My kid.... and my money go to Texas Children's

Every single time I go to the grocery store, I am asked to donate a dollar for this or for that. Some days, I feel giving and I donate that dollar. Other days, it pisses me off that they are always asking me for money. Just let me go to the damn store without hounding me. Geez, I already quit church because they wouldn't leave me alone about giving extra money for their stupid sports facility when I couldn't even pay my electric bill at the time. Sometimes, I just want to get my groceries, and be done with it.

All I needed today was milk and dish soap. That's it. And it was hot. So hot that my car never cooled off the whole drive there and back. So perhaps, I wasn't in the best mood when the sweet checker girl asked me,

"Would you like to donate a dollar to Texas Children's?"

Probably that is why I snapped back,

"I think I have already donated enough of my damn money to the stupid place."

I'll blame the heat. And the fact that I am feeling bitter about all the problems Emmi is having lately.

Thriller

I can't even begin to tell you how much this shit cracks me up. This shit is the solution to our prison problems. Imagine if every inmate was made to dance all day and preform for the community?




Apparently, these inmates stayed up all almost all night Friday learning this dance as a tribute to Michael Jackson.

Pretties.

We went to Lowe's to get caulk, instead, we come home with these pretties.

The best part? They were half off, because they were scratched (Who gives a shit? Not me! Well, at least not when a little scratch equals $1000.00.) and last years' model. Hell to the yes. Plus, they gave us the pedestals for $50 bucks, and they are normally $278 a piece! FYI Lowe's clearance always kicks ass on Sundays... we once got a $280 sink for $25, because it was discontinued.

Now if you will excuse me, I will be busy rewashing all of my already clean clothes.

Father's Day

It's funny how Kenny spends all year long taking care of, playing with, and, well, being a father to both kids. Then Father's Day rolls around, and neither kid will be here. Suddenly, both of the girls' dads remember they are dads when there are presents involved. Jill and I spent a good twenty minutes picking out a Father's Day card (for Kenny, she actually did not ask nor did it occur to either of us to get one for her biological father), and none of them said

"Thanks for donating your sperm, ignoring my phone calls, lying to me, and basically ignoring my presence 364 days a year. Happy Father's Day!"

nor did any of them say

"Every kid dreams of having an alcoholic who hasn't paid child support in seven years yet has money to travel the world all while never buying me a birthday present for a dad. Thanks for making my dreams come true! Happy Father's Day!"

although wouldn't you know it, we did find one for Emmi's dad that said

"Thanks for attempting to use me as a pawn to piss my mom off all those years. It hasn't worked, because we all see what an idiot you are! Lots of love and Happy Father's Day."

Broken Leg

I love how the cut on my kid's knee felt A-OK when she wanted to ride her bike and play with friends. Now that it is time to go brush her teeth and get ready for bed, she suddenly can't walk on it.

It's funny, I need to get her a water cup for bedtime, and now that I think about it, my hands don't seem to be working. Although they worked just fine to type this.

For the birds

When I was pregnant, I was good and did things like not drink a lot. Or ever. But despite following all the rules about alcohol, drugs, and caffeine (Oh, who am I kidding? As soon as I could stand the smell of coffee again, I was all about it.), something still happened to my kids. No, no, I am not talking about the obvious things like Emmi's deafness or her other conditions. I mean, sometimes, I think they just aren't right.

This morning, Emmi and I sat waiting for her bus to come. (Everybody shout, "YAY FOR SUMMER SCHOOL!") I was drinking my coffee, watching Emmi chase birds when it occurred to me. My kid chases birds, like a damn dog, so often, that I don't even think it is abnormal. Instead, I watch her, and think things like, "Wow, she is getting so much better at sneaking up on them," and "Gee, she got close to that one!" I don't wonder if other children spend hour after hour chasing birds. Oh no. I just commend her on a job well done. And you know, offer her tips.

"E Baby, I think the birds are scared of you."

She looks at me confused. "But I will hold them bery, bery carefully. With two hands! And then I will pet it bery, bery gently!"

Well, in that case, "Em you should try tip-toeing if you hope to get closer. That stompy run is tipping them off."

Emmi nods, taking note of my suggestion, then turns and tip-toes quietly towards a bird hoping around on the curb. This time she gets a mere foot away, and I cheer for her.

Encouraging my kid to chase birds? Maybe I am not right either.

Balls

I made balls. Pomanders to be exact. They are slightly lopsided, because I had some things to learn. For instance, I needed a havier guage wire for the ribbon loop and Michael's is perhaps not the best place to buy supplies. The foam came in one shape only. Brick. I had to whittle it to ball shape, and it would have been much simpler (and prettier) to just start with a ball shape. However, for my first attempt, I would say that my balls aren't half bad. Also, I think next time, instead of grocery store flowers, I might attempt something fancier.

And the award for best dressed goes to...

Emmi's "dental surgery" was today. I use the term "dental surgery" loosely. Really, she had four cavities filled, but required general anesthesia. A whole lot of hassle and stress for a whole lot of nothing. And another day spent in Texas Children's waiting room.

