I dodged another bank trip.

Why must my sons' first Tooth Fairy experience begin with a medical procedure?  Because, since he was born, nothing was just normal for him.  Poor dude.  (He can't stand being called a "dude."  FYI)  I knew this was coming, as we saw the tooth sprout up during nightly flossing a couple of months ago.
For the few here that have children of my childrens' ages, yes, you have to floss their teeth each night.  If not, you will begin teaching your child poor dental habits and they will have poor dental experiences because of it.  And while I'm up here, (my proverbial soap box) your young children are not able to properly care for their own teeth, therefore, you must assist in brushing their teeth from the time they are 6 months until around 7 or 8 years old.  I am not even kidding.  (Stepping down, but not too far from the box, as I have other things to address about raising children, and this one was relevant.)  The baby tooth in its' way was not the slightest bit loose.  Of course.  That would be too easy. So, once the new tooth reached the height of the baby tooth, the dentist has to pull it.  And while he was there, he took the tooth next to it, as the adult tooth there was just about to pop out of the gums there as well.  I guess we forgot to tell my boy migit that he was having his teeth extracted.  I guess it didn't matter, as he didn't know about it.  When he was brought out to me, I asked for his teeth.  He was confused.  I asked him if he knew he had his teeth taken out.  He did not know.  When I asked if he felt the shot, he was, to say the least, flabbergasted.  He actually ran looking for a mirror.  He laughed when he saw it.  He had never been numbed, and made funny faces all afternoon until it wore off.  So, at six years, eight months, he loses his first teeth.  He has been a medical marvel to us.

When discussing possibly losing his teeth and having the Tooth Fairy visit one day, our son said that he wants a silver dollar, since the last time my niece spent the night, she lost a tooth that day, and the tooth fairy, who looked a lot like her Aunt Erin, (just sayin') left a silver dollar for her.  He was very impressed with that.  Well, when I called to tell his Grandma about this, she hinted that the Tooth Fairy needs to be prepared for tonight, and then it dawned on me-- the Tooth Fairy is out of silver dollars!  I know, how can that be, right?  Well, I texted the Tooth Fairy partner, which happens to be a "domestic" partner, and no, it doesn't have to be homosexual partner, but rather, one I have domesticated.  Anywho, not naming names, the un named "domesticated" non homo texted back a picture of two silver dollars.  Phew, as I certainly was not capable of walking back into the bank for this event.  As we all know how the last visit went.  I had two migits with me this time as well, and while I would not have to carry anyone, I would have had to hand the teller a note to try to explain the situation without the migits hearing my request,  and I bet that would cause alarm.  I am not into "alarm."  You get that, right?

I am headache free right now.  I had a migraine beginning earlier today, but took a migraine medicine, Axert, and am feeling much better.  I have struggled with migraines for as long as I can remember.  I must have been a young teen when they started.  I find that I have a much sharper sense of humor, focus, and attention while I have a migraine.  I also have a fantastic sense of humor when I am nervous.  So, as you can tell, I am pain free and very comfortable, as this blog is uninspiring.  However, two summers ago, Geoff decided that I needed to take control of the migraines, and begin treatment with a neurologist, again.  So, I went, and really liked the neurologist, and she was going to aggressively treat my migraines.  We started with two medicines that she thought would act as a migraine prophylaxis.  (Meaning, stop the headache before it started.)  Well, it didn't work.  So, after two months, she decided to stop one of the medications, and switch it to a similar type of drug.  The next day, was a Saturday.  I woke up and felt nausea's.  Then, I began having electrical current type feelings in my brain.  At which point, I was pretty sure this was a reaction to either the new medication, or withdrawals from the one I had stopped the day before. We put a call in to the on call neurologist and waited.  Then, the skin crawling began.  I was nauseous, and every part of me was miserable.  We got a call later that night and most pharmacies were closed.  Geoff spoke with the neurologist, and she called in a prescription, and I told Geoff that it was late, and that he could just pick it up first thing in the morning and I would be fine until then.  I went to sleep in the guest bed, since I didn't know if I would be up all night and didn't want to bother Geoff and his sleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I heard the boy migit coughing, and then he called for me.  Geoff is deaf, and I knew he didn't hear any of this, so I ran out of bed, and grabbed him from the top bunk and whisked him into the master bedroom, threw him on the bed, turned the light on, and yelled at Geoff that our boy child had croup, and to call 911.  He didn't hear much of what I said, as he truly has hearing loss, and doesn't sleep with his hearing aides in.  At that exact moment, I felt like I was going to pass out.  I couldn't see or hear much, and I went over to the toilet to either vomit or give myself a swirly.  I was sure either one would feel better than I was feeling at that time.  Geoff looked over at me, and I saw the fear in his eyes.  He said, "What's wrong with you?  You are white!"  I swear, I thought this was a silly  time to go over my ethnicity, and I had assumed this was not news to him.  I managed to look up into the mirror and saw that my face, lips and all, were totally white.  The only thing I could think at that moment was how pissed I was that I had not written out all of of our sons' supplements he was on, and how I was going to die and have poo all over the place.  I do remember the  police showed up first, and I was taken by ambulance to the hospital, and then Geoff came with my non communicative/relational jock strap to have our son looked at.  I don't remember much else though.  I swear, if he had not woken up with croup, I might have not woken up that night.  Turns out, I should have titrated off that one medication, and I was fine within the week.  Blood pressure returned, and I have my medical marvels' medical issues to thank for being here today.

