It appears as though my mantra only works to fend off would-be murderers.

My father has had a heart attack and is currently in surgery as I write this.

If there is anything other than that to say, I don’t know what it is. For once in my life, I am stunned into silence.

One upon a time, I made an appointment to meet with a psychic who my friend had told me was “really good.” Whether it was due to nerves or lack of fundage, I cancelled several days before my session. I’ve never been the sort to buy in too much to the whole mystic, new-agey stuff, because I prefer my life to be lived by more concrete rules. Maybe it’s the (now latent) scientist in me, but I can’t seem to wrap my mind around vague mentions of strife, love, or predictions of my future, mainly because I can see both how easy it would be to buy into this sense of greater meaning, and because I suck ass at interpreting these kinds of things. During any given month, I can fit whatever my horoscope is into what has happened, but it doesn’t matter much, because EVERY month is filled with strange happenings here at Casa de la Sausage.

It becomes a self-fufilling prophecy, or complete and utter crap, if you ask me. Even if I COULD see into the future, I’m not sure that I’d want to. If I “knew” that 10 years down the road, my cat would be hit by a car driven by my son, or that I would finally succumb to The Crazy, would I live my day to day life any differently? Would I accept this as an inevitability and not bother to try and change it? Or would I caution my son to watch for animals while driving AND try and prevent him from learning to drive? I can’t be sure, so I don’t want to know.

After Daver and I got married, we made it a weekly tradition to go out to breakfast together on one of the weekend mornings. A favorite haunt, harkening back to my days as a single smoker, was the local Baker’s Square, where we were often waited on by a strange woman who took a decided interest in me.

As a rule, if there is a certified Odd Duck somewhere in my vicinity, chances are they will be drawn to me like a magnet. I, apparently, am a positively charged Weirdo Magnet (but thankfully these are not Completely Crazy Emotional Weirdos, just strange ones. My husband, however, seems to have the Emotional Crazy Magnet implanted in his head). Dave shakes his head and laughs each time that we meet a new one, but I usually find them to be pretty interesting.

I always enjoyed this Odd Duck of a waitress. She was harmless, friendly, and thrilled when we announced our much anticipated pregnancy. She took one look at me, grabbed my palm, and pronounced that this child was a boy, which I immediately denied. Dave and I were certain that it was a girl (what with the vomiting and all. Such a lovely reason to think that I was carrying a girl.), which I tried to explain to her. She maintained that THIS baby was a BOY, just like my first (whom she had never met) and our next (and last) child was a girl and that I would have “you know, the high blood pressure” with her (my blood pressures run insanely low, and always have).

Needless to say, she was correct in guessing the chromosomal makeup of our offspring, and now I am left to wonder: will I have another child someday? Will it REALLY be a girl (meaning, I will no longer live in the Sausage Factory as a lone XX among a sea of XY’s.)?

On my good days with Alex and Ben, I doimagine that someday, I will be foolish enough to get pregnant again (God willing), and on my bad days I wonder what I was thinking in the first place. I adore the chaos that comes along with having two children, but I am sick to death of the sleepless nights, cold meals, and moreover the WORRY that comes along with having an ickle one. At the same time, I don’t want to go through the rest of my life wishing that I’d had another child (Someday, I’m going to want at least ONE of my children to come home for the holidays).

I suppose that I don’t know what to think about her prediction, but I can’t seem to shake it no matter how I attempt to logicate it (yes, I said “logicate,” which I am aware is not a real word. But it’s such a GOOD fake word.)

What do YOU think about that sort of stuff and/or her prediction? Do you buy that someone could really KNOW that kind of thing? Has this kind of thing happened to you before?

(and no, I am not currently pregnant, in case I haven’t made that clear).

One side effect of feeding The Chubbs yogurt is that he’s not nearly as hungry as he once was. I am not even being remotely exaggeratory (that’s totally not a word, and if it is, I misspelled it) when I say that up until last week Alex nursed AT LEAST once every hour of the day. No jokes here.

