Sure, it really is an honor just to be nominated, et cetera and so forth...

So, the ever-fantabulous Hartley, amazing author and tireless champion of parents with SPD/ASD/special needs kiddos, has a little awards shindig going on over at her blog.  Nominations have been going on for the past few days, and I just received the news that my blog has been nominated for an SPD Blogger Award!!  In the category for "Humorous Blog" no less! (I've checked out the competition and it is fierce, *gulp*!)

This is literally the first good thing to happen to me this year so far.  Yes, I know we're not even 3 weeks into 2011 but so far? It has bitten the big one.  We're in the midst of another major battle with the school district regarding Kiddo's current IEP and have further heard that it is 99.9999999999999% sure that Kiddo will not be granted an aide for next year (or ever again after this year) when her CSE meeting rolls around in March.  Kiddo has now been examined by a pediatric pulmonologist, who confirmed what her pediatrician has been suspecting for several months now - Kiddo has asthma, and with the relatively "late" onset of symptoms, it is likely that she will have asthma for the rest of her life (as opposed to kids who have it as toddlers and then outgrow it).  Have you ever seen a major sensory seeker on not one but two asthma meds simultaneously?  Holy bouncing off the walls, Batman!  We're working out an appropriate med regime that controls the inflammation with the least amount of disruption to her life, but the working out phase involves dealing with issues like difficulty falling asleep/restless sleep and other fun stuff like that.  (If you think a major sensory seeker hopped up on two stimulant asthma meds is a scary enough sight, add to that a lack of adequate rest and we have a new horror movie franchise in the making.)  On top of that, Kiddo has just been more challenging than usual behaviorally.  I won't go into details, but she was Majorly Grounded for almost a week, which effectively killed our wedding anniversary date night out plans (and on top of that, it's never fun to have to be the Grounding Enforcer/Prison Warden anyhow).  Last but not least, she's been sick for more days this January than not, so we're stuck inside with playdates and birthday parties falling by the wayside thanks to those evil, evil germies.  (Side note: someone told me that the odd years are always more challenging than the even years.  Six was pretty dang delightful around here, especially in light of how seven has been.  I'm willing to believe that at this point, especially if it gives us a light at the end of a tunnel that will only go another 5 months... Anyone else ever hear that one?)

So, like I said, 2011? Not the best year so far.  (Isn't this the big Mayan Apocalypse year?  Are all these issues actually harbingers of the impending doom - and if so, where the heck are Dean and Sam and Castiel when I need them?  Will I start dreaming of Phyllis Diller again?  Did I mention that coming up in December, I turn the big 4-0?  Isn't that bad enough for one year in and of itself?)  

But... then I received the news from Hartley that I've been nominated for an SPD Blogger Award - and it's a MAJOR AWARD, you know.  I'm hoping the prize looks something like this:

And yes, it's just an honor just to be nominated, especially since I didn't nominate myself - someone out there likes me!  But then again, if you really do like me, please drop by the voting page starting tomorrow at 6am and help me stuff the ballot box, mmmmkay?  I mean, George Clooney and Hugh Jackman have presented Oscars and Golden Globes before, so what if it's one of them presenting the SPD Blogger Awards?  Do you want to be the one to make me miss out on that?  Let's reverse the trend of craptastictude for 2011 by landing me a Major Award!

I promise I'll mention you in my acceptance speech - maybe even give you a shout-out from the red carpet when Ryan Seacrest stops me to find out who I'm wearing..... "Microfleece yoga pants from Target, Ryan, of course!  Mind the sparks, now..."

Bitch and Moan Monday, just what I needed!

Yes, I know it isn't even 9:00 in the morning yet, but this has been one craptastic Monday so far.  Therefore, I was utterly delighted to come upon this:



over on a new blog I just discovered this past weekend.  Heck YES, I want to play along this morning!

You see, my morning actually started at 2:14, when into my dream of auditioning for The Amazing Race with my sister came a shrill and persistent, sustained beeping noise.  Eventually, my dream self realized that no, in fact my sister and I weren't going to be meeting Phil Keoghan and his raised eyebrow after all, because that noise wasn't coming from my dream.  I halfway woke up and pondered.  It was hard to tell if the noise was real or just some sort of freaky, tinnitis-like sound I was only hearing in my head.  I lifted my head off the pillow to listen with both ears.  Hmmmmm, now it not only seemed to be a real noise, but it was sounding an awful lot like an alarm going off somewhere in the house.  Smoke detector?  Carbon monoxide detector?  Crap.


I hopped out of bed tout de suite, fumbling for my glasses in the dark, and made my way downstairs where the cat greeted me in a state of mild but clear distress.  Okay, at least that means there were two of us hearing this ungodly sound.  I looked at the CO detector - nope, that wasn't it.  I flung open the basement door and instantly the shrieking beep dramatically increased in volume.  Not seeing any smoke, I quickly determined that the sound was coming from the sump pump alarm and that the sump pump had stopped running.  (For the record, we've had the basement flood three times since the beginning of January due to sump pump failure.  I should also mention we have a brand-new sump pump now, as well.)  Crappity crap.  I dashed back upstairs and woke Hubby up.  Hubby, who has always been the much lighter sleeper of the two of us, who wakes up with a start if a fly lands on the ceiling or a dust bunny moves on the floor, was sleeping soundly away, totally oblivious.  As soon as I whispered "Dude.  That's the sump pump alarm going off!" he was out of bed and racing for the basement in a flash.  I followed him back downstairs to see what level of an emergency this was going to be.


Turns out there was a small piece of plastic that looked like the cap off a container of caulk that had found its way into the well and jammed itself into the machinery in such a way as to prevent the pump from starting when it should've.  Given that it had been raining pretty steadily for the past several hours, the well was on the verge of spilling over, hence the alarm.  (I'm not sure exactly how long the alarm had been sounding before I became conscious of it.)  Hubby extracted the piece of plastic, the pump started up, the water level began draining and the alarm shut off with a very horrific, dying SQUEEEEEEAAAWWWWWWWL sound.  Crisis averted.  We headed back upstairs to bed, leaving the still a bit freaked out crazy cat in the family room.  (Okay, I get that the noise was probably extremely upsetting to her - it was upsetting to me and my hearing is nowhere near that of a cat's.  However, this is the same creature that hears secret messages from the Cat Home Planet whenever we use the DVD player, so, you know, her reaction to any noise is automatically suspect.)


By 2:19, I was back in bed.  Wide awake.


I checked the clock again.  Yeeha, it was 2:31.


2:48.


3:12.


3:43.


4:07.  Dagnabit, why am I still awake?  SHUT THE HECK OFF ALREADY, BRAIN!


Of course, I know darn well why I couldn't fall back asleep.  Besides the fright factor and subsequent adrenaline rush of "AN ALARM IS GOING OFF SOMEWHERE IN THE HOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT EEEEEEEK!" that had rendered me fully awake, I had lots of things to think about.  Things like Kiddo's upcoming CSE annual review, for which we have a team pre-meeting today.  You know, those things that like to keep one up in the wee, small hours of the morning.  Bleargh.


4:36 and I thought about giving up and getting up, but eventually, finally I drifted back off to sleep.  It was a brutal awakening when Kiddo's alarm went off two hours later.  I rolled over and felt the pounding behind my eyes. Splendid.


