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I kinda lost my shit last night with the Little Angel. He is, of course, adorable and sweet. He doesn’t have a willful bone in his body; his brain is incapable of emotional manipulation. He is utterly guileless.

I know all this. I have been his mother forever (well, his forever) and his number one champion and advocate just as long.

But goddamn it is still an exercise in exhaustion and frustration and and inordinate amount of time to get anything done. It literally took me over ten minutes last night to get his head through the opening of his pajama top and only half his right arm in the sleeve, like a human T-Rex hybrid. Over ten minutes. And I still needed to get the rest of his arm let alone his other arm through.

We don’t know if it’s one of his toxic cocktail (our appellation for his numerous meds) or just his wiggly brain which makes him so giggly. He already has severe hypotonia (think civil disobedience — just floppy, like a 56lb rag doll), and coupled with his giggling and rolling around makes it so freaking difficult to get many of his ADLs (activities of daily living, like dressing, toileting, bathing, feeding, etc.) accomplished.

First I bathed him. He is, naturally, absolutely water unsafe. I prefer to bathe him with me sitting on the edge of the garden tub with my feet in the water. The H.J. finds he gets better traction if he’s in the tub with Little Angel. Last night Little Angel kept flopping face-forward into the six inches of warm water, so of course I kept grabbing and righting him, over and over. It gets old and exhausting, and he’s giggling whilst choking on water. He has no idea what is going on, just that he’s having fun in the water.

I have to lift him into the tub and then out, and I find the out much more taxing: he’s wet and slippery, and I suppose I haven’t yet discovered the proper body mechanics for how to get his bottom on the ledge and then swing a leg over and then the other leg, all while keeping a firm, safe grip on that heavy, slippery, floppy body.

The struggle to put his pajamas on left me feeling ready to crawl into bed. And then he kicked me, hard, in the breast, right in my nipple (of course).

And that’s when I yelled at him what a horrible person he was.

I am not an idiot although sometimes I clearly act idiotic. I know better. I know the Little Angel is not his disability, and that he is not a horrible person, but his disabilities are horrible. But for fuck’s sake, after eight plus years of living with, of tending to these abrasive disabilities it can be hard to keep them separate.

But I felt like a real shit and I spiraled, quickly, downward, so ashamed of myself. So angry with myself. When the H.J. came home I told him what I’d yelled and how horrible I was feeling, and he laughed and opened his computer to play in his mountain biking forum. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t get it.

Hours later when we were in bed I reiterated how deeply disappointed I am with myself and how much I needed my ostensible partner in this to somehow absolve me, and he said “well, go to sleep” and he pulled out his tablet to play whatever his game du jour is. So he’s a bit of a fucker himself.

I hate myself when I lose control like that, when I yell at my children. I hate thinking or saying such hurtful things. While the Little Angel may not understand the words there is no doubt he could understand my tenor. I wish I had a safety net to help me, to give me a break so I didn’t reach that overwhelmed / overtaxed point. Unfortunately that’s not the world in which we live.

I’m not a Catholic but I partially understand their desire to confess. Since the H.J. wouldn’t take me seriously (and I am very, very serious) I feel as if blasting this into the ether will help me take responsibility, ownership, of my odious behavior.

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Charleston, we got along just fine

Charleston Pineapple Fountain_Waterfront_Park_chcvbPineapple Fountain

For the American Thanksgiving holiday we decamped to Charleston, South Carolina, and it was one of the best trips ever. Best Ever.

charleston usa-south-carolina-mapAt the airport we serendipitously found ourselves in the screening line of my darling nursing school friend, Amanda. Pure providence. As we queued and I stared at this gorgeous TSA worker I thought “I know that hot tamale.” I screamed at her and she screeched at me and we hugged and she helped us get through unscathed.

