I’ve been awake since way way too early this morning.  I don’t even want to say what time I started tossing and turning in bed because it will only make me angry.  Here’s a clue for you though: it’s an hour that rhymes with shoe.

Ugh.

Apparently my brain lacks the shut-off function.  God only knows what trigger has been pulling me from sleep at roughly the same time in the middle of the night.  Every night.  Once it does though my mind starts ticking off the to-do’s and fretting over the oops I forgots.

And it just. won’t. stop.

Oops I forgot to make orthodontist appointments.  I need to transfer that tax return over to savings.  Did I forget to put the cover back on the spa last night?  I should have signed Cass up for Challenger baseball.  Oh yeah.  And Kennedy wants me to check in to dance classes.  I wonder if there’s such a thing as snake repellent?  I think Jayce has a well-check on Tuesday morning.  Or was it Wednesday?  Dang.  Should have taken those muffins out of the freezer for breakfast tomorrow.  Standardized testing week – need brain food.  I think ADT messed up our billing cycle again.  Nothing to blog about.  Laundry.  Return those jeans.  Wash the car.  Water the plants.  Figure out how to make Torri’s strapless dress comply with the spaghetti strap dress code for 8th grade promotion.  Bathroom cleaning week.  Overflowing inbox.  Need. a. vacation.

I’m operating on overdrive.  So excuse me if I seem a bit scattered.

It’s only because I am.

First rattlesnake spotting of the season.  And yes.  It is suspiciously missing a head.  Don’t ask.

*****Lucky comment number #75 was randomly chosen as the winner of the Eleven Collection shoes.  Congratulations to Lori from Building Our Nest!*****

My 2.5 year-old son has the most disgusting habit.  It’s almost embarrassing to admit, even though it’s his habit, not mine.

He picks his nose.

That’s not the worst part though.  The picking of the nose is probably something I could live with.

What he does with his, uh, finds?  That’s the worst part.

He inspects whatever comes out on the end of his finger.  And then he eats it.

Gross.  I know.

His daddy has taken to telling him, “Don’t eat your boogers Jayce.  Chicks don’t dig that.”

Well?  They don’t.

Jayce’s disgusting habit has yet to deter the chicks from digging him though.  He’s honestly a virtual chick magnet.  Seriously.  I’d start to worry if Jeff began finding excuses to take Jayce on solo ventures all the time because I know the ladies would be flocking to them in droves.

I’d like to think that his curly blond locks and gorgeous blue eyes are the draw.  But if I’m being honest, I know there is more to it than that.

The kid has style.  Style that comes, in no small part, from his footwear.  And his footwear?  It comes from Eleven Collection shoes.

Every single time he wears those shoes in public someone, somewhere compliments them.  Every. time.

Not that I blame them; I am head over heels for Eleven shoes myself.  But really?  Looking at these?  How could anyone not be?

Adorable, yes?

But the beauty of these shoes is far more than skin deep.  I can totally vouch for their durability.  Jayce started wearing his first pair of Eleven shoes last year in September.  He still wears them–that same pair–today.  They’re leather so they give a bit and stretch to accommodate his foot.  Even his big ‘ol honkin’ feet.  He normally has to wear a shoe designated as wide, but the Eleven shoes fit him comfortably.  And we all know how boys play.  But in spite of the wear (and plenty of tear) Jayce has put on his shoes, they’ve held up amazingly well!

The Spring line (available in sizes 9-3) includes a stylin’ array of sandals, tennies, and dress shoes for boys and girls.  Personally, I’m partial to the Caper and the Joaquin for boys; Jayce owns a pair of each style.  Cassidy also has two pairs in her closet and I’m thinking of ordering her a pair of the Maya’s to wear with her Easter dress.

How about your little ones?  Could they use an update to their spring footwear?  You’re in luck then because I’m giving a pair away.  To enter, just click your way over to Eleven Collection’s website and take a look at what they’ve got available.  Then come back here and leave me a comment (by midnight on Thurs., April 2nd) telling me which pair sets your heart ablaze.  I will randomly select one winner on Friday, April 3rd.  Any entries that don’t comply with these directions will be disqualified.

For those of you who don’t win…right now Eleven Collection shoes has a free shipping offer if you order two or more pairs.  And they really have some great deals going on.  Click on the “Sale” button in the lower left hand corner of the page to snag a hot deal!