Sunday (or maybe Saturday, it’s been a loooooonnnggg six months), I noticed that I was getting a red raised bumpy thing (yes, I’m technical) on my left breasticle. Figuring that it was absolutely nothing, I just let it be. Then, yesterday I noticed some serous fluid had collected underneath the skin and the realization smacked me in the face! I was probably experiencing a blocked duct, and OH WAIT I was sick too, and if there is one phrase I can remember about mastits, it’s this “if you’re breastfeeding and you feel like you have the flu, you have mastitis” (see Mom, my medical education WAS for something!).

Begrudgingly, I placed a call to my doctor’s office and left a message for the nurse. Now, I have a previous longstanding grudge against the nurses that work in the office, because, well, most of them are complete pinheads. When I was first pregnant with Alex, barfing my brains out, and on a leave of absence from work from aforementioned uncontrollable barfing, I called them at the request of my HR department to see if the MD would sign for a medical leave. The nurse told me that they “didn’t do that sort of thing” and that I should “eat an apple” to help with my nausea.

Riiiiiiiiggggggggghhhhhhhhhtttt. I’ll get right on that apple eatin’, lady.

(as a complete aside, one of the things that I hate to do most is to ask for help, especially from a medical professional. When I do, it’s under total duress and I am all weird and squirmy inside while doing so. So to be told to “eat an apple” was a huge slap in the face to me. Almost as bad as when I had delivered Ben, sustained a 4th degree and was given Tylenol 3 to take home. Obviously, at 3 am, if I am paging the on-call doctor for something to actually take the pain away, “taking a bath” isn’t going to cut it. So fuck you.)

ahem.

I fully expected a return call like,

Me: “I have a problem with my breast.”

RN: “I like potatoes.”

Me: “That’s nice. But I have a problem with my left breast and I am currently breastfeeding.”

RN: “Poooottttaaaatttttoooeeess are good. I love them.”

Me: “Okay, yeah, so about my breast. It might be mastitis, but I guess it could be a pimple.”

RN: “Baked potatoes are good for you.”

Me: “Okay, I gotta go.”

Instead, I got a call back from a competent nurse, who was alarmed by my symptoms, far more so than I was. She insisted that I come in the following morning (today), called in a script for some hardcore antibiotics and put me on an NSAID’s regime.

All to have the PA tell me that I have a spider bite. And a sinus infection.

(this is a reprint of a post I wrote in May, but I wanted to say it all again after reading my new issue of People. It is, probably, my favorite post that I have ever written, and is for sure the most honest.)

No parent ever wants to hear that something is wrong with their child; that their offspring is not completely perfect.

Realizing the magnitude of being entrusted to care for, nurture, raise and eventually let go of a new life is both mindboggling and awe-inspiring as well as terrifying. Before my first was born, I could barely be considered responsible to care for an aquarium, and rightly so: I was just 20.

Having had no experience with babies, I had no idea that mine was abnormal. He hated human touch, he preferred to watch his mobile spin around to looking at faces. His first word was not ‘œMama’ or ‘œDada’ or even ‘œBaba:’ it was ‘œtock-tock.’ His phrase for ‘œtick-tock’ referring to the grandfather clock in the hallway which he adored. I’d be lying if I claimed that I wasn’t devestated by his total lack of interest in me and his distain for my touch, but I assumed that this was just the way he was. Different strokes for different folks and all that happy horseshit.

Shortly after his first birthday, he was introduced to the planets through a Baby Einstein video. Before he could recognize emotions, he knew 4 of the moons of Jupiter and could identify them from different angles. *I* couldn’t even do that. Rather than wanting to read Goodnight Moon, I took him to Borders and he picked out an encyclopedia of the solar system intended for adults, which he memorized cover to cover. He could spend hours at the Planetarium but screamed bloody murder at the zoo. I’d come home from class to several different ‘œsolar systems’ he’d created out of balls, each true to form. His depth of knowledge was amazing and freakish and I have no real way to illustrate that to you here.

This was all before his second birthday.

I had realized, of course, that he wasn’t speaking as much as What To Expect During The First Year said that he should, but considering the authors militant stand about their stupid pregnancy diet in their stupid pregnancy book, I wasn’t too worried. I just assumed that he was developing at a different rate than others his age. I mean, what 17 month old can tell you what Pluto’s moon is? (mine could). I had also figured that no one had really encouraged his speaking abilities, being the only child/grandchild, we all spoke for him.

