hole and up the other (let’s hope he changed the tubing, eh?). I have had to shit my pants because I couldn’t make it to the bathroom.

No one marches for a cure or sells stuff with pink on it in honor of it. I don’t know of any corporate sponsorship or nifty slogans that people can say to say that They Support My Disease (which is likely to lead, one unlucky day) to colon cancer. I’m not angry about having it any longer, but I’m not exactly enveloped in new research or treatment options, nor can I tell most people that I have it without explaining it in more graphic detail than anyone wants to hear.

It’s glamorous, as you can see. It’s the sort of diagnosis a girl would simply KILL to have.

Right?

Because I can’t think of any other reason that anyone might imagine I’d lie about having it.

I came back to my senior year in college, and word spread like herpes that I had Crohn’s disease. Which, to a bunch of nurses IS somewhat interesting. It didn’t impact my studies too often, and I didn’t have much call to talk about it. Again, it’s just something I deal with, not something I define myself by.

One day, a couple weeks into that semester, Melissa’s friend, who hadn’t spoken a word to me in ages, as I was now Public Enemy #3 (number 1 and 2 being syphilis and herpes, naturally) turned around during one of our breaks and spoke to me all accusatory-like:

“My STEP-daughter has Crohn’s disease. And she’s had it since she was 11. And now I’m wondering how YOU got it so LATE in life.”

Her ‘YOU’ was drawn out like a finger pointing directly at me. Accusing me.

I reminded her that Crohn’s is normally diagnosed in patient’s twenties or thirties, but she just wouldn’t let it go. And as she ranted on and on about how it stunted HER growth and how much WORSE her step-daughter had it than I did, it dawned on me: that bitch totally thought I was lying. I’d hung with them long enough to know that this was how their brains worked, Melissa and her friend.

She totally thought I was lying about having Crohn’s disease. Which is either funny or sad, depending on how you frame it.

Because if I was planning to lie about something, I assure you that I would choose something FAR cooler to do so about. Like maybe tell you that I was, in fact, born in the Congo and had a monkey as my best friend as a child. Or that I was actually descended directly from royalty and was just going to college to “see how the other half lives.”

It was then when I learned just how strange people can be. I still cannot imagine what would lead them to believe I was in any way faking this disease. A) I’m not that clever and B) I don’t really like pity.

————-

I was thinking back to those days today, after I finally put a phone call into my OB’s office about what can only be called a flare-up of my Crohn’s disease. I’ve put it off for awhile since I have no active GI doctor and no failsafe treatment plan. I’d planned on going back in for the battery of tests once Amelia is born and getting some real sort of treatment going, but things have gotten to dire for me to do this safely.

In a shocking turn of events, not only was I able to get the phone nurse to get a real answer for me, but I was able to get an appointment with a brand-new GI doctor for tomorrow. Which goes to show you just how bad things have gotten if I can get in next-day to a doctor I’ve not seen before WHILE I’M PREGNANT. Most doctors hate dealing with pregnant ladies due, I’m sure, to the incredible level of lawsuits they might get if they mismanage care.

And I’m hoping like hell to get something, anything, to stop the pain and spasms and bleeding, lest I go insane.

But even if I do go insane, I highly doubt I’ll accuse anyone of lying about having a disease. Because that’s just fucked up.

My apologies to anyone reading today in a reader. I’m importing some old posts from my other blog before it’s shut down and sent to wherever blogs go to die. A blog graveyard? I don’t know. THIS is the post from today, the rest will be dated according to their original air date. Sorry for overloading you in advance.

During years past, I looked forward to the holidays nearly peeing myself with the childish excitement of it all (or, perhaps I am just a Simple Simone). Decorating cookies, Christmas music blaring from all radios, wrapping gifts in elaborate patterns, and throwing festive tinsel and garland around the house merrily, for months ahead of time.