I had just made my way to the kitchen, where the Excedrin Migraine lives in the cabinet above the sink, when I heard the dulcet tones of my beloved daughter freaking the heck out.  For reasons unknown to anyone but her, she'd decided to wander down into the family room without turning on any lights.  The family room which was pretty much still pitch black, as the sun wasn't up yet and the shades were drawn anyhow.  As she made her way through the darkened room, she stepped in something cold, wet and slimy.


Yep, you guessed it.  Cat hairball, with a chaser of what once was dry cat food, now mostly digested, for good measure.


Now, you would think that as long as it wasn't you who had trod upon cat barf in naught but a pair of fuzzy slipper socks, life would be good.  However, when it is your child who steps in the cat barf and then promptly flips out and begins screaming and hopping around, managing to grind said cat barf further into the carpet and spread it around in the process?  Actually, that's much, much worse.


So there I was at ten to seven this morning, skull feeling two sizes too small and eyes feeling like they were about to burst right out of their sockets, kid shrieking and ewwwwwwing and hovering over my shoulder to witness the scene as I used the last, few paper towels on the roll from the laundry room to clean up cold, wet, ground-in cat barf.  (Apparently the cat was more upset by the alarm than I'd realized...)


And speaking of the last, few paper towels on the roll, it turns out that every kind of paper product that comes in roll form had decided to run out simultaneously this morning.  I kid you not: when I got up to pee at 3:12am, voila, two measly squares of TP left on the roll in the master bathroom.  When I went into Kiddo's bathroom to grab some Advil at 3:43, I discovered another empty roll.  After using the last of the paper towels in the laundry room for Operation Barf Removal, I went up to the kitchen to wash my hands......... and discovered the paper towel dispenser next to the kitchen sink was devoid of Select-a-Size Bounty as well.


Cheese on toast, man!  This Monday is definitely a contender for King of the Craptastic.


And it's cold.  And it's raining.  And it's freaking MONDAY.  And I have to go grocery shopping in the cold and rain this morning.  And we have that IEP meeting I was up stressing out about this afternoon.  And Kiddo has her swimming lesson after school today.  And it's freaking MONDAY.


Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!


I totally want to run away to the Seychelles after watching last night's episode of The Amazing Race.  I'm fairly certain those ginormous tortoises that live there do not barf up hairballs... of course with my craptastic luck, I'd probably arrive just in time for a monsoon.

Stick a fork in me

'cause I am done. As I mentioned in my previous post, Kiddo appeared to be starting with a head cold yesterday morning.   Well, yesterday afternoon she returned home from school white as a sheet with a low grade fever (99.2) and generally looked pitiful, so we skipped her swimming lesson and I put her to bed early with a dose of Children's Mucinex Cold for good measure.

Now, since it isn't possible for my kid to ever catch anything besides strep throat (to which I seem *knock wood* to be mostly immune) without me catching it too, of course I started with the cold symptoms myself.  I can actually tell you the exact moment they began.  I was pushing my shopping cart out of Walmart to my car through the chilly, damp air yesterday afternoon (temperatures were back down into the 30s and I was forced to reluctantly pull my winter coat back out of the closet where I'd optimistically stashed it the previous week) and I breathed in.  With that inhalation (around 2:20pm), my throat began to hurt.  At first I chalked it up to the air, to being thirsty, to *anything* other than germs.  I hopped in the car and chugged a bottle of water.  Throat still hurt.  Dang.  I chose to ignore it and went on with my day, because really, it's not like I actually had a choice.  The world does not stop because Mommy is suddenly feeling unwell, after all. I drove myself home, unpacked the groceries, herded Kiddo into the house when the school bus arrived, tended to her, etc.

By the time she was tucked into bed - 6:50pm despite DST, so I knew she wasn't feeling well - I was listless and sneezy.  I still tried to convince myself that it was nothing more than PMS.  Because PMS gives you a runny nose and sore throat, right?  Hubby got home around 8:30 and we had cold cereal and toast for dinner, then went to bed at 10, and as soon as I rolled onto my side and shut my eyes, I felt it.  That inside-the-skull sloshing of all the snot that seemingly spontaneously generated and ran down into my left side sinuses and nostril as they snuggled into the pillow.  Ugh.  I rolled to the other side and felt the sensation repeat as the tide shifted to my right.  Not.  Good.

As the night progressed, I tossed and turned and woke up to alternatively jam Puffs Pluses into my nostrils or to remove and replace them.  (What?  You've never done that?  I do it all. the. time. when I have a head cold.  I'm doing it right now, as a matter of fact.)  Around 2am, Hubby abandoned ship and moved himself into the guest room to try to get some sleep that wasn't interrupted by my congested breathing, snorting or snoring.  I took advantage of his defection by rolling onto my back so that at least the congestion could reach a state of equilibrium between my sinuses.  As generally happens when I'm not feeling well, my subconscious went all Twilight Zone on me and kept parading odd and unsettling dreams through my increasingly congested noggin for the periods I was actually asleep.

This morning, Kiddo didn't wake up until 8:35.  I would gladly have slept in even longer if I could've, myself.  Instead, I got up, swapped my normal morning attire of ratty sweatshirt-over-jammies for my ratty-fleece-with-pockets-over-jammies so that I can carry a stash of tissues and hand sanitizer with me wherever I go and shuffled downstairs.  Kiddo is home from school today (obviously) and we're both pretty pathetic.  My sinus headache is throbbing to the beat of the opening chords of Eye of the Tiger thanks to her iPod.  I'm presently debating whether to turn on the Wii for her and let her play Littlest Pet Shop so I can go back to bed.  (We have a rule: Kiddo is only allowed to play Wii on the weekends.)  Oh, who am I kidding?  I'm totally turning it on for her as soon as she finishes her breakfast and comes back downstairs. 

The end-of-winter cold is unfortunately a bit of a tradition around our house, and one I would gladly skip.  It's supposed to be gorgeous out today, Hubby told me this morning as he was getting ready for work.  Sunshine and temps in the 50s.  I'd planned to do some yardwork (there are enough sticks in our yard for me to build a bonfire) and I was supposed to be volunteering at school this afternoon on a big art project the first graders are finishing up, but instead I'm going to pull down the shades and retreat to my Mentholated Rainforest Cave. And did I mention on top of this cold, I also have *every* possible PMS symptom right now, too? 

Pathetic.  Totally pathetic.

DST = Darn Stupid Theory

And so it begins again.  Daylight Savings Time, aka a Darn Stupid Theory.  DST has never been my favorite time of year, at least not the "springing forward" portion of events, but now that I have a kid I absolutely loathe it.  The fact that my kid happens to have SPD just makes it worse.  She needs her schedule, and she doesn't need it arbitrarily bumping around by an hour twice a year.  It's like jetlag without the fantabulous destination.

Yesterday, it wasn't so bad.  Being a weekend day, we just let Kiddo sleep in and get up whenever she woke up on her own.  Bedtime last night was another matter altogether.  Despite playing hard at a birthday party yesterday afternoon (and might I digress for a moment to say that while she was looking mighty cute in her party duds as she headed off to the party......

... as soon as she got there, she immediately joined in to the rousing game of Tag that was going on with all the other cute, little girls in their party duds.  A passel of dressy outfits and carefully bowed and beribboned hairdos tearing around the party room, getting more disheveled and sweaty by the second.  You can dress 'em up, but....) Anyhow, as I was saying, despite the playing hard at the party, Kiddo had difficulty falling asleep last night.

