Help Me Win Here

Here's how it works: You use Blingo, which is powered by Google, for your web searches. Every hour, they give away random prizes to searchers. In the last hour, they gave away an iPod nano. If you sign up through my referral, and you win something, I win it too. And so on, and so on. BusyMom won an iPod shuffle and some other stuff, and I've tried Blingo's search engine and it's fine, so I thought it was worth a shot. But you may remember my previous post where I noted that I rarely win stuff, so I'm counting on you guys. Win some love for me, would ya?

There's a Porn Site for Every Word in the Dictionary...

...and probably every first name, too.

Got this off WyoWoman's blog. You do an image search on Google for each prompt, and post what you find.

My Hometown:


Danville, CA: Ham Radio capital of the world


















My first name:


c 2005 kjo








My grandmothers' names: Adelaide and Ellen



This is a BMX park, not another planet.








I managed to find a photo of my actual grandmother online!








Favorite Food : Cereal


This is a candle. With, it seems, a particularly shiny tablecloth. You can find find more candles and fake food here.






Favorite Drink: Coffee




Coffee Kool-Aid: otherwise known as instant coffee (except that this makes 2 quarts of it).














Favorite Scent: Vanilla



Ben and Jerry they're not.










Favorite Song: I Melt With You




Wow, this fondue's so thick, the forked food just floats on top. Can you imagine what that stuff would do in your stomach?

But It Was a Pretty Big Salame

I don't win contests. I just don't have any luck in the lottery-type ones, and I never have enough skill for the skill contests. The last time I won anything was freshman year of high school, when I won a salame at the mother-daughter fashion show/luncheon.

And that's the last time I remember winning anything, except for one baby shower about 10 years ago where I cheated. Yes, that's right, my losing streak drove me to cheat at a baby shower. Don't judge me.*

I am good at a lot of things, but I'm never quite good enough. Lest you think this is just a self-esteem issue, I'll give you several heart-wrenching examples of how true this has been:

1. Grade School: I decided to actually work on my science fair project one year. I'd heard over and over from the science teacher that I could do better if I "applied" myself, so I decided to try. I worked really hard on my project, which was the now-classic "growing plants in different conditions." They gave awards to the top 5, and I was, of course, number 6.

2. Grade School: There was a club called the "Junior Altar Society" where 7th-8th grade girls got to clean the church on Saturday mornings. Yeehaw! You had to be asked, and most girls in my class were. I was not. Who knows why? Why would they do a ceremony where they hand out engraved invitations to girls to get them to clean the church?? It wasn't something we earned, it just happened, and I was one of maybe three girls who didn't get asked.

In a display of chutzpah that still impresses me, I ignored the snub and showed up that first Saturday anyway. I told my mother I'd been invited and I told my friends the invitation had been mistakenly sent home. The first Saturday I blithely ignored the moderator's confusion as she searched the roll list for my name. I smiled gracefully as she wondered what to do (since I think she knew I hadn't been invited), and finally, in defeat, wrote my name in on the bottom. Then I went and got the vacuum to start cleaning the altar.

3. High School. In one of my crazy spells Junior year, I decided I needed to beat my best friend at something. She excelled at pretty much everything she did. There was no way I was going to attempt calculus, so I took Anatomy/Physiology with her. I was used to being a B to her A, but I wondered what would happen if I really "applied" myself. Anatomy/Physiology was a very tough class taught by a med student who looked like Tom Selleck and had the social skills of a house fly. There were straight lectures, tons and tons of memorization and 15-page tests that asked us to recall absolutely everything. He was not into "making the material come alive," so to speak. I mean, beyond the way physiology and anatomy sort of is alive, already.

Anyway, I worked my ass off. I thought I had a chance at the Physiology award, which excited me since I'd never won an award (see above) for any subject, although I did well - I just never did the BEST.