I’d roll my eyes at the Scrooges out there who would complain about the Christmas stuff coming onto the store shelves mid-October, mocking their discontent. I just couldn’t understand how anyone would mind that stations played Christmas music in November. I sure didn’t. Hell, I’d play it in July while tooling around in my car (with the windows rolled up, for sure, so I didn’t look like an escapee from the local funny farm).

I’m not sure if it’s a combination of being completely overwhelmed by the things that have happened this year, or that I’ve sort of retreated back into my shell. Or maybe it’s just pregnancy brain fog sneaking it’s tendrils around my grey matter, I’m just not sure.

But I can tell you that I am not excited for the holidays this year.

I mean, I’m not NOT excited (if that makes any sense) but I’m certainly having a hard time getting as pumped about it all as I normally do. It all just seems like so much extra WORK for me to do. And I already have a pretty full plate. Of bon-bons! ZING!

I guess that part of it is that I’m feeling pretty discouraged about the whole situation. Now, I’ve written in years past about all of the mucking around that we used to do to appease our families, and how we were going to stop fucking doing that, because it made the holidays miserable. For us.

So, once we bought our house, and got settled in, we volunteered to start hosting some of the holidays. We’d take Thanksgiving proper with my parents, Dave’s parents and Dave’s brother (my brother and sister-in-law celebrate with her family on that day), and Christmas Eve with the same people. Then the following day(s) we’d have the bash at my parents house.

While it wasn’t actually ending the repetition of the holidays, it was certainly a far cry from shlepping our children around the states. And I figured that the more Dave’s family and my family got together, the happier we’d all be.

(hey, if it worked for the song, right?)

Well, yeah. That didn’t work so well.

And I got tired of being the person who did all of the work only to sit uncomfortably around The Day Of, staring at my hands and wishing like hell that Alex would get up from his nap already.

So this year, we’re trying a break from even this arrangement: we’re breaking the holidays back up into individual family occasions, and those of whom we cannot visit–Dave’s parents–will go out to eat with us. I’m not hosting this Us vs Them showdown again any time soon, and quite frankly, I’m not certain I’ll ever do it again. Some people, I’m guessing, will just never get along.

(My parents are hippies, Dave’s are uber-conservative Christians).

It makes me sad, but it’s true. And in the name of laziness, I’m giving the hell up on it all.

I mean, shit, there are bigger issues out there right now. Like the Motrin Mom’s thing.

*smirks away*

How do YOU do holidays with more than one family? Enlighten me, o wise Internet.

I’m a little woozy from my glucose tolerance test this morning, so I’m taking the liberty of reposting yet another old post. Trust me, it’s better than anything else you’d get out of me today. Why is the GTT The Devil?

Last week, under the guise of ‘œbusiness’ Daver took Ben and I to NYC. Having never been there, I found myself to be utterly un-enthused in the weeks leading up to our departure. I’ve been in Chicago all of my life and was never as turned on by the city as some. And having to go with child in tow, despite Dave’s assurances that ‘œwe would be fine’ alone all day by ourselves DID I MENTION ALONE AND BY OURSELVES in a city we’ve not been to, I was even less thrilled.

But the minute we got off the plane, amid Ben’s pleas to get back on the airplane, my mind was changed.

Drastically.

It took physically going to New York for me to realize that this was where I belong. For some people, going to Paris or London or even Australia is where it’s at. My own personal mecca, unbeknown to me, happened to be NYC.

It’s the place where everything HAPPENS. Everything that’s anything comes straight from NY, fashion, food, style; it’s all there. It’s glamorous, it’s busy, it’s FABULOUS. Plus you can get knockoff purses at every street corner ALONG WITH HOT DOGS! I LOVE HOT DOGS. NOM, NOM, NOM HOT DOGS.

Now you might be saying to yourselves, but how was traveling with a four-year old? You still have a kid, how cool can you really be?

The answer is NOT VERY. Bringing Ben to NYC I like to liken (hehe) to taking a bath in hydrochloric acid with a little bleach mixed in for good measure. He wasn’t BAD by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s a busy and active little boy; the kind who DOESN’T want to have his hand held because at 4, he’s too COOL, and only has to urinate when it’s the most inconvenient time and place possible. Like the airplane. I swear that there were times when I could physically FEEL my uterus trying to crawl into the most hidden crevice of my body cavity.