PS  This is the last time I am spending the entire blog trying to conceal the "migits" names.  I know that the few of you reading this are family, or want to be, so I guess it's a non-safety issue.  And even if you shared it, you didn't share it with psychopaths, right?  Go ahead, share it.  And just maybe,  I can make the term "migit" better for the entire world.  Or, at least, desensitize one very tall migit fearing man.

No fries or Chapstick for you!

We live off of road that has a lot of shopping and fast food restaurants on it.   Often, we drive by and see the employees, in uniform, walking to their job.  I often feel led, especially in extreme weather, rain, heat, cold, just about any weather, to stop and offer a lift up the street to their jobs.  The very first time I stopped was about two summers ago.  Girl child was 3 1/2, and boy child was 4 1/2.    He never really did talk much, but the female offspring has a very extensive vocabulary, and enjoys hearing herself talk ;o)  I'm not sure where she gets that from, but I have an idea.  (I like to to talk so much so, that I found another medium for it.  You are reading it.)   The Hispanic Wendy's employee was probably in her 40's, and it was so hot that you could see the mirage of heat in front of us that day.  It was insanely hot that summer.  That was the summer I began letting the kids each bring a cold water or juice to the lifeguards.  I felt so bad for those kids.  Anyway, I saw her, and stopped and asked it she wanted a lift.  It was probably just another 1/2 a mile, but I just knew it would make a difference.  She quickly hopped in.  The migits said nothing.  I tried to make nervous small talk about the weather, and she just smiled and nodded her head.  As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, that's when it happened.  I could see the kids getting excited.  We would get Wendy's fries as a treat on occasion when we would go to my parents' cabin in Hiawassee.  The lady pointed to where she wanted me to pull around the back, which is by the drive through, and I just said out loud, "No!  We are not getting fries!"  (I swear my girl migit was going to ask for fries.) I know that the lady was confused, but at least she had a story to tell her coworkers that day about a crazy lady with two kids.

I take great pride in the fact that my children are not "get-inskies."  I have lots of friends with kids that get into lots of things and cause major laughter for the rest of us when we see what they have ruined or gotten into.  Poor Lisa has a boy child that took a knife to a leather seat.  Scarlett has a daughter that likes to draw- on the wall.  I think that same migit found make up once too.  Well, we don't have make up here in this house.  Luckily, I have been really lucky that my kids don't really get into much.  Well, tonight, I was getting dinner ready as I was headed out the door the minute Geoff walked in to attempt the same routine as last night, sans E.R.  Well, I got dinner on the table, called the kiddos down, and knew Geoff would be thankful that I had prepared everything before I left.  Well, girl child shows up first and sits down, looks at me, and bats her eyelashes.  I notice that her eyebrows are this greasy pinkish color.  I didn't notice the rest of her face.  I asked, "What is on your face?"  She says, "My cherry Chapstick."  End of story, she did it because she thought it was "stylish."  Sadly, she looked more clown-ish, and when her brother showed up, I was even more disturbed by his "make up" attempt.  Stylish and fruitish... They both saw that I was not pleased with this choice, and my daughter had this smile on her face, cocked her head, and shook it and said, "This is not good, but it's funny right?"  How could I not laugh.  She just has a way of being a little too mature for her age.  (It's like she is a grown up version of her looking in on her antics sometimes.)  Weird, but yes, funny.  I was grateful that Geoff walked in then.  I am not one to deal with removing that grease from anything.  (I spazz out over petroleum jelly, in it's many forms.)  I have way too many issues to keep up with.  But I have just added Chapstick to it.  Chapstick in the hands of babes now trumps the Chapstick on the list.  Chapstick, in the hands of Scarlett's daughter... The list can go on.