If you’ve read my 100 Things About Me post you know that I cringe at the sound of the “R” word.  Likewise, I also take offense when I hear jokes being made about the “shortbus” or Special Olympics.  You can imagine, then, how appalled I was to see the President of our country mock Special Olympians on national television.  If you haven’t seen it, it will take but 29 seconds of your day to watch this clip.

If your life has not been touched by a person with developmental delays you may not understand why those of us who have are deeply offended by the callous words of a man with such great influence over so many.  Allow me to explain.

Not too long ago this man would have been crazy to even have dreamed of holding the office he holds now.  There was a time when men and women who share his skin color and have similar heritage were mocked, beaten, and segregated based on their pigmentation alone.

One would think that the struggles and pain of those who share his African American background would have given this man great insight as to the underside of discrimination.  One would assume that knowing what he knows, this man would be especially compassionate.  One would hope beyond hope that this man–especially this man–would be capable of leading honorably and setting a strong example that all Americans could follow.

Unfortunately though, this man has fallen heinously short.

There is nothing funny, cute, or endearing about the mocking of an organization as instrumental as the Special Olympics.  Special Olympians are heroes who’ve faced tremendous struggle and great hardship and have come out stronger for having done so.  People with developmental disabilities should not be used as an easy target for quips.  Especially by the President of our country and especially when a national audience is tuned in.

I can think of a word that conjures up hateful connotations towards a huge population of ethnic people in this country.  It’s a word that you or I would be ashamed to use, ashamed to teach our children, ashamed to have heard in our homes, schools, and churches.  It’s a dirty word, not because of its meaning, but because of its history.  Its a word that has historically been used to inflict pain on an entire population of people.  People who did nothing to deserve the treatment that fell upon them.  People who were persecuted for simply BEING.

It’s a word I wouldn’t dream of using.

I wish that Mr. Obama would pay me the same courtesy when it comes to being sensitive about the struggles my family faces with regard to my daughter’s disability.

Like him–like each and every one of us–she had no say as to the mental, genetic, or physical state she was born into.  But with each label that is slapped on her, with each disparaging comment that is thrown around, she is made to seem less worthy than she really is.

I am saddened and disheartened that the President of our country would stoop so low as to disparage people who have done no wrong.  I am appalled that there has been no public outrage over an incident that so clearly deserves it. I shudder to imagine what would have happened if our previous President had gone on national television and said the same thing.  Can you even imagine the outcry that would have commenced had that happened?

Whether we are talking about people with developmental disabilities or members of any ethnic group, discrimination is a wretched thing and should long ago have been abolished.

There is something each of us can do to institute change.

We can pledge to stop the frivolous use of the “R” word in our homes and in our families.  We can stop using terms like ‘shortbus’ because they garner us an easy laugh.  We can respect the Special Olympics organization as a great resource for children like mine, not an easy target for jokes and mockery.  Together, we can change the way our society reacts to demeaning usage of the “R” word.

YES WE CAN.

And I hope you will.

I love playing games.  One of my favorite things to do is have another couple over for dinner and then stay up late into the evening playing board games or cards at the table, with bowls of candy scattered around to munch on.

I know.  We bring the house. down. with our mad par-tay skilz.

Ahem.

Ever since our best friends moved away last year we’re sort of hurtin’ in the game playing department.  We’re pretty much stuck playing two person games like Scrabble and Yahtzee.

There’s nothing wrong with Scrabble or Yahtzee.  I rather like them both.

Unless, that is, I have to play against my husband.

He’s a lucky guy.  And not just because he married me.  I mean he’s really, really lucky.  He rolls at least one Yahtzee pretty much every time we play.  And when we draw tiles to see who gets to make the first play in Scrabble his pick is almost always one of the first ten letters of the alphabet.  While mine is usually one of the last.

What’s worse is that he sort of gloats.  Which wouldn’t be bad if I wasn’t just a tad competitive.  But I happen to be.  Competitive, that is.  So you can understand how his double-fisted arms raised into the ‘touchdown’ sign, together with that ear-to-ear grin and singsongy “Yahtzee!” exclamation tends to set me off.

Just a little.

My competetiveness carries over into other things too.  Wii games.  Who can do more crunches.  Scores to those silly trivia quizzes I sometimes come across online.

But now, I’ve found a something else to beat him at.  Not that I’ve beaten him at any of those other things.  Ever.

I went to the doctor for a physical last week.  They took blood.  I called today and got my results.

Jeff went in last week too, only he hadn’t been fasting so his blood work had to wait.  He’s going in this Friday morning though.