I expected she'd have trouble getting up this morning.  Heck, *I* had trouble getting up this morning.  She was grouchy, out of sorts, and for an added bonus appears to be coming down with a head cold.  Because you want crusted over nostrils to complete the look of the grumpy, sleepy, and at least three of the other Dwarfs' names-adjectived kid scowling at you from the breakfast table.

I did my best.  I made her a hearty breakfast (including a dish that is known around here as "Egg Balls" - egg whites nuked in one of those microwave poaching contraptions) and even gave her a glazed doughnut instead of her usual whole wheat toast.  I didn't object when she played the triple audio delight of Eye of the Tiger, Funkytown and the theme from Ghostbusters over and over and OVER again on her iPod without using her headphones.  I ignored the death stare I was getting in the bathroom mirror as I de-bedheadded the newly banged hair.  I didn't even sing "I see London, I see France" when it turned out she'd put her undies on backwards and thus, there was a good inch showing above the waistband of her pants.  I was a Kind and Thoughtful Mommy, Sympathetic to Her Plight.  And this was with me being sleepy and cranky myself, plus in the final hormonal rush of PMS and suffering with the vague rumblings of a headache that I didn't quite vanquish last night to boot.  (Don't worry, I did reward myself with a doughnut as well.  That cinnamon streusel friedcake from the Wegmans bakery was the only thing that got me out of bed and down to the kitchen this morning, truth be told.)  I even let her bring her iPod out on the porch while we shivered in the damp, "oh right, it isn't actually Spring yet" upstate NY air, thus confusing our neighbors into thinking they were suddenly living in Rocky III.

Now, this isn't our first encounter with Daylight Savings Time, obviously.  We've been fighting the fight to keep Kiddo cool, calm and regulated through the time change for several years now.  That is why I know this is going to get worse before it gets better.  I'm bracing for the meltdown that will occur sometime between the bus dropping Kiddo off this afternoon and bedtime.  It is unavoidable, inevitable, like death, taxes and that weird, long, black hair that springs up on my forearm every six weeks.  Complicating matters is that today is swimming lesson day after school.  While ordinarily I look forward to the extra tiring out Kiddo gets from her swimming lesson, I'm thinking we might skip it today so as not to exacerbate the situation.  Tomorrow morning will probably be worse than today, and by Wednesday we'll likely both be weeping into our Honey Nut Generic-Os.

And for what?  Really, what good does Daylight Savings Time really do?  After a few weeks of it finally being lighter when the alarm clock rang, putting a bit of extra spring in all of our steps as we went about our morning routine, this morning when the alarm clock sounded, it was pitch black outside.  Like we'd suddenly plunged back into deepest February.  Nary a bird singing.  It was just so wrong.  As I put on a happy face and tried to get Kiddo through the horror and off to school, I wondered: exactly whose brilliant idea was this, anyway???

I  seemed to recall, in my not-yet-completely-awake brain, hearing that Benjamin Franklin "invented" DST.  I mean, didn't he invent everything back in the 1700s?  I decided my memory must be faulty, so I brushed the doughnut crumbs from my keyboard and googled good, old Ben.


The following quote from Wikipedia cleared things right up:

Daylight saving time (DST) is often erroneously attributed to a 1784 satire that Franklin published anonymously.  Modern DST was first proposed by George Vernon Hudson in 1895.

Aha!  Erroneously attributed to a satire Franklin wrote.  See, I knew Ben wouldn't have come up with such nonsense.  Of course, I immediately clicked on the link to discover the identity of the true culprit who is responsible for such folly.

There he is.  George Vernon Hudson.  Of course a man came up with such a ridiculous idea.  I mean, obviously no woman - at least no mother - would ever think of such nonsense as smart.  Facebook and the Twitterverse have been chock-full of sentiments echoing mine in the past 36 hours, and most of them belong to parents of children who still reside at home and need to be gotten off to school in a timely manner.  (Okay, so that might be slanted a bit, as most of the folks I'm friends with on FB and follow on Twitter are parents of children who still reside at home and need to be gotten off to school in a timely manner... but my point is still valid: I am not alone in this sentiment!)  

Further reading led to the conclusion that at best, DST is "controversial" and it is unclear how much actual benefit there is to the citizens of the world who are forced to deal with it.  Yep, that's right, DST is not a worldwide phenomenon, as evidenced by this map here.  This map, which gives me a brilliant idea:


We need to move to Hawaii.  Right away.  That would solve our DST struggle once and for all!


And really, having this view off the porch:

instead of this one?  

Just a bonus!


I know that, like most other struggles, this too shall pass.  By the coming weekend, Kiddo should be pretty well adjusted to a regular sleep/wake schedule.  It's just the duration of the battle that I dread and loathe.  Especially when it seems so, darn stupid and pointless.  I'd wager that folks would still do the same activities they do now in the summer even if the clocks weren't switched by an hour, dontcha think?

Not with a bang, but a whimper. Well, actually, with kind of a rather resounding bang, now that I think about it...

Today is my last day of being 37, or being in my "mid-thirties" as I've been saying for the past 364 days. Let me just say that if today is indicative of how 38 is going to go down, I'm in trouble.

The day started out well enough. We've been checking out different churches in our new town, trying to find one that feels right for us. We weren't overly enamored of the United Methodist church we attended last week, so we'd decided to try the Presbyterian church right in the middle of town. We all were fed, showered and dressed appropriately with plenty of time to make the five minute drive over to the church. Hubby and Kiddo were waiting in the minivan, which Hubby had already backed out into the driveway, when I headed out the door.

And here is where things started going south in a hurry. I was putting the bag with our shoes in it (as we were wearing our sensible winter boots due to the weather) in the back next to Kiddo when Hubby, noting the freezing rain pelting down, suggested I grab the large umbrella out of the back seat of his car so we'd have enough coverage for the walk to church (Kiddo is a bit of an umbrella hog). We'd read about the parking situation at this particular church - that being that they don't really have any - and knew we were in for a bit of a walk. I turned around and started back into the garage to grab that umbrella.

The next thing I knew, I was sprawled on the icy, icy driveway. Did I mention it was icy? It wasn't actually the "next thing" I knew, for as always seems to happen when I fall, time freezes into super-slow-motion and it feels like it is taking an eternity for my body to meet the ground. (Hubby disputed this over lunch, saying that no, one second I was standing by the front of the van and the next I wasn't. He swears it was a "blink of an eye" sort of thing.)

Now, traditionally I have One Big Fall each winter season. (The length of said season depends on where we're living - sometimes it is just January-March, nowadays it's more November-April.) It is an accepted fact among those who know me that I will fall, spectacularly, once each year. I generally breathe a sigh of relief once the One Big Fall has happened, as I know I'll be safe from there on out, and I dread those years when the OBF doesn't occur until March or April. Now, there has been the occasional season when I do fall more than once, and there is even the rare year that I don't fall at all. But generally speaking, there's One Big Fall each winter.