Pajamas, Pooping Rainbows and Progesterone

So, I guess I miss out on the mother of the year award 6 years running.  Today, I went to work out this morning during the migit's swim team practice.  However, due to some practice change ups and weather, we ended up having a mini ribbon ceremony and snack, then a 20 minute practice outside in the rain.  Not enough time to hit the elliptical, or water aerobics at that time.  So, I arranged to meet a friend for water aerobics at 6:30 tonight, and I was to leave when Geoff got home at six.

We ran around all day until three, then I let the kids play while I got in an hour nap.  Everything seemed fine.  Geoff got home, I pulled out the left overs from last nights' dinner, and headed out the door.  I was really enjoying my workout, when halfway though, a front desk employee entered the pool area.  I looked  at her and got this sinking feeling.  She only comes in an emergency.  In the 15 seconds it took for her to enter the indoor pool door to make it to where I was, I had already told my girlfriend that she only comes to bring bad news.  She came to tell me my husband called. He was taking my son to the emergency room.  Fantastic.  He just got new hearing aides recently, and just today, I had to drop them off at his audiologist's office to have some adjustments made.  He will get them back next week.  Great, a practically deaf man taking my son to the hospital.  So I call him.  He says that boy migit is complaining of chest pains.  He's 6 1/2 and probably is having reflux.  Whatever, he already told him he was taking him, and if I denied them of this trip, he would have probably freaked out.  So I told him fine, I'd meet him in the parking lot and take the girl child home.   I literally threw on my cover up and took off my bathing suit in the matter of minutes, and forgot to put on my panties.  I did manage to remember in the parking lot at the hospital.  You're welcome sad little man stuck watching those surveillance videos.  They pulled in right behind me, and off we went to look like a family from those Walmart pictures.  I used to shamelessly go grocery shopping in pajamas, and now,  a beach cover up is humiliating.  True story.

As we are walking in, I do my best to figure out what was going on.  I think it sounds like an acute case of reflux, and when I said this, my son, shrieks, "Reflux?!  Oh no!"  If he only knew that the cure all for that is a candy flavored antacid, he might not have been so impressed with my diagnosis.   And if you have been reading along this blog, you will have learned that "acute" means recent onset, and therefore, you have been educated by an uneducated, pajama wearing grocery shopper.  Just stating the obvious here.

This is totally irrelevant, however, I have this off fear of seeing a car accident.  I am totally not into blood and guts unless I am in a setting that can treat, drug it, or send it somewhere else to be treated or drugged.  Anyway, shortly after Geoff and I got married, we came up to a motorcycle accident that we saw happening up ahead of us on a busy highway.  Geoff and I came to a stop, as the motorcyclist was partially on the rode still.  Geoff implored me to go help.  I am not sure what made him think  I could help, since my medical assistant certification never covered EMT work.  He kept saying I should go help.  The truth is, I saw movement, and finally, after he kept telling me to go, all I could come up with was that the only thing I could do was take a pulse, and I didn't even have a watch, and I doubt that would help her.  I did go, and she insisted on taking her helmet off, the one and only thing I kept asking her to not do.  See, I was useless.