Charleston Amanda in airportIt was a non-walking day for the Little Angel – he was in a darling mood (bless him!) – and standing / walking were just not going to happen. Evidently the TSA is prepared for non-ambulatory travelers so he was able to go through in his cute red wheelchair and the screeners who patted him and his chair down could not have been nicer with Mr. Noodle (aka Little Angel).

pink heart

I thought my heart would explode from the happiness I felt seeing Amanda, hugging her. Amanda is one of my all-time favorite people, and I have been around the block once or twice … thousands. She made our intensive nursing school so much more fun, and studying with her that much more productive. She has four young sons (ten, nine, three, one), works full-time, and is studying to become a pediatric NP (nurse practitioner), so my hat is off to her.

As we went to our gate at the airport I said to my three boys that seeing Amanda, ending up in her line, was the best omen possible. Best Ever. Amanda set us up for a terrific holiday.

We four fell in love with Charleston, its gorgeous architecture, its fantastic and fascinating history, and the genuine kindness of the locals. Wow.

Charleston old town at dusk

You know, it’s real old, and now that I know all about its history I could go on and on, and knowing me I probably shall. Old habits and all that. Suffice to say it is not ADA-friendly, not in a rude way, but in an old building / cobblestone street way. Little Angel’s wheelchair went bumpety-bump down the streets and I think he kinda liked it … for a while. Getting in and out of some buildings was a chore, though, with one of us carrying him up the stairs and the other carrying the chair. Luckily we’re super-buff (cough cough). Chez nous, “super-buff” is how we say “soft and fat.” (cough cough / wheeze wheeze)

We quickly realized one of the first (and best) things to do is to go on a horse drawn carriage tour from the myriad providers on West Market Street (the City Market bisects Market Street). We walked along and asked the sundry hawkers when they were leaving: the one leaving the soonest got our allegiance. It’s a fun way to get a terrific, historic overview of Charleston. There are three different routes the City allows the tours to take, and it is pure luck of the draw on which route your tour will go (a city employee hands a route card to the driver once the carriage is boarded and already moving). We found it so fantastic the H.J. and I said we’d’ve loved to go on all three … but we’re not crazy (or rich).

charleston horse tour

I also think a walking tour is a fabulous first stop.

The Big Angel felt that visiting the Old Exchange + Provost Dungeon should be a First Stop. Besides seeing Amanda, I’d have to agree it was the best thing we did on this trip.  The Old Exchange building has an elevator to make it Accessible – thank you! The upper two floors are fine and dandy, but the real treat is in the Provost Dungeon, and our real real treat was Stephen our guide. He was so animated, so engaging, made the history so accessible and fascinating.

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The Old Exchange and Provost Dungeon (dungeon is in the basement)

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The Provost Dungeon

charleston old mapThis is the old walled city of Charles Town when it was the capital of the provisional colony of South Carolina. The building drawn at the letter G, with the half-moon shaped seawall, is The Old Exchange + Provost Dungeon: land has since been claimed two+ blocks into the water and many more seawalls built, so The Old Exchange is no longer waterfront. In the Provost Dungeon is a terrific scale model of the walled Charles Town.

We’d purchased a combo ticket for the Old Exchange and The Old Slave Mart Museum, and The Old Slave Mart definitely rounds out our Top Three of Must Sees in Charleston. It is small, down cobblestoned Chalmers Street.

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Charleston slave fascinating-facts-presented

Charleston slave and-educational-panel

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It turns out there was much we did not know about American slavery, and what we thought we knew was the Hollywood version. Docents were there who could not have been more patient with everyone, offering insights, explanations, and answering questions. Because that was it, really: The Old Slave Mart Museum raised so many questions for us.

The H.J. and Big Angel were excited about Civil War stuff (not me and who knows about the Little Angel), so we went to visit the Friends of the Hunley (Civil War submarine which had multiple tragic endeavors …) in North Charleston (in the industrial section) and Fort Sumter (which requires a nearly hour-long ferry ride each way — so-so for Accessibility …), right next to the Aquarium (which we never visit). While I could have done without both, I have it on very good word (from my male relatives) that both were Must Sees.