So, it was today. I landed rather heavily on my left hand/arm. Not in any conscious "I shall stop myself from falling by breaking said fall with my left hand" sort of way, because my Spectacular Falling Method does not employ any such choreography. It's much more pratfall than graceful sinking to the ground. My best OBF ever occurred back in 1997, when I was working at Dartmouth College in Hanover, NH - aka The Land of Neverending Winter (followed by the Inexplicable yet Quite Accurately Named "Mud Season"). One February morning that year, as I was heading in from the parking lot to the building that housed my office along a very slippery sidewalk, I did one of those both-feet-out-from-under-me moves typified by the expression "ass over teakettle" (though Dame Helen Mirren used a more colorful, British variant of the same euphemism quite famously at the Emmy Awards a few years back). My bagged lunch and bag of shoes, which I had in my right hand, and my purse, which I had on my left shoulder, went sailing off into the bushes and snow all around me and I even managed to lose one of my gloves (which I'd been, you know, wearing) in what Dane Cook would call a fit of joy. Of course there were several witnesses of the Snooty Ivy League Graduate Student variety, which meant far more in the way of pointing and snickering in my general direction than any offers of help or inquiries as to the state of my extremely prone body. That added note of humiliation, coupled with the incredible amount of hangtime my suddenly horizontal body had whilst in midair, definitely qualified that as the Best. OBF. Ever.

But I digress. Back to this year's edition of my OBF. There I was, sprawled upon the icy, icy driveway. I managed to get up without falling again and limped into the house for a wound check. Hubby and Kiddo were quite concerned, but I determined I was all right once I'd washed the grit and stones out of my palm and wrist. (Kiddo did pipe up with the helpful tip that if I'd been wearing my gloves when I fell, my hand would've been protected. Thanks.) I grabbed an icepack for the road and away we headed to church.

It turns out that more than our driveway was really, really icy. Our neighborhood is in a very hilly area, and the main road into the village is in and of itself a large, large hill. The road out of our subdivision empties out about 2/3 of the way up one side of this hill, and the most direct way to the church means turning onto and going up the rest of the way and then down again. Well, the minivan wasn't so sure about the whole "going up" bit, and when we'd gotten to the top, we came upon an accident involving at least two cars and a street sign, along with a fireman who was waving us off to turn around. So, we did, opting to carefully make our way down the hill the other way and take the other route into the village. (Kiddo: "Is this a shortcut?" Hubby: "No, this is actually a longcut.")

So now we're pushing it in terms of getting to church on time. (Oooh, brief musical interlude here.....) We carefully make our way to the church without further incident and Hubby lets Kiddo and me out right in front before driving off to find parking. By the time he finds a spot and makes his way back to the church, the service is well underway. I think we were about 12 minutes late by the time we walked into the sanctuary, though we were not, I'd like to note, the latest people to arrive.

No, we weren't the latest but still, turning up late at a new church doesn't make a very good impression. In my haste to get Kiddo to pipe down as we entered the sanctuary, I completely missed the usher who was attempting to hand me a bulletin, so that plus the distraction of being late, keeping Kiddo in line (she's had serious ants in the pants going on all day) and the relatively searing pain that occurred every time I tried to straighten out my left arm, it didn't make for a peaceful and satisfying worship experience. Add to that the fact that this was a Presbyterian church so there were bits of it that differed from the UM service we are used to, and bleargh. (Case in point: The Lord's Prayer found Hubby and I saying, as we are accustomed, "forgive us our TRESPASSES as we forgive those who TRESPASS against us" while the rest of the congregation all was saying "Forgive us our DEBTS as we forgive our DEBTORS" and let me tell you, of all the things to be saying fervently yet incorrectly aloud, something chock full of sibilance is really going to stand out.)

So, the service concluded and we went off to collect Kiddo from Sunday School, to which she'd happily gone off with a girl she knew from school who'd also gone up front for the Children's Moment. We arrived at the classroom to find Kiddo wearing an angel's costume, having secured herself a part in their upcoming Christmas pageant. We were introduced to and spoke at length with the Director of Christian Education, who assured us Kiddo was most welcome to be in their pageant and that they'd be rehearsing from 11 until 12:30 today so we could come back and pick her up then. We talked it over with Kiddo and she assured us she really, really wanted to be in the pageant and off she skipped with nary a backward glance to the sanctuary to rehearse with the rest of the children.

We wandered about the very crowded Fellowship Hall for coffee hour for a bit, then headed past the sanctuary and went home to change and for me to strap an ice wrap on my now throbbing and swollen left elbow. I took a few Advil for good measure, since I'm certainly not getting any younger so I don't bounce back as quickly as I might've from my OBFs of years past. When we returned to the church around 12:20, one of the Sunday School teachers was sitting with a de-costumed Kiddo in the front pew. Uh-oh. She then explained to us that Kiddo had changed her mind about being in the pageant as the rehearsal got underway and had proceeded instead to sit in the front pew, crying. Not crying about the pageant, mind you, but because she'd eaten a doughnut with the other Sunday School children right before the practice started and, having eaten a doughnut at home for breakfast, was suddenly stricken with remorse that Mommy might not have wanted her to eat a second doughnut and that she might get in trouble for eating too much sugar. (Which: did I mention the ants in the pants? Sigh.) She had explained all of this at length to the Sunday School teacher, about how Mommy would be so, so mad about her eating that doughnut and how that was why she was crying, because she knew that Mommy would be so, so mad.

Ugh. To sum up the first impression this church has of us: We arrive late, foist our child upon them and then leave (though, as Hubby rightly pointed out, the other parents all left as well) so that our child could whip herself up into a hissy fit about having eaten a doughnut (um, guilty conscience there much, Kiddo? Getting that general sense of "knowing better" and the subsequent guilt that comes with doing it anyway? Fanfreakingtastic, but next time, let's try to keep the histrionics display for family only, mmmkay?), turn on the waterworks and quit the pageant, while also demonstrating what appeared to be a significant amount of fear at the pending Wrath of her Wacko Mother over the minor transgression of eating a doughnut. I mean, Kiddo turned it on as she is wont to do, being a junior Meryl Streep and all. I'm sure they were expecting me to whip out a switch and flay her alive right there in the sanctuary or something. Yeesh.

On that note, we made our way back out into the sleety rain and headed off to my birthday lunch, with a now sulky and petulant Kiddo in the back seat. Happy, happy, joy, joy. We arrive at the restaurant, Macaroni Grill, where we've gone to eat for my birthday for the last several years (um, okay, over a decade). I do adore their food and they make a "dessert ravioli" that is to die for.

Well, they *used* to make a dessert ravioli that is to die for, anyhow. Turns out they changed the menu since last December and the dessert ravioli is gone. Bummer. The rest of our lunch was fairly delightful and the chocolate cake covered with chocolate ganache and crumbled pecans, surrounded by dollops of fresh whipped cream was almost an acceptable substitute for the dessert ravioli. It would've been better if Kiddo, aka Ants in the Pants Annie, hadn't decided to end her two year aversion to all things chocolate (which yes, I never fully understood, or even partially understood. I mean, to suddenly go from loving to refusing CHOCOLATE? What the heck?!) and grabbed a fork to join in on the piece Hubby and I were sharing. In doing so, she managed to scoop up all the dollops of fresh whipped cream, which took the delightfulness factor down a notch or two.