While I was waiting for the next few hours of phone calls to come, and they did, all 5 of them to get us to the point of them walking in around 11:PM, I decided to get girl migit to bed.  That is about a 30 minute process of changing into pj's, teeth, books and prayers.  I told her to go take her clothes down and put into the washer.  We always do that.  However, she told me that she knew there was nothing to be afraid of, however, she was afraid, and preferred not going.  I decided to try to stay a step ahead of her, and scare her.  I explained that she was wrong.  That, there was in fact something to fear in the dark.  A boogie man.  And that he waits until dark, and if she went down there, he would be handing out lollipops.  Sometimes the lollipops had gum in them.  Other times, it would have enough money to buy an American Girl doll with.  At which point she wanted to know what would happen if she ate it.  I then went on to explain the serious process of eating money from the inside of a boogey man lollipop.  You simply poop it out and it comes out a rainbow into a pot of gold and then you can just take your money and go shopping.  (I am not even making this up.  Well, the whole boogey man thing, but not me telling her.  I swear I told her all this.)  I put it on Facebook tonight because I swear, I must have some drugs left in me from the 90's, or last week, but whatever, I want you people to know that the mother of the year award was hard won- by someone else.  

Back to tonights' episode of "Let's interrupt mommy's work out routine and take a jaunt to the local emergency room."  So, Geoff, hearing aide less, takes Charlie in, and I stay long enough to see the whole subjective/objective part of the visit, and then take off assuming that they are going to see that nothing is wrong and send him home in an hour.  Wrong, the next call I get it around 2 hours later.  He is going for a chest xray.  I assume because the EKG they did on a six year old showed that his heart was as healthy as a six year olds????  The call after that was to inform me that he was getting Adderal and progesterone.  At which point I knew that something was very wrong, and my decision to get out of a ER visit was a poor one made up entirely of selfish reasons and if my son came home in need of finding his testicles, it was going to be totally my fault.  Adderall is a medicine used for attention deficit disorder.  Progesterone is a hormone... a female one at that.   After a little game of, "Let me try to guess on what he might be getting" I figured it out.  He got albuterol and prednisolone.  His o2 sat was low, and he was wheezing.  RAD.  For the medical peeps, they get it.  For those not- sorry, I really can not continue to educate you with my pajamas on.

"I like wet nuts."

Today was one of those really awesome, beautiful weather, great friends, awesome atmosphere type days.  I am never more grateful than a weekend where I get to spend my time with my family.  I have my last job to thank for that.  And my family.  Oh, and G-d.  It would be wrong not to thank him.  After watching at least one award show in my lifetime, I learned that.

My last job, prior to becoming a stay at home mom was working at an urgent care that was open seven days a week, 363 days a year.  Except leap years, and those were all screwy, so I'm not so sure about those years.  I had to work Christmas Eve's, Fourth of July, Easter, Groundhog day, Nurse's day (which seemed very oxymoron-ish if you ask me), and ALL the dead presidents birthdays.  Well, not all, but the lot that got a holiday.  I was grateful for the three day work week, however, it was horrifically depressing to work on holidays and weekends, because I am that person that actually enjoys my family, more than the time off from work. I felt this guilt from not being with my family, and even greater guilt for all the Masses I missed.  I never take these things for granted now.  Every day I thank Him for providing for me.

Today was a festival and friend filled day in Cherokee County, where we live.  We knew the festival that was coming into town, called the Rock and Wing festival.  There was rock and roll cover bands, and they were having chicken wing contests from local wing restaurants.  We didn't even see that side of the festival.  Our migits enjoyed the free bounce houses and our family friend met us there to walk and talk.  It wasn't too hot, the sun was shining, and two and a half hours later, it was time to leave, and we only spent $3 on a bag of cotton candy.  The best part of the festival was this one bounce house that was an alligator shaped blow up thing that they exited through the ass.  I loved it.

We went home and shared dinner with two friends, and had a really great dessert.  It was a-mazing.
Thank you Lisa!

Ice Cream Sandwich Frozen Cake

(I made up the title.  Call it poo in a dish and I'd still have a bite.)

Line dish with ice cream sandwiches.  layer fudge, caramel, and more sandwiches, and more fudge and caramel, then spread whipped cream on top, sprinkle nuts on top, and freeze.  Which brings me to a "Brett-ism."

Brett and I worked at the urgent care together.  And Brett was a foodie.  He was fun to eat with.  Sadly, I could not keep up with him.  He had surgery that allowed him to consume ridiculous amounts of food, and I did not.  Hence, I only had a Slimfast all day prior to dinner, since I knew this dessert was coming  ;o)  Anywho.. Brett and I were in the break room, eating.  Shocker, I know.  I swear, my 12 hour shift was divided like this...