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The Hunley

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Fort Sumter

I was, naturally, gaga for the plantations. There are many from which to choose but in all immodesty I chose the best two: Middleton Place for its sumptuous gardens and Drayton Hall for its unrestored house. Middleton Place has a steep admission price (ouch) but it’s the more mass-market of the two, and it had clearly marked wheelchair accessible paths. Because Little Angel’s chair is an off-road model (we call it the 4×4 of wheelchairs), we did it all (well, not the stairs, obviously). The gift shop at Middleton Place has a few Middleton-related mementos but it really is more of an upscale tchotchke shop, which predictably I enjoyed. They had these fantastic horn necklaces (made from the horns of water buffaloes) for only $50, so I marched up to the darling gals working there and told them they were underpriced. And then we gossiped about other stuff. The gift shop at Drayton Hall is teeny and perfect, mostly filled with Drayton-related things, like pencils and bookmarks and mugs; I purchased the Little Angel a t-shirt there.

charleston ruffin shirt

As a girl I remember seeing in my mother’s Town + Country magazine the famous aerial picture of the Butterfly Lakes of Middleton Place, so to finally have the opportunity to see it in person was too much. Too, too much. Like everything built up in one’s mind for thirty or so years, it wasn’t quite as WOW WOW WOW in person, but these two months later I have to say I do feel so so so happy to have seen it in person. Of course, what really made seeing the Butterfly Lakes (or The Lungs – Big Angel’s appellation) fantastic was the company with whom I got to see it.

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Most of the Butterfly Lakes are pictured below the gorgeously tiered path

Drayton Hall’s gardens have gone fallow, and by design the house has not been updated so we can see le vrai chose, not what the twenty-first century thinks it looked like, but how it actually was. Drayton Hall, like most everything else, was not ADA friendly and they didn’t want to allow his wheelchair in the building, but as it was a quiet day they relented. I’m glad they did (and they should have) as our tour guide was terrific and as we learned the history of the house we also discovered more about Charleston’s history.

A bitchy moment: it irked the H.J. and me that we were given guff about taking Little Angel’s wheelchair into the building when a) we’d been sold tour tickets by a sighted human being (meaning: not an automated machine) right there on the premises, so they could see visibly disabled small child. Then, there was another family in our tour group and they also had two young sons, younger than mine. It was evident (to the H.J. and me) that their eldest (whom I believe was eight) is on the Spectrum (of Autistic Disorders) — I hazarded he had significant ADHD, but of course I am not a diagnostician, merely judgmental. The pert tour guide told our collected group (the rest were retired white people) that we were to touch nothing, to sit on nothing, to not slide down the banisters, and yet what did each of those other boys do in every single room, on every single banister? Touch and sit and slide. Their father chose to ignore it and the mother was picking and choosing when she admonished her boys, but the H.J. and I thought “what the hell?” We were given a hard time because of our son’s pediatric wheelchair when he’s touching nothing, harming nothing, getting absolutely nothing from the tour (yet we bought him a ticket!), and these other two boys are willfully disobeying and, more importantly, their parents didn’t remove them. Uh, no.

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Drayton Hall, exterior

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interior shot of Drayton Hall with original paint

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We were also enamored with Angel Oak tree over on Johns Island, purported to be 400 – 500 years old. Note: there is limited parking inside the gates but plentiful handicapped parking inside, so if you have your handicapped placard do wave it at the guard and they’ll let you in

 Charleston Philadelphia Alley

Charleston alley

Charleston Unity alley

a few of the Alleys, Philadelphia, Stoll’s, Unity

I could have walked through Old Town for days, which I did, but I mean for even more days than we did. I was enchanted and wanted to see it all, more than once. Famed King Street held zippo appeal to us — it felt like The Grove in Los Angeles, California (fake ambiance) — and the bulk of the shops on the street are chain stores. Like, who in their right mind goes to Charleston to buy Sperry shoes or a St. John suit? Wait: three bright lights on King Street, 1) we purchased some delicious (and sweet) pralines in a candy shop; 2) the College of Charleston’s gift shop is where the Big Angel got his Charleston t-shirt and I a porcelain box with Randolph Hall on it; 3) and best of all from an eleven year-old boy I procured two palmetto roses which at present are hidden from molesting cats ….