At his 2 year check-up, his regular ped was out and his partner told me in no uncertain terms that not only could he not understand him, but that he would be writing a referral out for an evaluation from Early Interventions. I left that appointment not only upset with the manner in which the doctor had spoken to me (‘How dare he talk to me like that?’) but by the fact that I hadn’t even thought anything was wrong.

Several times, different evaluators came out to our house to observe him and speak with me about his behaviors. Many of the questions provoked lightbulbs in my head, a ‘œso THAT’S why he does _____! (only eats 3 things, becomes so overwhelmed by touch that he screams inconsolably, lines up his toys by color on the stairs, has an insane facination with spinning things, knows WAAAAAYYY too much about the solar system, flaps his arms whenever he’s excited)’ which really only made me feel worse about the things I had never noticed, or had noticed but considered quirks.

I drew the line at recieving a formal medical diagnosis however, because as a nurse and the daughter of a mentally ill mother, I am completely aware how these things follow you for the rest of your life until you can only define yourself by them. Does that make sense to you? Let me give you an example: I (myself here) am dyslexic, have Crohn’s disease, and have a latex/iodine/shellfish allergy. But does that make me who I am? Not one bit, but not only do I catch myself excusing away things based on this, it has become a teeny tiny but integral part of my self image. And I do not have any behavioral problems to excuse away (i.e. ‘œI’ll never be able to sit still because I have ADD, therfore I won’t even try.’)

Without a totally formal diagnosis, he was explained to be on the autistic spectrum and speech and occupational therapies began immediately. For almost two years, he recieved both therapies and began to make strides toward more normal behavior. He began to speak more frequently and clearly in addition to being able to deal with more and more textures, consistencies, and tastes. His more interesting quirks remain to this day, thankfully, as they are part of what makes him who he is.

My soon to be husband and I enrolled him into private school when he turned three to enrich his social skills, as he had no children his own age to play with at home. I’m not sure that these social skills will ever be what is considered totally normal, but they have improved by leaps and bounds, possibly to the point that an innocent bystander would not realize how much he had once struggled to do something as simple as recognize basic emotions.

I have still struggled through numerous thoughtless comments from both parents and non-parents alike (‘why won’t he eat anything but junk food?’) who have somehow gotten it in their head that his problems are little more than an issue of bad parenting. I have suffered through years of guilt and regret (had *I* done something to cause this?) I have spent cold meal after cold meal coaxing him to eat something that looks different or *is* different. I continue to worry about what his life will be like as he grows older and begins to interact more with the general population: will they be gentle and understanding of his uniqueness or will they tease and mock him mercilessly? Have we done enough to prepare him for the world? I have spent hours upon hours reassuring him that completing a ritual out of order was just fine, and comforting him from afar while wanting nothing more than to sweep him in my arms and kiss his tears away.

I have had to accept that my child is not perfect.

Is this the worst thing that could happen to a mother? Certainly not; he’s happy, he’s healthy, and above all else he is loved unconditionally. Having seen babies born without brains and hearing them cry (possibly the worst sound in the world. It’s loud and atonal), I am aware that I got off pretty easy here. But competing in the Pain Olympics isn’t why I wrote this post.

As you all know, I am not one to use this blog as a politcal forum, nor am I likely to spend time talking about my feelings here, or elsewhere. But I came across this website where you can help kids with autism. Is it real? I think so. If not, well, the song is kind of cute anyway. Either way, this band has supposedly pledged to donate $0.49 for every time this video is watched. It can’t hurt, it can only help.

We all have hopes for our children. As for me, I just hope that he knows how much I have loved him.

I remember back in the day before Ben was talking normally, people’d always tell me “Once they start talking, they’ll talk back” and I remember thinking that that was the stupidest thing to tell someone whose child is verbally delayed. No shit, he’d talk back, but that sure beats the hell outta biweekly speech therapy.