You see where I’m going with this don’t you?

I’m out to get him in the cholesterol department.

I was  a little miffed today to find out that my LDL (bad cholesterol) was 108.  Dr. Oz says that an ideal number is one that is less than 100.  Damn those 8 points.  If I’d buttered only half my bread at dinner the night before I might have squeaked by.

My good cholesterol was 61.  Dr. Oz says an ideal number for that is one that is over 40, so I’m good on that account.

Really I’m good all the way around because my total cholesterol was 178 and anything under 200 is supposedly ideal.

I happen to be a bit of a perfectionist though so those eight LDL points are really on my nerves.

Anyway.  I know I shouldn’t even get into it with him because I’m bound to lose.  Nonetheless I’m looking forward to seeing his scores results.

I mean, he does sit at a desk all day.  And I’m the one who determines his serving sizes as I dish up his dinner.

Nothing wrong with leveling the playing field is there?

And yes.  I know I have issues.

Anybody care to predict who comes out ahead on this one?

I’m coming very close to the end of my rope ‘o’ patience.

Come 7:45 am the school bell will ring again after a two week Spring break and it honestly couldn’t come a moment too soon.

Cassidy will be lucky if I don’t shove her butt out the door of the van drive by style as I cruise the parent drop-off loop in front of the school tomorrow morning.

Parenting this child is often times like having a lifetime bus pass for a bus with but one destination: Looneyville.

Have you any idea how utterly maddening it is to tell a nine-year-old to ‘come here’ or ‘put that down’ or ‘leave him alone’ only to be totally and completely ignored? Not just once mind you.  I am not exaggerating in the least when I tell you that this child doesn’t listen.  EVER.

I cannot tell you the shades of red she makes me see.

As we were driving home from an errand filled day today I’d heard just one too many screams coming from little brother in response to her taunting from the seat behind his.

I laughed out loud.  Busted out laughing actually because, really, that was all I had left.

My laughter was in response to a train of thought that has been running on a continuous loop in my head as of late.

The scenarios vary but typically I fantasize about disappearing in an instant.  Just vanishing.  Beaming myself to a place where an eternity of struggle with this child doesn’t loom before me, a constant weight so heavy it prevents me from carrying something so light as hope.

I wonder if all parents of special needs children feel this way.  Have these moments of utter, bottomless despair.

I hope so.  I hope I’m not alone in that.

When she was born I wondered, in no quiet way, why God gave her to me.

I’ve come along way since then, but I still wonder.

There’s a mantra I turn to in response to that question.

I am strong enough for this.  Yes I am.  If not me, then who?

Some days it helps.  Other days it’s like swallowing bile; it leaves me bitter and sick to my stomach.

I think God spoke directly to me the other day though.  Not aloud of course.  I’m not one of those people.

He whispered to me though, as he has before.

He told me that He doesn’t expect me to carry the burden.  He told me He’d carry it.  Through me.

I need to let that sink in.

And learn how to take Him up on it.

Last year on St. Patrick’s Day our whole family was in the middle of a Spring Break vacation.  We spent nine days exploring all the sights in Washington DC, with a brief stopover in New York City.  Jeff and I were able to sneak a date night in during the trip and it happened to fall on St. Patrick’s Day.  We donned our green attire (even a green feather boa for me!) and had dinner at Old Ebbitt Grill, a restaurant rich in political history.  Afterwards we headed across the street and made history of our own trying to find the front of the White House so I could get a picture.  It probably wouldn’t have been as difficult of a feat had we not been just a tad impaired.  Luckily our sprinting from here to there didn’t break any national security laws and the secret service left us alone.  We eventually found what we were looking for and I snapped a few quick pics before we boarded the Metro to head back for the night.

Oh what a difference a year makes.

St. Patty’s 09 found us on an an entirely different kind of date night: a date with two little ones in tow.  A couple of weeks ago the Broadway version of Grease was in town and Jeff and I took the two older girls on a “date” to lunch and the show.  We had to make it up to the younger two somehow, and that’s exactly what we did last night.

I donned my green feather boa again (c’mon I can only get away with it once a year!) and we headed out to dinner at our favorite family Mexican restaurant where Jeff enjoyed corned beef flautas and a couple of beers.  Not green beer, but beggars can’t be choosers.  My margaritas had a green tint to them though.  That counts right?