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charleston randolph hall porcelain

charleston palmetto rose

Charleston Graffito

Graffito, a bijou shop into which the Little Angel and I popped and then out of which we popped with a few lovely bijouterie, on East Bay near Unity Alley – note to self, even though I think I’m being awfully clever traveling with hardly any jewelry I always end up buying some on our adventures, including (somehow) in Glacier National Park, because I don’t feel ME without being weighed down …

And note to others: East Bay Street is filled filled filled with restaurants, at none of which we ate because the vegetarian offerings are slim-to-none, and we refuse to pay $20 for a vegetable plate. Refuse! Plus, you know, we were staying in a condo so we mostly cooked our own food. The H.J. was so excited about going to a Piggly Wiggly (southern US chain of grocery stores)

charleston PigglyWiggly-Logomarkhighres

but much to his sadness there are no Piggly Wigglys in Charleston … so we shopped at the local Harris Teeter, which while beautiful inside (reminded us of Draeger’s in Menlo Park, California) is not as cute a name as Piggly Wiggly.

charleston Harris-Teeter-Logo

Other than the trip itself, our sweetgrass basket was by far our most cher souvenir. The H.J. has been on a bread making kick for a month or so (and this is very, very odd because he doesn’t care for baking and doesn’t believe in recipes …), so he gets to serve his bread wrapped in a Randolph Hall tea towel placed in our sweetgrass basket.

charleston sweetgrass sign

Charleston sweetgrass stand

 Charleston-Sweetgrass-Baskets

Charleston sweetgrass

sweetgrass baskets in the City Market

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Randolph Hall, College of Charleston

Two days after we got home Little Angel’s health quickly went to hell and on my 46th birthday he was hospitalized. However to keep this post peppy, my favorite birthday gift was an incredible drawing of a pineapple from the Big Angel; the H.J. matted and framed it for me and when we eventually finish the remodel of our bed and bath, I’m going to hang it!

charleston st john pineapplemy favorite new artwork!

charleston pineapple porcelain

sweet little pineapple porcelain box found at the City Market

Even though this is not in the style of my beloved navel-gazing I really wanted to write this entry because our time in Charleston, South Carolina, was utterly fantastic, and we four agree that we did Everything Right. We have been left with wishing to have spent more time in Charleston, yet knowing we didn’t leave anything unseen. Because it was so perfect I wanted to have it somehow memorialized.

charleston palmetto_flag_495

goodbye, Palmetto state

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Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles

It’s all Fiddler ’round here because I am thinking a lot of Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles:

Little Angel’s stair lift arrived!

Ruffin on his stair chair

It was installed the week before Halloween and it was either the best Trick or the best Treat — whichever, it’s fantastic, and it’s not even chocolate.

Last week his new and also continental Special Needs changing table (his is a chipper yellow) was delivered, all 280lbs of it. While I may be muy fuerte I’m not stupid so until the contractor is able to come and install it it’ll live in the garage. Sooner, later, it’ll be installed and it’ll be heaven.

For Halloween the Big Angel wanted to dress as David Luiz, evidently a professional soccer player:

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David Luiz’ body double, aka the Big Angel

I’d no clue who he is, clearly, but Big Angel kept describing this kinda ‘fro like mane, so I found a brown afro wig. Another miracle: the day it arrived I was somehow able to capture the Little Angel and put the wig on him, and I did not want to take it off! Too adorable. (said with a French accent to keep my pretensions alive)

Thank you Little Angel for being my Style God.

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Nothing says hot to trot like a ‘fro, chewy tube, and drool bib.

And fuchsia slippers in the background.

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violet

Any iteration of purple has never been my thing, but now I am strongly feeling the lure of it, especially lilac. I’ve decided to paint our master bedroom fireplace the prettiest lilac — or is it violet? What is the difference? Of course, first the GC needs to actually come back and finish building it ….