On that note, we headed home again, home again, jiggety jig. I went upstairs to change out of Clothes That Require Things Like Zippers and Brassieres and into Comfy Clothes, aka my jammies. In the bathroom, I was taking out my earrings when my left arm - you know, the one I landed on mere hours ago? - decided to suddenly send a searing pain up to my left hand and kerplink, kerplank, kerplunk, I dropped the earring I was holding. The toilet lid was down and I wasn't right over the sink (which, granted, pretty much anywhere in our master bath is basically "right over the sink" unless you're in the Pepto-Bismol stall shower), so I didn't fret about it too much. However, I couldn't find it anywhere, which befuddled me and led me to believe that it must've fallen into the mostly full garbage can that sits between the toilet and sink (because the dang bathroom's too small to put it anywhere else, including under the ridonkulously small vanity). Now, this wasn't an expensive earring, just a $5 faux-diamond stud, so I decided that I was not about to go dumpster diving in my own bathroom just to retrieve it. With my luck, it didn't fall in there anyhow and I'll find it by stepping on it in the middle of the night when I get up for a drink of water without putting my glasses on...........

So, there you have me today. Bruised, swollen, probably banned from the new church, unstuffed by dessert ravioli and missing an earring. The cat is presently perched in the windowsill just behind my computer monitor, and I'm fully expecting her little, kitty head to whip around a la Linda Blair in The Exorcist and spew forth furballs upon me and/or my computer. (No, I'm not linking to that particular film clip. You're welcome.) Ants in her Pants Annie is whinging away in the next room wanting me to play with her, and at my refusals (because, ahem, I'm working on the Christmas presents for the grandparents right now...) is whinily asking the Magic 8 Ball "Oh Magic 8 Ball, tell me true, will Mommy finish doing her boring work and play with her kid?" And I do have to finish the project, which I can't get into as certain of the grandparents have been known to read my blog and I can't spill the beans, but let's just say there is a lot of creative input and uploading type work involved as well as completion deadlines for shipping in time for Christmas and if my kid is Ants in her Pants Annie, well I might as well confess that my own mother has called me Last Minute Annie for the past 37 years and 364 days... so I'd better get to it.

At least tomorrow I have this to look forward to...

Maybe hitting my late thirties won't be so bad after all...

In case you didn't realize it, SPD sucks - or bites, as the case may be

Yesterday, Kiddo's teacher had a class picnic at her house (a short walk from the school). It was a gorgeous day - sunny, blue skies, hot. The kids played games, whacked the everloving heck out of a Nemo piñata, played in two different sprinklers, a wading pool and a super-deluxe, triple lane Slip-n-Slide. They ate pizza and chips and watermelon, they ran around, it was all good. And then.

Then it was ice cream treat time. The ice cream treats on hand were actually ice pops (apparently Popsicle is a brand name/proper noun, at least according to Blogger's spellcheck. Who knew?) in three flavors: red, blue and green. Oh, I'm sorry, "cherry, raspberry and apple" to be precise, but come on, there wasn't a drop of actual, natural anything in them - these were those kinds of pops. Kiddo came up to me as I was busily getting a lopsided sunburn by means of having begun to apply sunscreen to myself earlier that day and then being sidetracked by several kids requesting sunscreen (which: YAY kids for knowing you need and should be wearing sunscreen!) and then forgetting to finish the job on myself, and asked me if she could have one.

Now, Kiddo wasn't just asking because I'm some sort of super-strict mom who doesn't allow anything but healthy food in the house or more specifically, in her mouth. That isn't the case, I swear (she says, eyeballing the mostly empty box of Milk Duds - kept purely for medicinal purposes, really! - on her desktop and the bag of tortilla chips on the floor right next to her desk). However, with Kiddo's SPD, we've learned that we need to be careful about certain things because they throw her system totally out of whack. One of the big ones, that is in so much food - well, "fun" (aka "junk") food, anyhow - is food dye. We've learned this the hard way over the years, by tracing back sudden periods of out-of-sync behavior to a specific meal, snack or treat. Red food dye is a big one - if anything says it has any Red # Whatever, I don't let it into Kiddo's body. Same with blue (as evidenced by Kiddo's gleeful consumption of a heavily frosted, neon blue Dora cupcake at last year's preschool graduation and subsequent decline into craziness that lasted for four long days). So, I went over and checked out the ingredients on the ice pops box. Obviously, the red and blue ones were out. The green, however, well, they seemed like they might be a possibility. They *did* have blue dye and some yellow dye as well, but at the time it seemed like the green pops weren't quite as intensely colored, so I reasoned that perhaps as there was ostensibly less blue dye in the green ones than the blue ones, they'd be all right. Besides, Kiddo rarely if ever finishes an entire dessert.

Well, she finished the whole darn ice pop - whatever part of it didn't melt down the front of her, anyhow. I'd say at least 80% of the chemically delicious frozen goo was actually eaten. Within fifteen minutes of the ice pop going in to her body, the freaky behavior started coming out. She was bumping into things and kids. Her entire demeanor became suddenly obnoxious, cranky and rude. On the walk back to school she complained incessantly that her socks were hurting her, despite stopping and holding up the entire class for several minutes so she could remove her shoes, adjust her socks and rub her feet. She then jammed herself up against my side, crashing her head into me for the remainder of the walk. It was like a switch had been flipped from Sweet Kiddo to Mr. Hyde. Ugh.

The out-of-sync behavior continued into the night, with Kiddo having nightmares (highly unusual for her) and waking up at 1:30. It was nearly 3:00 before I got her adequately calmed and settled and got back into my own bed. I let her sleep in as late as possible this morning and she seemed to be doing better - she ate all her breakfast and wasn't too crabby in the car on the way to school, so I dropped her off and watched her walk in to school holding hands with two of her friends and headed off to get a massage (using the gift certificate Hubby and Kiddo gave me for Christmas - and just to give her a plug again, anyone local should really go get a massage from Joan at A Healing Sanctuary, because she is the best!) and after that, I headed over to a friend's house for lunch and a visit. It was as we were sitting at the table, eating homemade brownies and fresh strawberries and perusing the last few clues on today's NYT crossword puzzle that I heard my phone bleep. It was a text message from Kiddo's teacher. With one and a half days of school left to go this year, Kiddo had bitten a classmate on the finger (ironically enough, one of the girls with whom she'd been holding hands on her way into school this morning) and subsequently been sent to the principal's office. !!!!!

I texted back to ascertain if the classmate was okay (she was - the skin wasn't broken though she did go to the nurse who notified her mother), if Kiddo was duly remorseful (she was, and was reportedly greatly dreading the moment when I found out what had transpired), if she had apologized adequately to her friend (she had) and if I needed to come to school early. Kiddo has never been sent to the principal's office before, so I didn't know what the standard protocol is in such situations. I'd kind of hoped I would never need to learn, either, but there you have it - less than 6 hours left in her kindergarten career and there she was, getting her much-deserved chewing out (um, pun intended, now that I think about it) by the principal.