So, at the end of the semester, the cumulative scores for both sections were posted. Unfortunately, some chick had a photographic memory and beat me for the top score. There were 700 points possible. She got 670. I got 650. The next score down was 520. Do you think maybe they could have sprung for two Physiology awards at the end of the year , since we were pretty close and the next 40 students were over 100 points lower?? Nope. Miss 670 got the award and I got zilch. I did beat my friend, though, so all was good.

Believe it or not, we're still friends. She's very forgiving and ignored my craziness. I also beat my lab partner, who is now a very successful OB/GYN.

4. When I was a freshman in high school, I heard about the National Honor Society. I heard you had to be nominated to get in. What an honor that would be, I thought - and I wouldn't have to be the best, I just had to be good enough since they took about 10-15 girls (this was an all-girls high school) per year. When I saw the girls that got in, I thought, I could take them.

Most nominations happened in junior year. I volunteered, did community service, etc., all motivated by the hope of getting into the NHS my senior year (yeah, I know - how selfless). I was sooo excited to get the application. I'd been "nominated!" Now I just had to apply. I had tons of student council service, etc., and I poured over the application to make sure I included everything. This was going to be the pinnacle of my high school years - this would make it all worth it.

You can see where this is going. I didn't make it. I was a hundredth of a GPA point too short (3.67 as opposed to a 3.68). The nomination letter said that my grades had qualified, but there was some arcane formula, and they could only take the top 20% of the people who applied, so I could meet the requirements and still not get in.

But here's the worst part: ALL my friends made it. EVERY SINGLE ONE. I literally had no one to eat lunch with on the Thursdays when they had their meetings. And what hurt the worst was that I'd wanted it more than any of them - most of my friends were not very impressed with it and didn't care, but accepted because it looked good on the college apps. And many of them didn't have half the service I had, but they did have slightly higher GPAs. I remember approaching the moderator, Sr. Marcella, rather hysterically and asking if there was anything I could do to get in or to get her to reconsider. I couldn't exactly bribe her, but I thought maybe we could, you know, massage the numbers a little. Can't we weigh the student council stuff a little heavier? I mean, my friend Sally had good grades, but didn't do any service at all, and she got in. Sr. Marcella was a little freaked out by my intensity and said, "Sorry, no," and bolted for the door.

I cried. I cried for days. I cried during class. I cried at home. I couldn't stop. I couldn't eat or sleep. All my friends would wear the gold cord around their necks at graduation and I wouldn't. I had never felt like my efforts amounted to so little. I was completely crushed. I can still feel the weight in my heart, over 20 years later. For the next year, on the first Thursday of every month, I skipped eating and snuck into the library so I wouldn't have to search for someone to eat with and it wouldn't be so obvious I was alone. I eventually stopped crying and was able to act like I didn't care, but I felt so excluded and worthless.

One last triumph, though - at our last assembly when it came time to hand out the cords and gold tassels (for members of the Calif. Scholarship Federation, which was open to anyone with a GPA over 3.0) to graduating seniors, the administrators were so flustered and ill-prepared that when they called my name and I went to the front, the vice principal glanced at me and said, "I think she gets everything!" I didn't correct them when they handed me a gold cord and gold tassel. So there, Sr. Marcella and NHS.

5. There was a weird ritual in my high school that involved inviting a group of girls to spend the night at the convent with the sisters. I'm not sure how they did it, but I remember that I didn't find out about it until after it happened and we heard that 1. the nuns ate popcorn while they watched TV, and 2. they had a closet full of feminine hygeine products. It had never occured to us that nuns would get their periods like normal people.

This time, not all of my friends got invited, so I didn't feel quite so lonely in my exclusion, but enough did get invited that I wondered what the hell I had to do to get noticed. On the other hand, maybe it was a recruitment thing and they were smart enough to write me off early.

6. The next thing I wanted badly was to be an RA in our college dorms. I won't bore you with all the details, but suffice it to say that I made it all the way to the final round for three separate dorms, none of which finally selected me.