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this is Benjamin Moore’s Grape Ice, 1395

The miracle drug for the Little Angel is not, alas, a miracle, and approximately one week after introduction significant and significantly problematic issues arose. We’ve had to titrate him up as the seizures have returned, and I am so angry about his toxic cocktail. He is eight years-old and should be pure as the snow, but that body is pumped full of poisons and you know who is poisoning him? Me! I’m the one administering the meds in the hopes they give his brain and body a rest from this horrible seizures.

One of the side effects is a massive increase in the hypotonia (think civil disobedience); he is floppy and strong at the same time, resisting my moving him and subsequently hurting me. Of course he’s not doing it on purpose — he doesn’t have that ability, but it still hurts. The radial nerve in my right forearm is damaged but I honestly don’t know how to perform many of his ADLs without using it and neither do the OTs. Ha ha! Not sure when his Special Needs changing table will be arriving from England, and of course then it has to be installed, but I’m ready. I am so ready. I will be having a party with fancy invitations and a chocolate tower because I will be able to wipe that chocolate right off the changing table! Probably with my tongue, but whatever.

Easi-Lift

For the Little Angel, this is the best table on the market as it’s height adjustable and has an integrated padded safety rail. We’ll continue to change him in our laundry room which, while good-sized for a laundry room, cannot support a freestanding table. And I don’t want to change him in the middle of the family room: there is something to be said about human dignity! Well, not that it would fit in the middle of our family room but you know what I mean.

I heard this past Wednesday that Little Angel’s stair lift is due to arrive October 13. Of this year — I know, I had to ask, too. Let me just say this is my first and last time not overseeing a home modification (evidently those in the know simply call it “home mod”). If I had GC’ed it it would have been installed in August without the headaches associated with these nitwits. I am pissed about them because their actions have been not only duplicitous but outright unethical, and after it is installed to my satisfaction you can bet I’ll be filing a grievance so other families don’t get screwed. Grr.

Okay bright side: I love embroidering so I’ve decided I’m going to join one of those Stitch ‘n’ Bitch groups to go and work on embroidering a slipcover for the stair lift chair. I’ll get Girl Time (yahoo!!!) plus fun time for me doing the actual embroidering. I have been collecting inspirations like bananas, but ultimately think I’ll do something with his initial and big animals, like horses. Duh.

Monday was a hard day for me, I think this has actually been a hard week. But Monday night I felt as if I’d been in a car accident, my body so tight and tense. I know it’s the stress I’m carrying from literally carrying the Little Angel. I snapped at the H.J. that he owes me everything for my hard work with the Little Angel and to his credit he completely agreed. so I purchased an outrageously expensive pair of booties with which I’ve been smitten. Fuck it. If I’m hurting my body carrying / lifting the Little Angel then I’m doing it in cute shoes.

Of course, there is more than an air of the ridiculous to me because I just finished caulking and applying the first coat of fuchsia paint to the newly installed crown moulding in our fuchsia powder room. A few years back I’d plastered the walls / ceiling (everything in this house had that knock down texture which I loathe) — they hadn’t been plastered when the plasterers were here a few years before that because I was then using that powder room as the diaper changing room and could not be without it for even three days. Could not do it. So I plastered it myself, painted it glossy fuchsia, silver leafed the ceiling, hung a drippy crystal chandelier (well, that I didn’t do myself because the box had to be moved from the wall to the ceiling and I didn’t / don’t know how to), painted the builder’s grade oak vanity high gloss black, had a marble countertop installed, and installed myself (!) mini marble white and black hexagonal tiles. But never did crown in there because it is a powder room of seven planes. Crazy angles and hard to reach areas, so I was able to be happy because it was all fuchsia anyway.

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pre-crown installation

But the H.J. wanted crown in there so I had it installed. He’s pretty much a slob and his finish work is acceptable if you have no standards — not low standards, NO standards. So even though I was kinda ticked about having to figure out how to get to all those crazy heights and angles I did it and damn it looks good! Modesty, thy name is not moi.