Now, I am certain that the food dye's after effects were in no small part to blame for Kiddo's wonky behavior. That isn't to say that I excuse her actions in the slightest; Kiddo has understood perfectly well for years now that biting another kid is NOT acceptable behavior. She definitely knew better, regardless of how out of whack her system was, and she absolutely needed to face the consequences of her actions. I do recognize that Kiddo was not entirely herself, though, and that the SPD had a factor in her making a bad choice. To hear Kiddo tell it, her friend was all up in her personal space while they were on the playground before lunch, and was waving her fingers in Kiddo's face. Kiddo didn't like this and decided to get the other girl to back off by promptly chomping on one of the proffered fingers. While this was a bad call in any event, Kiddo certainly is more hyper-aware of things being close to her when her system is disregulated, as it has been since the evil ice pop ingestion of yesterday afternoon. Her aide also told me that the kids didn't have snack this morning, that Kiddo was definitely not herself all morning but improved a bit after eating lunch, and that she had to do a lot of extra sensory input with Kiddo today. Kiddo was *still* cranky, clingy and not herself this evening, so I've got my fingers crossed that by tomorrow, the dye is out of her system enough that she is able to handle what will be an emotional day already. Kiddo has been sad for over a week now at the thought of the last day of school and even more so because she realizes now that this is the last day EVER for her at her current school. As excited as she is to meet new friends and go to a new school in the fall, she is still very sad to be saying goodbye. Kiddo is pretty resilient, thank goodness, so I have no doubt that she will bounce back quickly once the next few days are over and we're into the next adventure - summer camp. But in the meantime, it will be extra-extra-extra bad if she's still disregulated tomorrow and facing saying goodbye to the teacher and classmates and school she loves so much.

Yes, I am kicking myself thoroughly for having let her eat that ice pop in the first place. No, I will *not* make that mistake again. I hate that Kiddo has to suffer because of my bad judgement call. I hate that she can't have any old treat that she would like, as her friends can (well, not all of them). I wish she could go off-schedule and stay up late without it having dire consequences for days thereafter. I wish she didn't need to have a sensory diet several times a day in order to function smoothly and I wish that I didn't need to know what the first thing about a "sensory diet" even is. Heck, I wish I didn't need to know the first thing about SPD... But, it is what it is, as they say, and we have to deal with the hand we've been dealt. Our hand is full of SPD, so we'll play it the best we can. From now on, that will include *no* food dyes, no matter what color. Yeesh. I know that there are a lot worse things we could be dealing with and that our lives could be a lot more challenging than just having to manage a pretty severe case of SPD. However, this is my blog and I'm sad and exasperated and cranky and dammit, I'm gonna whine about my lot right now just because I feel like it.

Also on my mind is that one day more, and then we're facing a whole new world - summer *without* any services. Last summer, Kiddo had regular PT and OT sessions every week except for two. We've never gone this long without any services, but she's been deemed not needy enough to qualify for any extended services this year. It is the OT piece that I'm rather nervous about losing. Ten weeks without any professional oversight is a loooong chunk of time where lots of regression can occur. I'd be lying if I claimed I wasn't filled with trepidation. Kiddo will also be doing summer camp at a regular, old camp, not like the summer program she's done for the past two years which was run by her former (awesome) preschool and was a sensory-based program with specially trained teachers. I'm going to be darn sure to make sure the summer camp knows to NOT give her any food with dyes in it. (We're supposed to pack their morning and afternoon snacks as well as lunch each day, so this shouldn't be an issue.) Guess we will just have to take it one day at a time and see where we are by September...

One day more...

Well, I did say "24 hours" now, didn't I....

And those 24 hours of hell have apparently decided to go down fighting.

"Why Heather!" I hear you exclaim. "Didn't you go to bed hours ago, as soon as The Amazing Race ended, as per usual?"

Well, yes, I did plan to go to bed after watching one of my two favorite teams get Philiminated. I was in my jammies, in the bathroom, brushing my teeth and I heard Kiddo's door open.

Oh heck, thought I, PLEASE tell me she hasn't thrown up again.

Nope. Not barf.

"Mommy, my feet and ankles are SO itchy that I can't sleep and I can't stop scratching them!" says my poor, beleaguered child.

Indeed. I turned on the light in the hallway and I could instantly see the problem quite clearly.

Hives.

LOTS of hives.

EVERYWHERE from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.

Angry, red, worsening-by-the-second hives.

I immediately dove into the very-well-organized-now,-thanks-to-the-house-showing-thing medicine chest and pulled out a bottle of Benadryl. Uh-oh, not much left in this one. Poured her a teaspoon from the dregs of the bottle and gave it to her and then settled her back into bed and went downstairs to check the package insert info for the antibiotic Kiddo's been taking since Friday night. You know, the antibiotic for the sinus infection that was gooing up her eyes (so they'd crust shut - like the worst pinkeye you've ever seen, but not pinkeye) and her nose and face that were generally a disgusting mess... An antibiotic she's taken once before with no bad reactions. So, I pulled out the info sheet and whaddya know, hives could constitute a "severe allergic reaction" to this med.

Fanfreakingtastic.

I called up the after-hours answering service at 9:51. Well, *most* adults are still awake at this point, right? I mean, this isn't like I'm calling at 2 in the morning... Yes, I am rationalizing the decision to call the doctor to myself, don't ask me why. That's what they're there for, right? I explained the situation to the lady and she said "Oh YES, that is something the doctor will call you back for IMMEDIATELY!" Hmmm. I tried not to panic as I waited for the doctor to call back.

In doctor terms, as it turns out, "IMMEDIATELY!" equates to roughly 13 minutes. Not that I was counting. I used the meantime to go back upstairs and check on the hives situation. Still NOT good - even Kiddo's eyelids are hived over. I asked her questions to see if this is getting anaphylactic but she didn't report any itching in her mouth or throat and her tongue and lips weren't swelling. Finally, finally, the phone rings back.

It's Doctor Crotchety McGrump, he of the infamous Splinter Removal incident. Excellent. From the sounds of it, he went to bed as soon as Andy Rooney signed off, though maybe it's just that he always sounds that grouchy or maybe he remembers Kiddo, her volume level and her fierce kicking skillz. I didn't know and I didn't care. I gave him the rundown and he confirmed that yes, in fact, this does sound like a "severe allergic reaction" to the amoxicillin, even though Kiddo's been taking it for 2 days now. He tells me the hives could very well continue for another 3 to 4 days (!!) and she might also experience some swelling in her ankles, knees and any other joints (!!!) and I am to discontinue the antibiotic immediately (duh) and call the office in the morning for a new scrip. Oh, and I might have to add a second antihistamine to the Benadryl, too. I mused aloud about her returning to school tomorrow after hearing about all this and got an earful from Doc McGrump about how "Well, if she's itchy and uncomfortable, is she really going to LEARN anything?" Yeah, thanks for your two cents there, Doctor Spock. He does go on to suggest keeping her cool and lightly dressed and to use cool compresses as needed to help minimize the discomfort.

I hung up the phone and changed Kiddo out of her fleece jammies into a pair from last summer that were wedged at the way back of her pajama drawer. They're a little on the small side but not too tight, so we went with them. I got Kiddo re-settled into bed again (and by now the hives were abating a bit - at least her face was looking less red) and did a more thorough check of the medicine cabinet. Nope, those three drops are all we have left. I preceded to wake Hubby up to explain the situation, some of which he'd gathered from hearing the phone ring and my end of the conversation, and though he was dubious about an allergic reaction setting in two days later, he agreed to keep an ear out for Kiddo as I headed over to Walmart for another bottle of Benadryl.