7. The following year, I started sorority rush and dropped out. I said it was because I didn't like the fake smiles and cheery small talk, which was true, but the real reason I dropped out was because I knew my history and decided I wasn't going to put myself in a position to be so painfully rejected again.

8. Now, to be fair, I have to admit that in grad school, I applied for competitive internships and got them, so it's not like I always lost everything. I had confidence in my clinical and interviewing skills. But if I don't have a WHOLE LOT of confidence in something, I don't go for it. I stay out of competitions and contests. I've wanted for a while to apply for some regular writing gigs, but haven't had the guts.

This is all a very long, sad, self-pitying way to tell you that I won the Bay Area's Best Baby Blog award for January by Parent's Press. It's a new thing, and I think they're going to award it every month. But I won it first. And yeah, I shared it with someone else. The actual copy in the paper says "We had a tie vote among staff members judging the contest." I don't know if it actually came to blows, but I'm glad someone had my back and I didn't come in second this time.

*Extra points if you can tell me what recent TV sitcom that quote comes from.

Confusion in My Home

The St. Matthew's Prayer Rug has found its way back to my house. Nothing's changed, except the envelope is now addressed to "friend or current resident" instead of "Someone Connected to This Address." My question is...why do they want me to send the rug back in their postage-paid envelope? Are they assuming that if people believe that sending it back will get their prayers answered they'll surely think including money with the rug will speed up their request? 'Cause although they say another address needs this rug Right Now!, I've received these twice and am pretty sure they're fresh, not used, rugs. And by "rugs," of course, I mean "pieces of paper." So why pay the postage to get them all back? I suppose one $10 check, though, would make up for quite a few of the non-payers.

This time I did the "gaze softly at Jesus' face" thing to see if his eyes opened as promised. They sort of do, but it's in that no-iris-or-pupil way of Greek statues. It's creepy and Jesus can keep his eyes closed, thank you.

I like that I can pray for "Confusion in My Home." I would, but we're full.

I think God may be laughing right now. "Oh, you humans crack me up. Like I haven't got anything better to do with my time except keep track of who's holding this piece of paper on their lap for the right amount of time and then sending it back. No wonder I can't straighten out that Middle East thing." With big ol' God-size eye rolls. I think it's the same face he/she makes whenever Pat Robertson opens his mouth.

::Cough Cough::::

My nomination for most brilliant ad campaign ever: Ricola Mystery Cougher. The idea is that if people offer the mystery cougher, who could be anywhere in the US, a Ricola throat lozenge, they'll win up to a million dollars. The great thing about this is that random coughers will be offered Ricolas all across the nation, think, "Hey! These are good!" and then buy them.

I use Ricolas when I'm coughing, and I have a cough right now. So I'm going to go around town coughing and hope that I get lots of free Ricolas. I like the Cherry-Mint best, if you happen to see me.

If Tiffany ever decides to do a campaign like this, I'm so there.

Um, Thanks

For A's birthday and Christmas, we usually get a bag of Scholastic books from some generous family friends. We found "Yikes! Lice!" in this year's Christmas gift. G. started reading it to A. this morning and quickly changed books because although it's a good explanation for kids who have to deal with it, this story about bugs in their hair will give nightmares to kids that don't. We're assuming (hoping?) they don't look terribly closely at the titles they give because last time there was a book about a girl who put on too much makeup. I have a photo of G. reading it to A., both scowling with the effort of figuring it out. Maybe next time there'll be a bedwetting book.

A.: I don't want to go to bed! Are you and Papa going to bed?
Me: No, we're going to watch the West Wing first.
A: Oh! The West Wing! I love the West Wing! It's my favorite!
Me: Riiiight. Nice try.

A Little Intelligence Can Be Dangerous

Aidan has just enough vocabulary and language knowledge to sound like he’s participating in a coherent discussion, but not enough to actually make sense.

We made chocolate chip cookies tonight.