So I am ridiculous talking about my trop cher booties whilst sitting in my painting clothes, which are also my plastering and caulking clothes. They are covered with years of projects (of course I wash them but a lot of that stuff does not wash out!) and I don’t really even look sufficient to pop out to fetch the mail, but there you have it.

Sometimes I am really tired, physically and mentally. We Special Mamas work exceptionally hard doing things we’d never envisioned — changing diapers for ten years. Feeding a baby bird for ten years. The truth is, of course, the love I get to give and receive is greater than all that. But I think I am going to supremely enjoy admiring the view of my lilac fireplace over my new booties.

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silhouettes + hearts

both silhouettes slightly distant

Last year I had silhouette pendants made of my children for their grandmothers, their guardian (named in our Will, so for now she’s just a close friend), and of course for myself. I love them so much and get such joy out of seeing those necklaces hanging, not even wearing them, that I wanted to replicate it.

First I scoured online (for I avoid shopping of any variety — in-person / online, as much as possible, but at least with online I can do it in my nightgown late at night with a cup of tea) and found a few crusty frames. The Big Angel’s oval frame had held a ceramic silhouette of Beethoven and Little Angel’s round frame a silhouette of Martha Washington. Then on Etsy I found a plethora of silhouette artists: I knew I only needed an electronic version, not a paper one, so I could print them myself in the size I wanted. I worked with Qing at TwinkleMingle and she was fantastic and so accommodating. Plus the silhouettes are lovely.

I knew I wanted to hang these small silhouettes (the frames are approximately 4″ – 5″ high) from the knobs on the shutters in our bedroom, and I wanted purple ribbon. There is no purple in our bedroom but I could tell it would be right. I ordered purple (but it came out more like a purply magenta) silk ribbon from FlowerSeedPaper and it is lovely … but probably not right for this project. One day I may instead hunt for a substantial velvet ribbon or even a grosgrain: the silk is too delicate and frays just from looking at it. Thus far I’m able to accept it, however.

For a while I had been collecting silver puffy heart charms for no other reason than I like them, the more character the better. Looking at the silhouettes hanging they felt incomplete while my heart surged looking at my beautiful boys. On Pinterest I saw a pin of heart-shaped bells; seeing that beautiful pin I thought “eureka!” and ferreted out my hearts.

I did end up purchasing four more hearts: a cat heart-shaped charm for the Big Angel (who is a serious cat man) and a horse head heart-shaped charm for my Little Angel, and also two Victorian-inspired sentimental charms (one has I love you and the other Sweet on it).

close up of St Johns hearts

close up of Ruffins heartsWhile I will need to build a better mousetrap for maintaining the ristra effect of Big Angel’s hearts for now I am delighted with them as I am up close and personal every evening and morning as I open and shut windows and shutters.

both silhouettes framed with multiple hearts

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sweetest thoughts

Tomorrow is the first day of school for my children. The Big Angel will be in the fifth grade, and here that means his final year of elementary school; Little Angel will be in the third grade, and providence has smiled upon us for his beloved first grade teacher is now teaching third grade and asked to have him again in her class. She is a wonderful woman of whom I am terrifically fond, both personally and professionally. She dressed a bit like a Druid which, I confess, made me like her even more! Little Angel spends the bulk of his school day outside her classroom, in the dedicated Special Ed classroom, because it is a safer, more benign, more appropriate space for him. And from the moment he leaves our house on his cute white wheelchair bus to the moment that bus brings him home he has a one-on-one with him at all times; on the bus his aide is a warm fuzzy of a woman named Jessica.

Best Beauty Buys 2009, OPI Big Apple Red

Last night I finally painted my toenails (I was about a week overdue and it was disproportionately bumming me out) my beloved RED color (I’d had an aberrant moment last month when I painted them fuschia which while it is my all-time favorite color it is sadly not my favorite nail polish color, go figure). I am meticulous in this endeavour but luckily I have a rich inner life so I day dream. I didn’t call these images up: they came to me unbidden.