Let me just pause in my tale of woe here for a brief moment to point out that even in my not-really-suited-for-going-out-in-public attire (stretched out, raggedy old yoga pants, a holey, oversized t-shirt that comes down almost to my knees, with a paint-spattered sweatshirt thrown over for decency's sake, blue crew socks I grabbed off the floor, beat up brown leather clogs and a sage green barn jacket to complete the ensemble), I was not the strangest dressed person at our local Walmart at 10:20 this evening. I didn't even rate a second look. Wow.

Anyhow, I grabbed a bottle of Benadryl and the other antihistamine too, since I was there. Of course I'll be back at a pharmacy tomorrow for Kiddo's new antibiotic, but whatever.

And here I am, home again, home again, jiggety jig. I'm totally wired now, and want to wait until it is time to give Kiddo her next breathing treatment with the inhaler (Doc McGrump said to continue that every 4 hours and that it might help with the hives, too) so I turned my computer back on and plunked myself down to whinge away on my blog.

In summary, OY!! Can this 24 hours PLEASE end SOON? I can't believe I'm looking forward to it being MONDAY. Bleargh! I just really, really hope that this reaction isn't indicative of a penicillin allergy, and instead was just because she's on a really strong dose (which was prescribed so she'd only need to take it twice a day, instead of a lesser dose 3 or 4 times a day). Penicillin allergies are a pain in the neck - I was allergic to penicillin as a kid but outgrew it, myself. So, fingers crossed this was an isolated incident and Kiddo is feeling much less itchy in the morning!!

/whinge

Not the best 24 hours of my life...

12:36am - wake up to Kiddo calling "Mommy! I was just coughing so hard I threw up on the floor!" Even less exciting than the call about middle of the night barfing was the knowledge that (a) we'd had pasta with red sauce for dinner and (b) we had two showings scheduled for today.

Got her and the floor all cleaned up, couldn't fall back asleep for the longest time. Woke up this morning (Hubby let me sleep in) still groggy and grouchy, spent the morning getting everything all tidied up for our two showings and vacated the premises. Hubby went to run some errands and Kiddo and I went over to visit some friends who had been kind enough to invite us over for lunch. After spending a delightful afternoon catching up with our friends, Kiddo decided to throw a class A temper tantrum when I gave her the two minute warning about it being time to leave. This devolved into a 35 minute long temper tantrum in the car for the entire ride home. Walked in the door and sent Kiddo immediately up to her room for a time out until it is time to head out for the next showing at 5:00.

At least Hubby and I had been heartened to know that Hubby had driven by our house about 20 minutes after the designated showing time and saw the agent and the prospective buyers standing in the driveway talking. They were there, talking in the driveway, for another 15 minutes before they left. That sure seemed like a good sign, right?

Nope. Our agent's assistant just called to tell us that the showing agent couldn't get into the house because the front storm door was locked. As in, the door that is outside the front door with the lockbox on it. So, they never saw the house (but apparently didn't call our agent or Hubby certainly could've been home within 5 minutes to let them in!) and now, our agent isn't sure that they want to reschedule and come back.

Now, that door was locked by one of two people - either me, because if the inside door is open, I tend to flip the bolt on the storm door, or Kiddo, because she likes to play with the lock on the storm door. So, Hubby can very clearly claim self righteous anger over this latest development. I certainly am blaming myself entirely anyhow for not thinking to check the damn storm door before we headed out this morning. So, I'm pissed at myself, Hubby is pissed at me, I'm pissed at Kiddo who is persisting with the obnoxious, argumentative behavior. Outside, it is pissing down rain on top of everything else. Just need the cat to piss on the bed for the cherry on the sundae of my day! Yeesh!!!

Oh, and by the way, I hate the word "piss" and never use it, ever, but right now, it just fits my mood. I'm in a pissy, pissy mood. Grrrr.

I was so hopeful about the two showings today, and now I blew it for one of them. Damn. Well, I'm off to build myself a doghouse in the back yard and go crawl into it until our next showing.

*sigh* not with a bang, but a whimper

I'm too tired and drained this morning to yell and scream. Too upset to run to my proverbial brick wall and start banging my head anew. Instead, a small whimper: "No. Why?! Dammit."

Kiddo's sensory diet aide? The one she loves, her teachers love, most importantly of all, the one Kiddo loves? Is leaving.

No. Why?! Dammit.

You may recall I mentioned that she is a grad student working on her master's degree in psychology. Well, apparently her school schedule has changed and starting in February, she needs to be on campus three afternoons a week, which would mean leaving Kiddo's school by noon three days a week, which doesn't work.

No. Why?! Dammit.

The principal informed me of this (including the fact that the aide was supposedly hysterically crying when she spoke with the principal about it because she's upset to be leaving and she "loves" Kiddo) after the PTA meeting last night. (The PTA meeting, by the by, that went way, way long. Like "cut into Lost viewing" long. Grrr.) She said that she'll start the ball rolling for interviewing new candidates and will be in touch.

No. Why?! Dammit.

Now, the principal also announced she is retiring at the end of this school year. (Which isn't really a surprise.) So, I'm fearing that she will have a bit of Lame Duck "senioritis" and not really be hustling on this. I mean, it took major drama to get her to hustle before, and that was when she was still supposed to care. (Yes, I know, she is still supposed to care. You know what I mean.)

No. Why?! Dammit.

We haven't told Kiddo yet. The aide will be here for "another few weeks" according to the principal. Kiddo is going to be VERY upset - she'd been upset with her aide just being out for the past few days due to bronchitis. This just sucks.

No. Why?! Dammit.

Who the heck is going to want a job from February to June? How many qualified, high-caliber people are really yearning for a position of that length?

No. Why?! Dammit.

*sigh*

So, no ranting and raving out of me today. Just sadness and grumpiness and whimpering. I've got tidying up to get done again as the first of the real estate agents we are interviewing is coming over this evening. (He was supposed to come last week but was sick, so we had to reschedule. Hence, this tidying up is the SECOND tidying up I've done in a week. Whee. Again - it isn't that the house isn't tidied up on a regular basis, but this was that *extra* tidying. You know what I mean.)

*whimper*

School days, school days

(Sorry, I've been meaning to post about the big First Day of School, but Kiddo and I both have been battling a pretty congestion-filled head cold - thanks, recirculated airplane air chock full o' germies! - and I haven't managed to finish this 'til today.)

So, the first two days of kindergarten are over. I must report that there were, in fact, tears on the first day, but I survived! Isn't that what you wanted to hear about? Oh, no? You wanted to know how Kiddo did, didn't you? She did just fine - I was the one who was crying!

Here she is, heading off for the school bus....



...and with barely a pause to say goodbye to Mom and Dad (photographing and videotaping, respectively), off she scampered onto the bus as soon as it pulled up to the corner.



She returned in as ebullient a mood as ever, bursting at the seams with tales of her first day. Friday was a repeat of Thursday, with great joy and excitement over school and sadness and disappointment that she doesn't get to go to school again until MONDAY. (Apparently, Kiddo thought kindergarten was a seven-day-a-week thing, not a mere five days like preschool was last year.) I wonder how long this "I LOVE school and can't wait to go back again!" mindset will last - sadly, I'm guessing not for the next thirteen years...