Perhaps behind my spleen.

And I couldn’t blame it. I wanted to crawl in there myself.

Especially after I realized that although I had stocked up on Mother’s Little Helper I had foolishly neglected a stroller. Normally Ben will react to being confined to a stroller (you know, I’ve always seen those kids placidly riding in strollers, while mine insisted upon walking at 6 months old. It’s pure jealousy, let’s be clear here.) with sheer anger and arched back like a cat in a patent leather bikini, but in NYC, I could have cared less. I could have probably given him to the gypsies like I’ve been threatening for years, BECAUSE I’M SURE I COULD FIND SOME.

I looked high and low for strollers, but 5th Ave apparently is fresh out of strollers. Except for the $150 one from FAO Schwartz. Which, by the end of the trip, I was cursing myself for NOT buying. It was a matter of perspective that made me realize how CHEAP $150 was.

I have spent the time since returning home trying to devise a plan for Ben to get a job with a decent income so that we can totally move back to NYC. It’s totally where I belong. Any kind of food delivered at any hour of the day. Hustle and bustle of the crowd going to and from wherever it is fabulous people go. HOT DOGS!

Four years old isn’t too young to get a job, right?

One of my favorite bloggers, Emily R. at Wheels on the Bus, asked me (after I begged for suggestions of things to talk about BESIDES adult diapers. Which, dude, I don’t know WHY you don’t want to hear about that) if I shaped my eyebrows. Well, Emily, the answer should be fairly apparent soon.

Probably about 5 years ago, I learned via some weird familial conversation that I was, indeed, a teeny-weenie part Italian. Now, this didn’t mean that I immediately ran out to buy one of those horn necklaces or some Italian flags to throw over my rearview mirror. Hell, I didn’t even start peppering my everyday conversation with corny Italian phrases. Apparently, being something like 0.005% Italian doesn’t inspire the same amount of (freakish) pride as someone who is 100%.

I’d always wondered where my dark skin and overall swarthiness (dude. Swarthiness is an underused word. I’m completely planning to bring swarthiness back. Fuck sexy.) came from, considering that the way I understood it, I was something like 80% Swedish and the rest Scottish. Neither of which are really known for being as brown as I am.

I also blame my teeny percentage of Italian-ness for the overabundance of body hair peppering my body.

Now, I’m SWARTHY, not a Sasquatch, so don’t get too ahead of yourself while thinking of my ultimate hotness. I’m also (now) incredibly good with a bottle of Nair and a pair of tweezers, so it might not be as evident if you were to see me on the street (or, perhaps, at BlogHer).

When I was pregnant with Ben, I wasn’t so much concerned with my body hair. There was something about all of the turmoil and unrest of the whole situation that didn’t leave me running for the tweezers, and for the first time in many years, I let my eyebrows–and other *ahem* parts of my body–go au naturale. (that’s “natural” for my non-French speaking readers. I know, I know, I’m so Continental!).

Besides, through a steady diet of Chinese food and Steak -n- Shake, I had turned into quite the oompa loompa, gaining approximately 70 pounds (I stopped looking at the scale at the doctor’s office) on my 5’5″ frame. I just knew I would be breastfeeding all of those pesky pounds away, so I figured when I did that–likely within the first month or so–I’d wax the hell out of myself, and BAM! just like that, I’d be a butterfly emerging from my cocoon of fat and hair!

Go ahead and get your laughter out now. Come on, let it out. I’ll wait.

Done? Good.

So yeah. Breast-feeding didn’t exactly work for Ben and I, and he was born with his days and his nights mixed up, and he screamed pretty much 90% of the time he was awake. Needless to say, I didn’t exactly lose that 70 pounds within that first month, nor was I coherent enough to even THINK about going to the salon.