After dinner we headed over to the convention center where Thomas and Friends had pulled into town.  Thanks to an opportunity presented by MomSelect we were given four tickets to the show.  And wouldn’t you know that just happened to be the perfect number?

We tried to keep the Thomas part a surprise but it wasn’t easy seeing as how every child in the vicinity (except ours) was dressed in striped overalls and conductor hats with the Thomas logo splayed all over them.  And then of course there were all those mothers using Thomas as leverage to bribe good behavior.  It was a tough secret to keep let’s just say.

The jig was up once we walked into the arena and saw the stage set up.  We didn’t have to wait long for the production to begin.  Jayce was, quite literally, on the edge of his seat as the first scene came to life.  And when Thomas puffed his way to center stage Jayce went stick straight, raising up to get a better view.  It was so funny to hear the gasps in the audience.  Thomas got a reaction from that tot crowd like the American Idols get on stage every Tuesday night.

The whole family got into the action, moving our arms like chugga-chugga locomotives and pulling an imaginary chain for the toot-toot of Thomas’ whistle.

Yeah.  What a difference a year makes.

It’s tough to say which of the engines Jayce prefers: Thomas or Percy.  Luckily he got to see both of them on stage, as well as James, Gordon, Harold, and Sir Topham Hat.  The show lasted about an hour and a half, which was maybe just a touch long.  There were quite a few musical numbers and lots of dancing and audience participation that helped to keep the short attention span of the audience members.

All in all both of our most recent dates with kids have been quite successful.  Not that I would turn down another trip to Washington DC or NYC for a “real” date night.  Sans the green feather boa this time.  :)

Thomas and friends live on stage is touring now.  Click here for scheduling and ticket information if you’d like to take your little ones for a date night of your own.

I live in a relatively large city.  As with other cities of comparable size we require a variety of doctors and specialists to treat the population.

Cassidy’s visual needs require that she see a pediatric ophthalmologist on a regular basis.  Up until a few years ago this wouldn’t have been a problem.

But then one of the local pediatric ophthalmologists went and hired a hit-man to kill the other pediatric ophthalmologist, a move that effectively eradicated both of their practices.

When all was said and done one family was left without a father/husband.  That in itself was awful enough but it didn’t end there; an entire city’s worth of children are now left without a single doctor who specializes in pediatric ophthalmology.

So we make due.

Like Cass and I did today.

Let me rewind for a second.

Last week I noticed that Cassidy’s glasses are beginning to look like a scratching pad for the cat.  Only we don’t have a cat.  The scratches on her lenses are likely the result of repeatedly being thrown to the ground in frustration.  By her.  Not me.  Regardless of how they came to look like that I figured we should probably go ahead and replace them.  Lest she think that God had a real sense of humor as he went about creation.

Noting that her prescription had expired I called the doctor’s office.  Not a peds doctor mind you.  But the doctor we see is one of the few in town that will work with children.  We were last there in August and I told him that we wouldn’t be needing a new prescription at that time.  I figured they would have made note of it in her file though and that it would be simple enough to fax something to the vision center, right?

Wrong.

I was told that I would have to pay $25 for a prescription.

What the &%$#?

Isn’t that what our co-pay went towards in August?

Apparently not.

Apparently prescriptions require refractions.  And refractions are not covered by insurance.  Each and every time I want a prescription we will pay a $25 fee in addition to the $30 co-pay.

Of course.  Makes perfect sense.

This does not make me happy but I’m left with few options.  So I proceed to schedule an appointment with the technician so that she can give Cassidy a refraction.  The appointment was today at 10:15.

After wrangling and dressing and grooming Cassidy and Jayce we left the house 45 minutes prior to the appointment.

It’s a long drive.

One that requires a significant amount of gas.

Which is not cheap btw.

We arrived five minutes early for the appointment like a good patient should.

I wasn’t exactly thrilled when, upon checking in, the office staff seemed puzzled as to why I would be bringing a child in for a refraction.  They proceeded to argue discuss the matter amongst themselves, though my proximity made me privy to the whole thing.  I’m not fluent in Spanish so I can’t say exactly what was said.  I will say though that Señor Fisher from Spanish 1A did teach me well enough to know that when she said niña, the technician was referring to Cass.

Eventually it was explained to me that the doctor prefers to do all the refractions on young children.

I wasn’t immediately perturbed.

No problem.  I guess I’ll just have to wait for him to fit us in then.

Or not.

The doctor, it seemed, was not in today.