The night before I carefully ironed some stretch cotton pants for Emmi and a matching tank top. I found her cotton shrug and set it out to bring, as it always cold in the hospital. For myself I picked jeans, a flowing green tank top, a light summer sweater, and leather flip flops. As we entered the waiting room, I quickly discovered I was under dressed. Because everyone knows you should wear strappy high heels, a strapless tight black dress with no bra, and big dangly earrings to your kid's day surgery. I sat down next to the mom, who obviously got the what-to-wear-to-day-surgery look right, and felt ashamed of myself in my jeans.

Not only did she clearly have a better handle on the whole getting one's self dressed thing, but she clearly knew just what everyone in the waiting room wanted to hear her talk about. Loudly.

"And he was so excited to go get his baby mama. You should have seen how happy he was to finally get his baby mama that day. And he only had her for two hours ,and then he got arrested. He knew he had that warrant, but he had just got his baby mama. It just not fair."

Clearly, it wasn't fair. I mean, who gives a crap that he (whomever he was) had obviously committed a crime. HE HAD JUST GOT (from where I never did figure out...it really was rude of her to share such a good story and leave out such an important detail) HIS BABY MAMA. Leave a man alone with his baby mama for a minute. You can arrest him later, you know?

I was really sad when the nurse came to bring us back to Emmi. I was just building up the courage to ask Best Dressed Mama for her number. Obviously, I could use some pointers on my social skills, and I was sure she was just the person to help me.

Besides

With cochlear implants, Emmi hears. But the fact remains that she is still deaf, and her hearing is not now, nor will ever be, normal. She catches most of everything we say. Remarkably, given what I know from other CI users, she seems to pick up almost all of our conversations, even over background noise. In fact, unless you catch a quick flash of the red light over her ear, you probably would not even know that she has cochlear implants. However, there are times when certain words or phrases just don't come across. No matter how much we try to explain it, we still end up having two different conversations.

Jill and Emmi sat at the table drinking their hot chocolate from Starbucks. Jill had her leg propped up on the chair next to her, since she can't bend it following a tumble off her bike (seriously the grossest injury ever, but completely not the point). I could hear Jill explaining how we were now going to the museum instead of the park because of her leg.

"I can't run around, Emmi. Besides..."

"Your not five," Emmi says. Huh? I replay the last thing Jill has said trying to come up with what Emmi might have heard that sounded like "five."

Besides! "Hey, Jill! Repeat the word 'besides' clearly, while facing her. She heard 'five' not 'besides,' and it confused her," I call to Jill.

Immediately, Jill follows my instructions. "Em, Em. I said 'besides.' Not five. BE-SIDES."

"NO I AM FIVE! YOU ARE EIGHT!"

"Besides..." Jill says again, slowly and clearly.

"NOT FIVE," Emmi yells, now stomping her feet.

Giggling, Jill again says, "Besides." This time just for the sake of stirring Emmi up.

"YOU. ARE. NOT. FIVE." Emmi's fists are clenched and she glares at Jill.

"You are right I am not five, besides eight is better."

And with that, Emmi loses it, falling to the floor, crying.

The Little Couple. It's kind of like we've met her..

..or like my kid yelled at her in a crowded hallway.

Anybody remember this?




That's right. Emmi's obsession with little people began long ago at Texas Children's hospital as we sat waiting for her CT scan. Except, turns out, it wasn't a nurse. And turns out, she now has her own TV show.

The Elephant..ahem.. Little Person in the Room

Emmi has dental surgery on Friday. In order to undergo the anesthesia, she had to complete a physical examine at our general practitioner's office today. As soon as we walked into the waiting room, Emmi's eyes lit up.


A little person. Oh shit. Please, please do not let this be a repeat of the Texas Children's incident.


"Mommy, Mommy look," she cooed. "She little!" Oh crap. Not again.


Emmi loves her some little people.


I tried to redirect her. I tried to drag her to the train table, to read a book, to bribe her with a lollipop.


None of it worked.


"Mommy. She so little. So, so little!"


I quietly explained that we don't talk about the way people look. Emmi listened with a confused expression. "But, she little Mommy!"


It is hard to explain how mean it can be to discuss someone's looks when, clearly, her little looks pleased Emmi so! Mean. Pwah. She was in love! To no avail, I explained, hushed, and threatened time out.


Emmi began to pout. "But, Mommy, she so, so little..."


Frustrated, I responded. "Yes, she is little, and you are deaf. Just facts of life. What is your point?"


Emmi stared at me for a moment. "....... but she little."

Summer has arrived.

It's the first day of summer. I am both REALLY looking forward to this summer AND slightly scared of this summer. Things have been, you could say, tense around here for the past few months. I am worried that day after day of no breaks for me, no weekly lunch dates with the girls (the big girls, not the kid girls!), and no solo coffee runs is going to get to me. However, I also am so happy to have no set routine for endless days on end.

The only alarm clock that went off was Kenny's, and I had been up for thirty minutes before it even went off. There was no need to rush around and get dressed. I slowly drank my coffee. I started working two hours earlier than normal, even though I was lazy. The house is even cleaner without the morning rush of breakfast and clothing changing before the bus.

So far, so good...