8:30:ish to 9:15 AM eat, make coffee, run controls on lab, count the narcotics

9:15 AM- 9:PM eat, make coffee, clean up after eating, make more coffee, count the narcotics again to make sure that none accidentally found there way into our eating or coffee routine while some doctors slept or others tortured us with bad accents or obscene music that you wouldn't let your dog hear.

So, we were eating and drinking coffee, before work.  (We ate before, during, after, in between, on top of..)  So, we were sitting there talking about eating, while eating. Talking about it was almost as good as doing it sometimes.  I feel the same is true of other great things in life.  Geri worked there with us.  Anyone who knows Geri knows that she occasionally wets herself just looking at pictures of food.  I guess she is a foodie too.  She is just a naturally skinny one, and that sort of pisses me off.  But she is nice anyway.  When you feed her.  Back to the story.  So we, Brett and I, were discussing ice cream.  Then toppings.  I like fudge.  Which might say a little too much about me.  Anyway, there was a bit of a lull in the conversation, and I guess some might call if a pregnant pause,  I'm not sure, but I see it as just extremely awkward as it appeared the conversation was over.  A bit later, Brett breaks the silence with "I like wet nuts."  At first I thought, don't judge.  Maybe he just feels comfortable enough to share this unnecessary bit of information with you for a reason.  OR, maybe he just thought I might be able to help him with this since he knew that my grandmother grew something that may or may not have been a testicle.  Maybe he thought I was comfortable talking about nuts since I never found a topic not worth talking about, especially those should only happen in my head or with shock therapy readily accessible.  I guess my laughter disturbed him, and he decided to share that he liked wet nuts on his ice cream.  Regardless, I still think his wife should be privy to such information.  This would be the same wife that delivered my second migit, and when I asked Geoff to not tell me if I was pooping while I was pushing that child out, he looked at the midwife, nodded, looked at me and said, "Okay."  Wink.  Grrr.  I wish my ex-coworkers wife didn't have to see that.

So, what have we learned?  First, I love spending my days with my family and friends, that Brett likes his nuts wet, and that grandma might have had an endocrine disorder, and I poop when delivering children.  Enjoy the ice cream sandwich cake recipe! (With or without nuts.)

A dying mans' shame

My medical career was really rewarding, and I loved everything from IV's to x-rays.  I especially enjoyed working internal medicine.  Generally, those are older patients, and I have always felt particularly comfortable with that crowd.  

Dr. Greer was an amazing internist to work for.  It was my first job out of internship.  I began in his office as a phlebotomist extern, and that was a cluster.  I was terrible.  However, the one thing I will never forget my phlebotomy instructor saying was, "If nothing else, have confidence."  Well, I had NOTHING else, but a ton of that stuff.  Didn't seem to help with my skill.  And to be honest with you, I doubt that my confidence did much for the patients' comfort level by my 3rd stick.  One patient was unnecessarily irate when I was fully ready, got into the vein, and asked if he wouldn't mind helping since I forgot the tubes.  I don't think he should have used foul language.  It's not like it hurt or anything.  I felt nothing.  

Well, on Dr. Greer and the lead nurses' suggestion, I went onto medical assistant school.  (G-d bless Beverly Hensley,  RN, as she is the reason I loved doing what I did for so long.)  

Went to school Monday through Friday from early in the morning until noon, then went to work from 12:30 PM-5:PM each day.  I studied my tail off each night, and babysat every Saturday night for this family with two great kids, and I also got half the tuition from my Grandmother who wanted to see me succeed in something.  I graduated alpha beta kapa (not sure what that means, but I think it's something good) and wasn't tardy or missed a day of school throughout the nine month course.  My sperm donor  even drove me to school and picked me up a few days after I broke a toe and couldn't drive one week.  (The school was about 25 minutes away and in Atlanta traffic.)    

It was during my time of school and work that one night, right before our last patient was ready to leave, we got a call from the assisted living from across the street.  We saw many of their clients, and had a nice working relationship.  But this night was just not what we thought it was going to be.  The call from the nurse there said that this very elderly gentleman was in the dying process of congestive heart failure.  He refused their suggestion to be taken by ambulance to the hospital, and they finally talked him into coming across the street to us, and it was understood, between them and us, that the doctor would do a courtesy exam and send him on to the hospital.  Since I came in at lunch time each day, I was most often the one to get sucked into staying late with patients.  So, everyone left, and it was just the doc and me.  They come.  I take him back, and proceed with my most professional and newly learned terminology I can muster.  