So basically I was left with but one option: make yet another appointment for yet another day.

No problem.

Just forget that I just drove 90 miles round trip for ABSOLUTELY no reason.

Just forget the boatload of things I could have been productively completing at home.

Just forget that now I’ll likely have to pull Cass out of school for an appointment that seems entirely ridiculous to begin with.

No biggie.

It’s just time right?

I’m thinking that when I go in for this next appointment I’m going to smuggle in some white-out.

I plan on making a few friendly revisions to the “missed appointments” policy they so proudly display.

This is our school district’s second and final week of spring break.

Spring break is another of the things I have a love/hate relationship with.

Love it because I don’t have to get up at the butt crack o’ dawn and get jiggy with the making of lunches, the brushing of hair, the conquering of battles over what’s on the breakfast menu.

Hate it because dealing with the constant bickering of bored children isn’t exactly my idea of a break.  Spring or not.

Having the kids at home also puts a bit of a crimp in the doing of my to-do list.

And my March to-do list has suddenly gotten perhaps the teensiest bit out of hand.

It includes:
- FINALLY finishing our wills.
- painting the laundry room in preparation for our soon to be delivered spiffy new front-loaders!!!
- taxes
- agent letters

UGH.  See what I mean?

I’ve been procrastinating on the wills for obvious reasons.  Call me crazy but somehow the thought of leaving the children orphaned doesn’t have me itching to put pen to paper.  Or hands to keyboard as the case may be.

The laundry room should actually be quite fun though.  In spite of the painting.  I plan to take pictures from start to finish so that will be forthcoming soon.

Taxes.  Blech.  I don’t think an explanation is required.

And the agent letters.  Oh yes, those.  My gal pal, Wendy, has been bugging me via email to get my novel published (thanks Wendy!).  As has Torri.  It’s something I absolutely need to do.  I realize this.  I really can’t say what my hesitation is.  Fear of rejection?  Quite possibly.

I keep a letter (dated Sept., 2007) in my datebook.  It was sent from a hotshot New York City literary agency.  They had responded to my initial query letter in which I sought representation for my book.  I can’t even convey to you the ways in which my heart leapt when they called (yes, called!) asking to see the first four chapters.  I promptly complied of course.  But a few weeks later the rejection letter arrived.  I wasn’t the least bit surprised honestly; getting accepted by a literary agent is no small feat.  I was deterred though, apparently, because I’ve been fairly lax in sending letters to prospective agents ever since.  I’ve held on to that rejection letter though.  I guess I keep it to remind myself that if I got an agent’s attention once, I can certainly get it again.

I’ve done some research and I’ve come up with seven brand new agents to pursue.  I plan to send the first of those letters this week.

Wish me luck.

Lots and lots of it.

If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook you may recall my recent run-in with a bandage.  For those of you that don’t, let me just say that it’s entirely possible to rip off a sizable chunk of skin when one attempts to quickly remove a bandage.

Ouch.

I’ve since learned that perhaps the extra dollar spent on the name brand product is a worthy investment.  Ahem.

And that, of course, got me to thinking about other products that I gladly shell out extra waddage for rather than suffer through an inferior generic counterpart.

I thought I’d share.

Because I’m nothing if not considerate.

That, and this post sorta kinda falls in line with your favorite carnival and mine, Jo-Lynne’s What I Learned This Week.

So here ya go:

- Boxed scalloped potatoes.  Au Gratin too.
- Cream of chicken soup.  Because the Campbell’s version doesn’t have those dull grey floaters that I can only assume are liver remnants.  Or worse: gizzards.  Ick.
- Ice cream.
- Orange juice.
- Toilet paper.
- Dishwasher detergent.  It may be just my imagination but it seems like the cheap stuff leaves an even worse film on my glasses than the national brands do.
- Lotion.

Then there are those generic/store brand products that I feel perform just as well as the national brands.

- Napkins.
- Pantry basics like flour, sugar, baking powder, salt.
- Over the counter medications.
- Boxed pastas (I’m talking strictly pasta here, not the mac’n'cheese or fettuccine Alfredo).
- Condiments: mustard, olives, pickles.

And, believe it or not, I actually know of one generic product that I prefer over the national brand.

- Turkey bacon.  The store brand is WAY less greasy than the Oscar Mayer stuff.

So there you have it, my completely unscientific observations.

By all means, chime in with anything I’ve overlooked. :)  And then head over to Musings of A Housewife to absorb the shared knowledge!