Me: Are your hands clean?
A: This hand is clean. This hand is a little clean. It’s OK, Mama. I know how to bake.
Me: Yeah, well, let’s wash your hands anyway.
……..
After mixing the dough with a wooden fork, I took a knife out to scrape the fork clean.
Me: The dough sticks to the fork, so we have to clean it off.
A: Wow! This is my very first…um…knife!
Me: Were you about to say these were your first cookies? Then you remembered all the cookies we made before Christmas.
A: Are these your first cookies?
Me: No.
A: Are these Papa’s first cookies?
Me: No, we’ve all had chocolate chip cookies before.
A: Chocolate chip cookies??!! Wow! I love those! Those are my favorite!
Me: Oh, good. So now we put them in the oven.
A: Ok, you roll out the dough first and then I’ll roll out the dough.
Me: No, these are chocolate chip, not rolled cookies. They bake in these little balls on the cookie sheet.
A (shaking head): Oh, no, not a cookie sheet.
Me: No?
A: No. You can’t say that, Mama.
Me: Um, OK. What would you call it?
A: It’s a cookie baking thing that you bake cookies on.
Me: Yeah. OK.
…………..
A: Oh! I can’t wait to hardly them!
Me: You can hardly wait to eat them?
A: Yeah!
Me: Let’s see how long we bake them. It says longer for 2 dozen, shorter for 3 dozen. How many do we have? (counts) We have 28.
A: 28? Oh no, that doesn’t sound good.

He always sounds reasonable enough, and can be quite emphatic.

In other news: He now has an office. It’s behind the easel in the corner by the floor lamp. According to him, it has a computer, two phones and a lamp. It also has a whole bunch of thank you cards that I’m trying to get him to draw on so we can send them out. He’s hoarding them and says he needs them for his work. He’s turning into a workaholic, though. When I try to change his diaper, he yells desperately, “No! I have to do my work! No! Please! I have to do my work!”

G. just threatened A. that if he didn’t cooperate in getting his jammies on, we’d eat all the chocolate chip cookies tonight while he slept. Damn, it worked.

Happy Birthday!

So today is Beastarzmom's birthday! We went and had lunch with her and got to see her office, which according to A., was the highlight of his day. All her coworkers admired the boys and told me they were gorgeous, which I, of course, appreciated. One even told me the story of her daughter who refused to perform certain motor tasks for the longest time as a baby. I didn't confirm it, but she's in her thirties now and I assume she walks on her own. Anyway, Happy Birthday, Middle Sis! Even though you're not celebrating.

In other news:
I like to go to bed around midnight. I'm a night person. Ben is a morning person. He likes to get up at 4:30 am, and boy, is he recharged and refreshed! He thinks the pre-dawn time is the best time of the day to exercise. One of us will have to change his/her habits. Guess who it's going to be.

Man, I should have health crises with my kids more often (just kidding, God). Readership has doubled in the last week. Thanks for checking in, everyone. Even if you're not following orders and delurking.

OK, I'm going to bed a full half-hour before midnight. I expect to awaken fully recharged and refreshed.

'Twas Three Weeks After Christmas

Improvised by A. this morning, as he circled the family room and waved his arms around (I grabbed my notebook). We've been reading "A Visit from St. Nicholas," and I guess he's watched Mickey's A Christmas Carol and some Thomas' Snowy Surprise, too.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds
with creatures not stirring
not even a head.
It was the ghost of Christmas Eve!
They jumped on the bed
and jumped out of sight!
He goed in the chimney
And sprang to the necklace!
With one little hint
Rolled on through the cloud
With one little scent.
But it was Christmas Eve
And Santa came with a bent!
I'll give you a hint.
He goed through the cloud,
(here it
goes into less of a poem and more of a
narrative):
Thomas springed off the winter of Christmas Eve.
It was Santa Claus!
At Santa's workshop he worked his roof off.
He was buzzing around the Christmas tree.
(back to verse)
It was so long though,
with one little hint.
He was tired with white
Santa Claus or St. Nick.
He didn't know anything
Not one little hint.
He went through the clouds
With a little mist of scent.
Here is 25 dollars of train!
He was covered with some little scent.
He sprung through the night
With Skittles and went.