Me- Why are we here tonight?

Him- I don't want to talk about it.

Me- Oh, that's okay, I've heard it all. (Not really, and please don't tell me that you are dying since I haven't gotten to that chapter yet.  All I knew about death at that time was that the deceased generally poops and pees on themselves and that part was really grossing me out.)  

Him- I'd rather not talk about this in front of a lady.  

Me- Well, I need to write something down.  What will Dr. Greer be seeing you for?

Him-  I got sweaty balls. 

Me- What the hell?  (No, that's not right.  I wanted to say that, but I know that's not what I said.  But wouldn't it have been appropriate?)  

Me- (for real) Is this an acute problem? (See, I learned lots of terminology in school.  Had to start using it sometime.)    

Him- Ma'am, there's nothing cute about it!  

(Acute means a recent, not an ongoing issue.)  At which point, I mumbled something and got his vitals and walked out, and just had this look on my face.  Dr. Greer smiled, and said, "What?"  I could not even answer him.  All I could do was point at the chart.  He was writing in another chart, and asked me to fill him in.  I just couldn't.  I just pointed again at the closed chart.  Curiosity got him, and while holding his spot on the chart he was working on, he flipped mine open.  I think he would have done better just thinking this patient was here for a quick once over and professional prompting to be taken to a hospital.  There are few times in all my years of working in the medical field that I can remember every moment of my time with a patient.  He was one of those for me.  

PS  I turned out to be a very skilled phlebotomist by the end of my career.  Persistence.  That's all I got to say 'bout that.  

At least I don't panic over small things. (Like migits)

It's like I just won the lottery or something.  I don't know why this number seemed magical to me, but it did.  I didn't do anything to get to it.  In fact, I stopped working out and it happened.  199.6.  YEA ME!  Under 200 lbs.  Now that's an achievement.  I swear, I worked out like a mad woman for a few months, and I gained two lbs.  I stop and decide to count calories, and by "count,"  I mean count and STOP at some pre-determined point.  I think I had tried this once before, but skipped a step.  You figure it out.  Anyway, by my standards, I am starving myself.  But I think this is how you are really supposed to eat.  Not sure, but it is working.  Five lbs. down since starting last Saturday, and kind of enjoy the restrictions of this dietary lifestyle.  I ate a Jello Jiggler yesterday and thought I did the math correctly, then realized that I am not a math major, and because you double the Jello ingredient, and half the water, and there is a full moon on it's way, I ingested way more calories than I appreciated for that little squishy square of tongue-gasm.  Won't make that mistake again.  (I will make my own sugar free ones and can eat the whole batch and pray that G-d realizes that cancer from that chemical would give me an anxiety attack.)  So, when you see me, please notice the few lbs. of water weight that I lost.  Thanks.

So, I have had anxiety since I was a teenager.  I started seeing Polly after I overdosed on a drug.  I'm such an overachiever.  It is not worth doing unless you overdo it.  Really.  That is how I do everything.  I teach myself to sew little girl dresses, and I make 20 of them.  I decide to grow miniature roses in my old bedroom in my parents' house as a young 20-something, and I put plant lights up and should have opened a shop.  I found out about this thing called a "cake pop," and I thought I had found my calling.  My friends and family were certainly fans of that craze.  So, the obsessive in my went undiagnosed, but the anxiety part is kind of quirky.  Anyway, Polly was my therapist, and to this day, I think she did more harm than good when she opened Pandora's box.  She got me to open up and discuss things totally unrelated to the drug abuse, and she probably thought that is why I did the drugs.  No, I did the drugs because I liked them.  Simple.  Not because of rape at an early age.  Not because my father loved me conditionally.  Not because I didn't fit in.  Not because I grew up poorer than poor in an affluent area.  Just because I liked the way I felt on them.  So, she got me to open up about all that stuff, I came home with my first real anxiety attack, and as a teenager, laid on our couch watching Little Mermaid and had my mom cuddle me for hours through it.  Then the fear of falling asleep began, and I slept on a cot in my parents room for a while.  Yeah, that's not so cool.  But neither is anxiety.  No elevators, no traffic jams, and certainly not being stuck in that part of the Disney ride for Winnie the Pooh where it's the real trippy part of Heffalumps and Woozles.  And yes, by some sick twist of fate, this year, we took our first ever vacation, went to Disney since it is the most magical place to Geoff and I, and yes, we were stopped in that exact location- TWICE!  