Suddenly, I have blissfully begun to imagine a world in which LITTLE PEOPLE WERE QUIET in a way I’d never have imagined. I used to threaten Ben by telling him I’d sell him to the gypsies, of which he heard “chippies” and began to ASK to go to the chippies, because of course, that is junk food and junk food + Ben = heaven on earth. So I had to rethink what I was threatening him with.

Now I cannot seem to get the kid to shut his trap for more than 28 seconds at a time, because Lord knows his head might explode if he couldn’t narrate whatever the hell he was doing at a particular time. Half the time, it’s hilarious, but the other half drives me nuts because although I can completely ignore whatever is coming out of Dave’s mouth at any given time “blah, blah, blah, shut the cabinets after you’re done, Becky, blah, blah, blah,” I seem to be utterly unable to ignore Ben.

Not that he lets me ignore him for just a moment: “Mom, this juice is sour, grape juice is sour, Juicy Juice is 100% juice, grape juice is sour, yummy so yummy in my tummy, grape juice is sour AND yummy in my tummy tummy tummy, but I can’t drink it on the carpet because you know what will happen? MOM, do you know what will happen? MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM DO YOU KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN IF I DRINK THE JUICE ON THE CARPET? MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM!?!?!”

Until I finally have to answer him. And if I, by chance, am able to ignore him, he will continue monologuing (giving Dave a run for his monologing money) until I respond at increasingly louder intervals and my entire head of hair has turned completely grey.

But that isn’t what is driving me crazy lately, suprisingly. What’s driving me mad is that he will interject into any other conversation I may be having with someone else and try to join in. Whether or not he knows what he is talking about. This morning, I got a lecture on the amount of hashbrowns he was about to get from the drive thru which he didn’t understand yet because he hadn’t seen what I was talking about, which sounds less annoying on virtual paper than it was in real life. Let’s try again, so you can fully grasp what I am talking about:

Pretend you are having an intelligent conversation with a coworker about, say, particle physics (assuming, of course, that both of you know something about this), something of which I know absolutely nothing, and I walk up to you and start to tell you that the proper answer to what you are discussing is “obviously hot dog buns.” And when you inform me that I am wrong, and maybe I don’t know enough to be having this conversation with you, I begin to draw diagrams of why hot dog buns IS right and YOU are wrong.

Because six year olds know it all, even if they don’t.

So I’m going to revise my threat, I am going to see if the gypsies need a slightly chubby nurse to join them LIKE RIGHT NOW.

I am so freaking mad right now. So mad I could cry.

Let’s back up a bit, and I’ll explain myself. I send Ben to a private school which I have previously mocked as far as their asanine stipulations for school supplies, etc. I love, love, love the education that he recieves there, it’s totally perfect for his temperment and ability level and I have no doubt that he will continue to flourish there.

Which is a fucking good thing, because year after year they make me feel like I must be the worst parent ever in the world ever. As my brain is so full of anger right now, I am unable to post except for in bullet form.

* I have gone to no less than *5* stores to get school supplies for him PLUS having to pay double for something that I could only find on the Internet.

* Most of these items are still incorrect because the stipulations placed on them are so asinie as to not actually exist in real life. For example: a three subject, wide ruled, non-perforated edged, PLASTIC COVER ONLY yellow notebook. It does not exist.

*Without mentioning it on the memo that was sent home, I needed to buy 2 pairs of shoes for him to have at school. I only had bought one, and had to run out yesterday morning to buy him a second (but completely different) pair of heavily stipulated shoes. On Day 1 of school.

* We were never informed as to what time school both began and ended, nor were we told that he would have to take a lunch. Luckily I had guessed correctly and sent him with one the first day.

*As a back-to-school treat, I bought him some packets of cookies to take in his lunch. Today, Day 2 of school he was sent home with a note requesting that cookies not be sent to school in his lunch. Why couldn’t that have been mentioned BEFORE school began?!?

*His father and his family pay for school, INSTEAD of paying regular child support to us, which has been the arrangement since he began to go at age 3. The bills are always sent to his grandparents. Year after year, they forget this and send home bills to me with wee nasty-grams on them so I must call and complain over and over about it.