Sometimes he sings. Last night he was singing a very up-beat, inspiring number: "You can do anything you want to do. You can be a plant or a train. You can...." yada yada. We got it on video, thank goodness. He doesn't necessarily need an audience in place, but it's a bonus. Last night he liked being taped, and whenever G. would think he was finished and start to turn away, A. would yell, "Here comes another song!" like the music was overtaking him and he was helpless under its spell.

I don't know where the "mist of scent" comes from. Or the "not one little hint," either. But I liked that Santa was bent and that he sprang to his necklace and worked his roof off. I think A. really captured the spirit of the season.

Congratulations! Your Baby's a Klutz!

So we went to the neurologist today. It took forever to find parking in the stupidly small parking lot, and I confess I thought, "Hey, maybe at least we can get a handicapped parking sticker out of this."

We were waiting in a little room next door to his office while some clinician stood in his doorway and whined to him about being overworked. Apparently this guy is physician-in-chief of the hospital too, and so he gets whined to a lot. It was annoying me since it was already half an hour after our appointment time, we were sitting there trying to contain our anxiety and she's whining about how someone overloads her with work. I was about to step out and say, "Excuse me, we're waiting to find out if our son has cerebral palsy, could you shut the f*** up and let the doctor come in and look at him?"

So he finally came in. He played with him a little while Ben sat on my lap, then he grabbed him, swung him around in the air and almost threw him into the sink. I was a little startled and thought, "Gee, he's playing kind of rough." Turns out he was testing his reflexes and Ben should have thrown his arms out in front of him, as you or I would do if a doctor threw us into the sink. He didn't throw his arms out, but he did get upset, which I thought was a perfectly reasonable response to being thrown at the sink.

The bottom line, though, is the neurologist doesn't think Ben shows any signs of CP or other neurological disorder. His coordination and reflexes are delayed for 10 months, so it's not like we're imagining that, but he thinks Ben will work it out on his own. And if he doesn't loosen up by the time he's a year or so, we can try physical therapy. The doctor doesn't think there's anything really wrong other than he's uncoordinated. Looking at us and A., he certainly comes by it honestly. So we're all very relieved.

Tag I'm It

Woah - got tagged last month by Corndog and just realized it. I'm not used to people tagging me so I don't even notice when they do. Duh. But here we go:

Seven things to do before I die:
1. Visit the Alps
2. Research my ancestors in Ireland
3. Get under 29% body fat.
4. See one of my kids get married.
5. Hold a grandchild.
6. Go white-water rafting.
7. Write a book.


Seven things I can (or will) not do:
1. Eat raisins in bulk
2. Go scuba diving
3. Have unproductive friendships
4. Believe that God hates Gays
5. Go bungee jumping or skydiving
6. Wear high heels
7. Turn a cartwheel

Seven things that attract me to my spouse:
1. Sense of humor
2. Playfulness
3. He's a great dad
4. He's a great son
5. Kindness
6. He looks really cute in knee-length denim shorts.
7. He can explain weird football rules to me.

Seven things I say most often:
1. Oh my goodness.
2. Seriously?
3. You know what I'm saying?
4. Be gentle.
5. Leave your brother alone.
6. We're just about out of time for today.
7. You're a poopy boy.

Seven books (or series) I love:
1. Harry Potter
2. Operating Instructions
3. Descent to the Goddess
4. Psychotherapy Grounded in the Feminine Principle
5. Everyday Sacred
6. Mommy Track Mysteries by Ayelet Waldman
7. The Red Tent

Seven movies I watch over and over again:
1. It's a Wonderful Life
2. A Christmas Story
3. Finding Nemo
4. Thomas Helps Out
5. Mickey's Twice Upon a Christmas
6. Wiggly Christmas
7. Airplane

The Day After Yesterday but Before Tomorrow

We have an appointment tomorrow with a pediatric neurologist. There was a cancellation and we grabbed it - but as G. pointed out, it IS Friday the 13th. Good thing we're not superstitious, knock on wood.