My ever-loving brother, Aaron, came over one weekend with his new girlfriend (now my sister-in-law) to visit my young son, and in the lull between oogling my baby, he looked over at me, sitting there on the couch with toothpicks keeping my eyeballs from slamming shut and began to smirk mightily.

“Stumpy*,” he began to laugh. “What the HELL is going on with your eyebrows?”

Sleep deprivation, after many weeks, makes one incredibly stupid, so I just looked wearily at him, trying to make sense of what he meant by “eyebrows.”

“THEY LOOK LIKE CATERPILLARS SITTING ON THE TOP OF YOUR EYES!” He was in hysterics now, laughing so hard that he began to tear up. He then marched into the bathroom on that floor and grabbed me a pair of tweezers, all the while laughing his ass off.

Still not quite sure what he meant, as I hadn’t even looked in a mirror that day yet, I went into the bathroom and turned on the light. What I saw both shocked and horrified me: apparently, without proper maintenance, the upper half of my face turned into that of Groucho Marx. What worked for Brooke Shields did NOT work for me. Not by a long shot.

And, dammit, he was right. They looked like big, black caterpillars waggling on the top of my eyes.

Which meant that something needed to be done. Now.

I quickly secured a babysitter and practically levitated to the scary nail salon down the street, where approximately 4 pounds of eyebrow hair was removed in a haze of waxy glory. It may have hurt quite a bit, but I honestly don’t remember that. I only remember how much lighter and blissfully freer my forehead felt after that.

Had I known just how stupid I’d look without proper maintenance, unrest or not, I’d have found some time for some personal grooming in there, even if I did closely resemble the Michelin Man. At least my eyebrows would look fantastic.

So spill: what’s one of the dumber things you’ve done in the name (or not) of beauty?

*Stumpy is my nickname. Given to me by my brother, who was amazed that I was so short. Lest you think he’s some kind of giant, let me assure you that he is shorter than my father. Who is 6 feet tall.

(This is a repost from my first blog, written in 2004. I’ve come down with yet another stomach bug and am composing in my head a post about Adult Diapers. Be pleased I’ve spared you.)

As I do every day that I ride Metra to school, today I walked past the music building on my way to my 9 a.m. class. And as I do every morning, I shake my fist at the careless music majors who pepper the lawn, smoking joints and unfiltered Camel after unfiltered Camel while enjoying such activities as football, Frisbee and what can only be basket weaving.

It kills me.

It really kills me that these people, who look much, much more interesting than the cretins in my classes get to ‘œrelax’ and ‘œhang out’ and generally ‘œenjoy life;’ fundamental things that we Nursing majors cannot remember ever doing.

I’m hoping sometime in the next year before I actually graduate (yes me, a college grad, who’d have though it possible?) that I might spend even *part* of an afternoon on campus enjoying myself. I carried with me the same lofty goal last year and alas, it was not close to being met. I think at most I may have *smiled* once, most likely when I saw the campus security guard jump out of a bush in front of the music building.

He was looking, no doubt for some fun-seeking music majors’ ‘œmarijuana cigarette’ and he had this look on his face like he thought that he might have found a clue to an urgent crime in the underbrush.

Damn all of them and their fun times and great memories (or lack of memories) of college. Forever stuck in my mind are the rectal suppositories and enemas, and of 6 hour classes and of feeling like a square peg trying to fit in a round hole. No co-ed frat parties or keggers for me, no I instead get pig and cell parties.

All of this from someone who has taken 6 years to get a BS degree.

I really need to cut down my caffeine intake on Thursdays.

————–

Since I’ve gotten through a lot of NaBloWhatever, I’m going to keep going, despite my childish desire to screw it all. So, any burning blog post-y questions for me?

So, I realized, as I’m staring week 30 down, that I probably should shake my ass and get the baby things prepared BEFORE my daughter arrives. In that vein, I’m turning to my trusty Internet Posse to ask your opinion:

Which carseat should I buy?

The criteria is as follows:

Not a Graco SafeSeat. I have one, and it’s too heavy to carry (it’s like 11 lbs WITHOUT the baby in it). Plus, it barely fits in my truck.