I guess that the moral of the story is that I am angry that there is almost no communication between the parents and the school. While I don’t mind being proactive as a parent I feel that this is getting out of hand and I am part way considering transferring him to the public school system.

I’ve always had a great amount of admiration for parents who look so at ease while out with their young children, sitting serenely at dinner with the babe happily gumming his hands while sitting in his car seat. If the camera were to pan to my table, you’d likely see my six year old hard at work on completing the kids menu games, my the top of my husband’s head while clicking away on the Blackberry and me, sitting with the baby on my lap while he attempts to fling my plate back to the kitchen. That wide-eyed look on my face: it’s not Xanex-induced euphoria, it’s fear.

You see, after having 2 extremely demanding/screamy/colicky/generally unpleasant babies, I have started to hate going out without reinforcements. Having been front and center in the Great Colicky Baby saga of 2001-2, including such highlights as Out At Dinner, Where’s The Damn Check and At A Friend’s House, This Must Be Better Than Birth Control. 2004-5 held such gems during public bathroom potty training as Mom, Where Is Your Penis And Is It Dirty Down There? and Dave, Can I Hold Your Penis? These days, I’m more apt to have to fight such battles as Dude, Where Is The Tit? and But I Waaaannnnnnnttttt It, Mommy!!!

I want to be able to suck it up and not get so damn stressed out by it because I genuinely hate sitting around the house day after day, as I know that the only behavior that can be changed is my own. Aside from Xanex, I have no idea how I can do it.

The child must know that he is a miracle, that since the beginning of the world there hasn’t been, and until the end of the world there will not be, another child like him. (-Pablo Casals)

Happy Birthday, big guy. It’s been a hell of a ride so far and we can’t wait to watch you grow even more (but seriously now, could you PLEASE stop growing so damn fast?!?).

In order to know what other moms think, I tend to lurk on some “mommy blogs.” It helps me not to feel so alone in the SAHM world, considering most of my friends have big girl jobs and no kids. It’s a hotly debated subject, the stay at home moms vs. the working mothers, one that I don’t have much to say about. Both are hard, and usually I relish that I have no hard deadlines and bosses that I can ignore if I need to.

Today, however, I want nothing more than to take a sick day. I want to pull the covers up over my head and take the rest of the day off. I want to be responsible for nothing and no one. Alas, I cannot as I have no backup.

I’ll keep on truckin’ as I always do, and tomorrow will be a brighter day, I just know it.

Ben starts school again in a couple of weeks, this time as a big old first grader, which is actually aging Dave more than it’s aging me (this happens to be a first). With the almost 6 year old age has come the almost 6 year old attitude which is_getting_old.

I actually found myself in an arguement with Ben recently regarding the actual need for roller skates in order to rollerskate. I was suprisingly pro, he anti. What was mainly interesting about this interaction was that I am all but convinced that I had partoketh in this converasation previously, with his father, the king of “Well, actually, Becky…” conversations. If I were to mention that the sky happened to be blue today, he’d come up with all kinds of charts and graphs to prove “Well, actually, Becky the sky is green.” Or yellow. Or motherfucking pink. Needless to say, I find this to be incredibly grating.

With the addition of actual school has come the need for school supplies, something I had expected to relish buying. Until I realized that Ben’s school has ALWAYS requested that we purchase things like “snorth-fibber queesile grinder,” in a delicate azure. Never an easy purchase, now made way more difficult than necessary by the school.

Of the approximately 105 item checklist, I have now only acquired a handful of items. The rest seem to elude me. Where exactly does one purchase a (and I am not kidding here) 3 subject, plastic cover, wide rule, red notebook? According to the worker that I enlisted to help me, they don’t have them in red. At least at Target.

I guess it’s a good thing that I started early, but I am seriously considering suggesting that the school purchase said items for us and WE WILL PAY THEM DIRECTLY. Hell, considering the extreme amount of gas I will have to buy to head to 1,984 stores to find their blasted MEAD BRAND ONLY!!!!! composition book, I’d be willing to pay more than retail price. And for a cheap ass like me to say so, it must be bad.