Today was a good day (damn, I'm already talking like the mother of a special child). Ben got up on all fours if I braced his feet. I suppose he had no choice as I was shoving his knees under his body. "See? See? He's almost crawling! He can do it!"

I also taught him to hold up his arms when I say, "How big is Ben???" about 10 times. It could be chance, but I'm thinking it proves he's totally normal. No chance of mental retardation, see? I even caught it on video. Poor guy passed out at 7:30pm without fussing at all because he was so exhausted from proving to his mother that he was OK. He was smiling when I put him down. "Thank God. Now maybe she'll leave me alone."

Do all parents awaiting a diagnosis do this? Do they do stuff to prove to themselves how normal their kid is? I mean, what is that? Ben is Ben, diagnosis or no diagnosis. He's the same kid he was last week. And he'll walk when he walks and talk when he talks. I mean, once your child is delayed, "normal" is kind of useless and you just have to take your kid for who he is and what he can do. I want to be all zen and "hey, God will take care of us and what's meant to be will be." But yanno what? I'm not all zen. I'm pretty positive, and I do think we'll figure it all out and I'm just grateful he doesn't have a life-threatening disease. But I also hope he doesn't have CP. I'm sorry to all the people who have it and live fulfilling lives. I know you're there. I'm just not in acceptance mode yet.

I'm hoping like crazy that he will need a bit of physical therapy and we'll all need to do yoga with him and he'll be as good as anyone on the Tiny Tots soccer team. I don't want him to be great - I just want him to be right in the middle. Not the best, not the worst. I was the worst (long story, 'nother post) and it sucked. And I don't have any sort of neurological disorder. I just had an overprotective mother who wouldn't let me do anything. And I was short, which for some reason equaled "uncoordinated" in the minds of all the "captains" who picked teams.

I guess that's true even if he isn't delayed. A. took 15 months to walk because he was quite happy with crawling for a long time. Right now, he's almost 3.5 and he still rides his bike Flinstone-style because he doesn't want to try the pedals. The 1.5-year-old next door can use her pedals. I mean, we're not exactly athletic-scholarship-breeding people.

For the first time today, we faced the question of what we tell people. Our neighbor babysits two kids - one is the infamous W., and the other is his little sister, S., who was born the same week as Ben. We were playing outside and our neighbor told us that S. was cruising and had taken a couple steps. Normally, I'd say something like, "Yeah, Ben prefers to have us move him. It hasn't occurred to him that he could be the master of his own destiny." I'd cluck my tongue at his sense of entitlement.

Now we have the possibility that he's not normal, and I don't know what to say. It stops me cold. Do we tell her? What's she supposed to say? We don't even know what's going on yet.

OMG - I was just channel surfing, which takes about 10 seconds since we got rid of extended cable, and Fiddler on the Roof is on PBS! One of my all time favorite musicals! There's Starsky! Or is it Hutch? Oh, it's Sunrise, Sunset - tell me that doesn't make you cry. At my sister's wedding, my dad and BIL's dad sang this song, so that my dad would sing, "When did she get to be a beauty?" and his dad would sing, "When did he get to be so tall?" I mean, tell me you wouldn't be bawling. I was 10 years old and you can hear me on the tape bawling throughout the ceremony. I'm 40 years old and they still bring it up.

OK, anyway. What do I say? "Oh, Ben might have CP. We don't know yet." I have no idea how to bring it up casually, but I guess that' s not my biggest concern right now. I don't even know if I will have to say it at all. I'm not worried about it, I'm just noticing it.