I remembered the day Big Angel started walking, wearing an adorable smocked seersucker bubble, in his French music class.

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that’s him, second from the left, underneath the teacher’s right shoulder

I remembered the day Little Angel started walking; he was two years, nine days old. He’d awoken from his nap toward the end of Big Angel’s fourth birthday party.

It had taken a team of therapists over a year to get him to be able to walk, and I am telling you as surely as I have bright red toenails, it was MAGIC! Once he started that was it — go go go.

I thought of how Little Angel always wakes up in a good mood. Pre-catastrophic regression when we’d go into his room every morning or after his nap he’d be sitting or standing in his crib, sporting a grand smile, and say in the jolliest voice “Good morning!” He still wakes up in such a sweet, smiley mood. We are so lucky.

I remembered how Big Angel used to daily feed our bevy of quail.

I thought of how just that day I was feeding Little Angel some cilantro lime rice topped with sauteed onion and corn (we call this “taco”) and I was snacking on chocolate-covered goji berries: he reached out and stole a handful of my berries and somehow got them in his mouth. Copious chocolate drool then dribbled out the sides of his mouth, and he giggled and smiled, so I laughed too. I told him he was a choco-taco thief, and he laughed and laughed. That turkey was telling me jokes, and I was and am so grateful for these pieces of him, of his essence. He’s in there. He is in there.

It took months of research and following through but I found a new neurologist / epileptologist for Little Angel, and he (the doc) was astonished why Little Angel’s previous epi (who is the head of pediatric neuro at the med school and associated hospital) was so asleep at the wheel (my expression). Yeah, uh, that’s why I was shopping around! The new neuro was very disturbed that the previous neuro had not wanted to see Little Angel after the advent of his new seizures (me too) and as disturbed that no new med had been suggested to help control / ameliorate these seizures. Ditto. He recommended a new med which Little Angel started two days later and within two days of that his daytime seizures were GONE. He still exhibits suspicious behavior (like an aura), but thus far (and knock wood), no seizures. Of course we’ve no idea if the new med is helping his nighttime subclinical status (it will take an EEG for that), but we are so excited and so grateful for what we are seeing in Mr. Handsome. Thus far he’s also not demonstrated any of the ill side effects of this new rx, so double yea!

I’ll always find a reason to be put out, to be pissed about something — that’s definitely in my mtDNA — but thinking of my delicious sons past and present, and now Little Angel’s improvement fills me with such bliss.

Look how lucky I am!

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lingua franca

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Yesterday I sat in the pavilion watching Little Angel have his SLP hippotherapy. He rides the sweetest little Norwegian Fjord. Another woman, a volunteer, was also in the pavilion, finishing her lunch. She asked me for how long the Little Angel had been riding and we embarked upon a conversation.

This gorgeous woman has a daughter who will shortly be twenty-six; her daughter has significant Developmental Disabilities, and she started doing Therapeutic Riding (TR) when she was eight.

The Little Angel turned eight this summer, and this woman’s daughter is an adult, but we connected. Not only do we share a lingua franca, we share the specific Developmental Disabilities (DD) dialect. She shared with me once watching her daughter, years ago when a girl, carefully placing pebbles in a bucket. This is a child with an inability to attend, who flits and fleets between activities because her sweet brain just doesn’t understand the activity(-ies), so for this girl to sit for minutes and fill her bucket, that was H-U-G-E. It meant that she created a task and she completed the task, no hand-over-hand from anyone. I got teary hearing this, and even without knowing her daughter I knew how profoundly exciting this was. Didn’t mean her daughter was “cured,” didn’t even mean she could replicate it. But she did it once, and that’s beyond pure joy. I felt elated.

I don’t know if this mom and I shall cross paths again, but I am so grateful for our twenty minutes and for our connection. I saw this woman and she saw me.

We are SuperWomen!

xo

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