Also, on the first day? I followed the bus. I told you I was one of those mothers. I should point out that I wasn't the only parent following the bus - there were at least three cars behind me and one in front for the five minutes it takes to get from our street to school. Now, when I got to school, I didn't want Kiddo to see me. This was not the case for a lot of the other parents, who were forming a crowd to one side of the entrance that rivaled the crush of reporters covering the red carpet at the Oscars. One dad even had his video camera set up on a tripod on the sidewalk, all the better to capture his child getting off the bus and heading in to school. Seriously, it was nuts. I used the throng of camera-wielding, madly waving parents as a cover and watched Kiddo happily hopping off the bus and greeting one of her summer program friends, who is in the same homeroom, and then skip merrily off into the building.

I was pretty okay for this whole portion of events. I teared up as the bus first pulled away from our corner, but recovered quickly as I hopped in the van to chase the bus. I was dry-eyed on the sidewalk at school. I got home and walked into the house, and that's when it hit me. First of all, the house seemed somehow quieter and more empty than usual, which I know was entirely in my mind as I have been home alone without Kiddo many, many times before (every morning last year while she was in preschool, for example...) But it struck me as being different yesterday. Then, I spotted this:



Kiddo's teddy bear (the most beloved, since she was a baby, of all her stuffed animals), sitting forlorn and alone on the couch where Kiddo had abandoned him as she dashed off to school.

That's when I started to really cry. I cried for a good five minutes, truth be told.



But by Friday - Day 2, I was over it. Totally fine and dry-eyed as I waved Kiddo's bus off into the distance. I still felt at loose ends with so much time to myself, but I thought of it as a sort of vacation day. I mean, last year, I'd get home from dropping her off at 9:30ish and then would have to be back on the road to pick her up at 11:00, so it wasn't really all that much time to myself. Yeah, I'd work in some errands or hit the gym - I was efficient about it and had things timed to the second - but now? I'm back in the house at 8:12 and the whole day stretches out before me, since I don't need to be back at the corner until 3:05. It felt weird and not as liberating as I thought it would. I suppose I ought to kick my job search into high gear, so I have something to occupy my time more productively than browsing the stacks at the library (I came home Friday with five new books to read) or sitting and reading blog after blog after blog and playing game after game after game of Wordscraper over on Facebook. (Not quite as wondrous as Scrabulous, but I'm getting addicted to it nonetheless.)

It has been a long time coming, this first day of school - five years, in fact. But while I know in my head that it has been five years, in my heart it still seems like yesterday that Kiddo was still this small:







So, while I know that this BIG kid will come bounding off the school bus and into my arms every afternoon, I can't believe that this BIG kid was my tiny peanut not all that long ago... All this time, the First Day of Kindergarten has been this distant dot barely looming on the horizon, even as this last summer flew by to its end. Although I was preparing for it - buying the backpack, the lunch bag, the school supplies - and talking to Kiddo about it, when the day arrived, it still seemed to have snuck up on me, somehow. Now, I'm just relieved that it is behind me, and ready to hurl myself headlong into the next chapter of parenthood. I've already joined the PTA and if Kiddo wants to do Girl Scouts this year, I'll volunteer with the troop, too. As much as I looked forward to and enjoyed being a stay at home mom of a little kid, I'm looking forward to being the mom of a school-aged kid, too - the field trips, the sporting events, the dances and plays and recitals and later, the dances and proms and college visits. Okay, maybe I'm not looking forward to the college visit trips just yet.... One year at a time, right?

Now if someone could just tell me how to get my kindergartener to actually eat her food in the 25 minutes they allow for lunch in the cafetorium (auditeria? I know it is a combo word for the multi-purpose room, but haven't gotten down which combo it is), I'd be all set. Kiddo is skinny enough without skipping meals. (Seriously - I have been able to find exactly TWO pairs of jeans that fit her this fall - Children's Place "Skinny Straight" and Target's Circo brand "Slim Boot Cut" in size 5 are the only ones that don't make her look like she is an "After" picture in "Before" jeans in a weight-loss ad or go four or five inches past her feet. What's up with that?!) We had better success with Friday's lunch than Thursday, when 90% of the specially-requested bologna and provolone sandwich, grapes and Cheerios-Chex mix came home untouched (not to mention the mini-Milky Way bar - what kid skips the chocolate? I've got to work on her priorities, clearly). Friday, I'd say she ate more than 75% of her food, and she reported that she wanted to finish her mini-pizzas but the lunch lady told her she had to stop eating and go line up right away, so she couldn't. Maybe we should practice speed-eating at home? Kiddo is fond of dining at a rather leisurely pace... Any hints or tips would be welcomed!

Channeling my inner 5 year old (and not in a good way)

The kiddo decided that today was the day she was going to spill her beverage not once, but twice. First, it was a large cup of lemonade that went all over the living room carpet. This wound up requiring me to lug the cumbersome and heavy steam cleaner up the basement stairs and spend a good chunk of my afternoon cleaning the carpet, which included moving furniture and area rugs, vacuuming, spot cleaning and steam cleaning, then taking apart the steam cleaner to empty out the various chambers of their various liquids, reassembling it and lugging it back down to the basement. Needless to say, this was not on my list of things to do this afternoon and didn't leave me feeling like sunshine and roses.

So, when the kiddo, who'd promised tearfully that she'd be so much more careful and not spill her drink again as I knelt on the carpet sopping up the lemonade with paper towels, went ahead and spilled a mostly full cup of milk with Ovaltine in it at dinner, I lost it. I whipped around at the sound of the cup hitting the floor (thankfully this spill hit the linoleum and not anything carpeted or upholstered) and instantly, I was five again. Five in a really bad mood. I actually stamped my foot on the floor as I snapped "AGAIN? You spilled your drink AGAIN?!?" The kiddo's tears had started pretty much at the same time that her cup was arcing toward the floor, and she was obviously quite remorseful and extremely apologetic. Did I, the 36 year old who is known to be a klutz myself, calmly accept her apology, clean up the mess and move on? Nope, the foot stamping was just the beginning of my five year old-esque hissy fit. Opting for the dramatic route instead of the raising my voice and yelling route, I ordered the kiddo to stay in her chair (she was about to step down right into the Ovaltine lake beneath her) and with much sighing and rolling of eyes, I proceeded to mop it up. Oh, and I did some muttering under my breath, too, just for good measure. Things like "I canNOT beLIEVE that you spilled TWICE in one DAY. How MANY times do I have to REMIND you to be more CAREFUL? Do you need a baby sippy cup again? Aren't you a BIG girl?" All while she sat there, miserable and crying, forced to watch my entire tantrum.

Now, let's just run down the list of my oh-so-spectacular behaviors:
- foot stamping
- dramatic sighing/eye rolling
- muttering to myself
- ignoring the person who was speaking to me

Yep, all things that the kiddo does when SHE is upset with ME. Perfectly understandable, given that she is five. (And apparently didn't just develop all these techniques out of thin air - I hang my head in shame.) For me, however? Yeah, not too proud of the way I acted. I thought I'd left that obnoxious kid who honed her dramatics on her little sisters behind decades ago. Guess not.

For what it is worth, I did calm down shortly thereafter and had a talk with the kiddo, in which I apologized for my behavior. She said that she is going to try really hard tomorrow not to spill anything. On my part, I'm going to try to behave like the adult in the situation, since theoretically, that's what I am. We'll see how we do.

I hate days like this. Bad Mommy. Sigh.