On another note, my response to all this was to tell everyone I knew. I wanted to know if my friends knew people who had gone through something similar, what they knew and what happened. My mom's group was awesome - they came through with so much support and care that I cried. My sisters did the getting-tons-of-information thing that we do whenever anything comes up. (Want links on bladder cancer? I still have 'em from when my dad had it). G.'s response was to tell no one and to take the kids to the toy store and let Ben hold on to the train table. He did it, bore his own weight and G. convinced himself everything was fine. I think G. feels like he has to take care of the people he tells, whereas I feel that the people I tell will take care of me.

For the most part, I do think everything will be OK. I so appreciate everyone's concern - it makes me feel like it's OK that I'm freaking out for a few seconds every now and then. But I'm not freaking out that much. And I'll let you know what happens.

BTW, it's National De-Lurking Week. That means you need to leave a comment on the blogs you visit. You don't have to identify yourself, and you don't have to have any words of wisdom. Just say hi, eh?

*Boom* Hello, Other Shoe

So for the past month I've been feeling this weird dread. It's the kind of dread where you're afraid it really means that something is going to happen to one of your children and you'll look back and say, "I knew it. I just had this feeling."

Ben is a very smiley guy. He's also a pretty fussy guy, and sometimes he manages these two moods at once. There's just something about him that makes people comment on him. I've had more than one used-and-haggard-looking person comment, "Wow, he's smiling at me. Babies don't usually smile at me."

Anyway, I've just had this feeling that there's something special about him. But my fear was that that meant something bad. My greatest fear, of course, was losing him. I feared for him in a way that I didn't fear for A.

So I was talking to G. and thinking maybe I should go back and visit my therapist to talk about where this anxiety was coming from. Was it left over from the birth trauma? Was it just my fear of things going well? Why did I have this feeling that something bad was bound to happen soon?

Never made it back to the therapist thanks to our divergent work schedules. Did make it to Ben's 10-month well baby check today, though. I brought up my concerns regarding Ben's lack of pulling to stand, or any horizontal movement whatsoever, and his constant abdomen crunches. He's always been stiff, but we've been assured that everything's fine, up until now.

"He pulls himself up?"
"No."
"He gets himself to sitting from lying down?"
"No. Not even close."
"Hmm. You know, I think we'll go ahead and request a neuro consult. Could be mild CP."

I'm sorry....what? Cerebral Palsy? Like what Karen had in the Marie Kililea books? The braces and wheelchairs?

I've since done enough googling and e-mailing to have a very different view of CP. We don't have a diagnosis yet, but both G. and I believe that he had more injury at birth than we realized.

I think my gut was right - but my gut also tells me that whatever it is, it's mild and more of a challenge than a disability. And if this is the other shoe, OK, I can deal with it. Please just let this be the other shoe. And let there be only two shoes. And let there be only one pair. And I've strangled the hell out of that metaphor but I think you get what I'm saying.

New Year's Resolutions

I've always loved New Year's. I love the whole fresh-start thing, the making of lists and plans and what I'll do when I hit a roadblock and buying a new journal to monitor my progress and posting motivational signs and all that. I used to visualize and do life-maps and all that garbage in my 20's and 30's. I think those are things you do when you have space in your life for more and you feel like you're wasting time.

Here I am at 40 and for the most part, I have everything I've ever really wanted (except an i-pod nano and a really good digital camera).

And I'm at my limit. I can't fit any more in. I don't need more lists of goals. I don't need more "shoulds" and things to do "at least 3 times per week."

What I need is peace. With myself, with my life, with my space. I also need energy and organization, and I think streamling routines (ala "flylady") could help. My boys are going to be tiny and need me for such a short time that I want to really be here now. I want to play with them without feeling guilty that I'm not mopping the floor or repotting the houseplants. I want to not be preoccupied with work and my to d0 list. "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose, under heaven." And that's your biblical quote for today.

Actually, isn't it the prayer of St. Francis? Maybe it's not in the Bible after all. See? I'm not going to go look it up on the internet because that's not the point! My first test! So far, so good.