Preferably less than $150

Needs to be a “bucket” infant car seat, as I can’t imagine carrying Alex AND Amelia around together.

Anyone have an opinion?

In a shocking fit of oddness, earlier in the week, Dave and I were both home to parent our children together. Normally, he leaves for work before the kids are up and comes home after they’re in bed, so I’ve gotten pretty accustomed to doing Daily Maintenance of All Things Kidly alone.

On this particular evening, however, Thing One (Ben) was off being Ben somewhere else in the house while Thing Two (Alex) sat in our sink splashing about merrily in a bath. We can’t bathe him every day as he’d like as he has such incredibly sensitive skin that he might molt and lose his skin entirely if I tried, so bath time for him is extra delightful.

Dave and I were both standing within arms reach (read: splashing distance) and talking about something else like the relative deliciousness of encased meats (consensus: Totally Full Of Delicious) when I realized that I was suddenly not being splashed with lukewarm water. I looked over at Alex, who has recently discovered the words both: Yes and No, and saw a familiar sight.

Alex was dingling his dangle, pinching the one-eyed diaper snake, and generally enjoying the hell out of his man-meat. Alex’s penis is his ultimate plaything, and he knows full well what it’s called. “Penis” was, in fact, one of his first words.

So in the name of talking to my child constantly (have a child who spends years in speech therapy and you will totally learn the value of narrating obnoxiously about each and every single fucking thing you do), I conversationally said to him, “Hey Alex, are you playing with your penis?”

To which, I am shockingly UNSHOCKED to say, he replied at full volume, with the biggest ear-to-ear smile I’ve seen on him yet, “YEEEAAAAH!!!!!” It was as happy as I would have sounded if asked if I happened to be looking forward to the new Britney Spears CD and probably 45 times as loud.

My boy, all right. Although Dave is trying to take credit for it, just like he always does.

Ass.

BlogHer 2009
July 24-25
Chicago, IL

Who is in, my bitches? Who wants to come to Chicago, home of our famous deep dish pizza, the best hot dogs on the planet, AND everybody’s favorite Aunt Becky?

Because I cannot fucking wait. To all of you previous attendees, is it worth it?

First off, I want to say thank you to anyone who had something nice to say to me in the past couple weeks. It’s been a really hard time for me, and while I don’t really like to sit and whine about it, it’s nice to know that my friends in the computer love me. They really, really love me.

So, I’m going to lighten the mood here, and bring you an irregular feature I like to call Fan Mail, or Mail Bag, or something with the words “bag” in it. Especially if it’s a euphemism for testicles (nut bag). Then I’m happy (T-bag).

Either (ball-bag) way, I’m bringing to you, my lovely readers, a Q and A forum wherein *I* answer the questions that bring people to my doorstep. Any punctuation (fun bag) is usually mine, and any spelling issues are often theirs, since I’ve learned to use a little feature I like to call Spell Check (man bag).

Dear Aunt Becky,

what happens when you are having sex and a big wet spot occurs?

Signed,

Sticky and NOT Sweet.

Dear Drowning In The Spooge,

There are several things that one can do to prevent the big wet spot. Condom usage comes to mind, as does the pull-out-n-pray method. Or you could even designate a particular towel to mop up Lake Spoogekins before it seeps out onto your designer sheets.

My own personal favorite method, however, my sticky friend, happens to be something I like to call Making Damn Sure We Hump On His Side Of The Bed. Eliminates all problems for me.

Eternally Yours,

Aunt Becky.

————–

My Dearest Aunt Becky,

Why do I have extra skin on balls?

Yours,

Dangly Bits

My Dear Old Balls,

I hate to be the one that breaks the news to you that you might want to consider investing in a sort of man bra for your nuts. While a dangly scrote is typically considered a good thing for men wanting to impregnate their partner, due to the cooler temperatures away from the body, if you’re not trying to procreate, it’s just got to be kind of annoying.

But, sadly for your ball bag, as men grow older and their skin begins to lose some elasticity, the nuts themselves begin to droop lower and lower, until one day you realize that they are submerged while you’re taking a dump.

I only wish I were kidding.

Perhaps a bra might help?

HUGS,

Aunt Becky

————

Aunt Becky,

Where can i find maternity skinny jeans?

Signed,

Fashion Concious

Dear Slave to Fashion,

Even if I knew (I do), why would you want to know? Do you have any idea how stupid you’re going to look once you really start to get heavy up top? Imagine pulling those puppies over your swollen third trimester ankles, why don’t you?

Disgustedly,

Aunt Becky

———–

Dearest Auntie Becky,

Congratulations on your divorce.

Also:

Becky is a bitch.

Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

Will you marry me?

Love,

Becky

—————-

Now, these posts (of which I believe I’ve done one before) are pretty hard to do. You’d think they’d be easy, but as of today I have 305 search terms that have brought people here for the month of November, most of which are so fucking disgusting that I can barely stomach them before noon. I’d repeat them, but it’d bring more hits to me for these perverts.

The other sort of search term I often get are people searching for their own name. Which is, hello, HILARIOUS. Especially since the only person whose full name I’ve divulged is my own.

So who is gonna confess here? Who found me by searching for “Cheeseburger Crotch?”

Last spring, while in the crampy throes of miscarriage #2, Ben’s teacher from his hippie Nut Ban! school called me with some troubling news: Ben was having a terrible time staying on track and on task during the school day. It wasn’t a terrible shock to me to learn this; at home he frequently forgets to do simple multi-step things–like wiping his ass–and Dave and I were both having a hard time keeping him on track.

Nat, Ben’s biological father, suffers from Adult ADD (grown from childhood ADD) so badly that if I need something–let’s say a sweatshirt–from him, I have to catch him 10 or so minutes before he walks out the door, and STILL I’ll have only about a 25-30% chance of getting said sweatshirt back. Ever.

So while I wasn’t watching and waiting for Ben’s spectrum diagnosis, I have been vigilantly watching for any signs of ADD in Ben so that I could get it properly treated. Because to me, someone who is annoyingly focused, I can only imagine how frustrating it would be to live life so scatteredly (I don’t even pretend that this is a word). Especially to a child who is in school.

Over the past 6 months or so, with a school change under his belt, I’ve been carefully watching and waiting to see if I could see any sorts of improvement with Ben’s ability to focus. I’ve seen no change either way, but I was waiting for parent-teacher conferences to speak with the teacher (who had no knowledge of his former teacher mentioning it) to confirm what I’d suspected and ask for what the next steps should be for us.

Obviously, this isn’t something I’m going to buck wildly at and insist that MY child is PERFECT, it’s the SYSTEM that’s flawed, because I’m more of a realist than that, and I DON’T think that having to follow Ben around and ride him to complete any task is the way to parent him. Nor, quite frankly, do I have the time to do this, even if I wanted to.

Parent-teacher conferences are in a week and a half, but yesterday I got a report card with a note attached confirming my suspicions: Ben is still having an awful time focusing at school and staying on task.

And even though I’d been expecting it, reading those words transported me back to receiving the news that Ben was likely on the autistic spectrum. While certainly not “leukemia” it’s still never great to hear that your child, your poor sweet child has something wrong with him (or her).

Not because I belong to the My Child Is The Perfectest Child EVER club, because I can assure you on all that is holy that his shit really does stink, but because I know just how much harder life will be for him. That, THAT is what I am sad about.

We’re going to wait until parent-teacher conferences to hear face-to-face what the teacher has to say and listen to any suggestions that he has to give us. And we’ll get Ben the help that he needs, of course we will, and we’ll do it without complaint.

But I sit here, and I look at my youngest son, whose biggest hurdle in life right this moment is the fact that he cannot always stack the blocks just so that it does not topple over after he hits 10 or so blocks in his tower. And I am sad to remember that his problems will only get harder and harder as he grows.

And I only wish that I could face all of the problems FOR him.