I don't go into banks, post offices, or gas stations.  The one time I did go into a bank in recent history, I really wish I had gotten a tape of that visit.  So, a couple of years ago, I inherited a large amount of money.  My grandparents had both passed away, and their money was divided to split between their two daughters.  My mom's sister,  decided to split her half in fourths, so that each of the four grandchildren, her two children, and my brother and I, would each get a portion. (I think that is an eighth of the total, but like I said, I was not a math major.)  Well, honestly, that amount of money is the reason we are not in debt or homeless at this point.  I have been resourceful with it, but the generosity of it really makes me grateful every single day that I get to stay at home and raise my children during these formative years.  We didn't take extravagant vacations, or eat out, or go to a movie every week.  We paid off our cars, took our first and only vacation in 10 years, and recovered my son with the resources.  No, I can't loan you any money.  

So, I received this VERY large check, and went through the drive through to deposit it.  The teller sent it back, and said that I would have to come in to deposit that.  I don't know why.  It still doesn't make sense to me.  It's not like I had the cash in hand and tried to shove it into the little plastic canister that they stick lollipops in or anything.  Anyway, so I came home.  I went back two more times, and finally 

had the guts to walk into the bank.  I walk in with both migits, and this was a few years ago, so they were much younger.  I think so much so, that girl migit was in my arms, and boy migit was holding my hand.  And then decided to lay on the floor beside me.  Then he took his shoes off, and I was holding a child, trying to get another to get his shoes and keep up with me in line, and looking around nervously the entire time waiting on the robber to come in.  I think I looked more suspicious that most masked robbers do, but that is besides the point.  It's my turn, and I don't want to explain my freakish anxiety of being there, so I put the check and deposit slip down and the teller says, "Hi, how are you today?"  I swear, this is what I said, "Fine.  Hurry please."  I wasn't even looking at her.  I had my eyes trained on the door to where all robbers walk in.  I assumed that might have caused her some alarm, so it was a few seconds later that I explained my situation, and that I think she is a hero for coming into work every day.  I nervously explained that the money I was depositing was inherited  from my grandparents, and that my grandfather was a furrier, and while I loved him more than I can properly express with words, I do not agree with the wearing of fur for warmth, and that the money was not left for me specifically, but rather, my aunt, who oddly enough, was a teller before she retired.  Whew!  Luckily for me, the transaction was complete by the end of my story, but don't you think that would have been more funny to watch on video than to read in one nasty run on sentence/paragraph?  

While I could treat this disorder, I can't, since the idea of what the Zanax might make me feel like gives me anxiety.  I did take crazy high doses of an anti anxiety medication on the suggestion, I mean request, of an internal medicine doctor I worked  for.  I took so much, that by month three of this dosage I found myself skinny dipping in the apartment pool and doing things I would have ordinarily thought only people high on drugs would be capable of.  I think I was.  Oh, tornadoes.  Those are a huge anxiety attack waiting while I live in GA.  However, they do become a natural colonic for me, and am usually lighter hours after the sirens have stopped.    And public restrooms where you have to lock the door.  What if I can't get out?  However, if you think about it, a tornado siren going off while I am in a public restroom would probably do wonders for my weight loss goals.  And lest we not forget the flesh eating bacteria, clowns, migits and the Little Drummer Boy song.   Oh wait, those are not mine.  Those belong to someone else.  Phew.  That would be too much to burden.  I'm fine with my concoction of ridiculouslesness.  Look it up.  It might not be a word.  

EA

One of My Jockstraps Won't Talk to Me

So tonight was the migits first ever swim meet.  I swear I was more excited than the two of them together. Well, not entirely true.  Girl migit was really excited.  Boy migit doesn't get excited about something his little brain can not conceptualize.  It causes more anxiety than excitement for the autistic in him.  The boy in him enjoyed the food and seeing his cousin and grandparents there to cheer him on with Geoff and me. I loved every second of it. 

Before we left the house, I told the migits to get their suits on.  They had just gotten them in from our coaches this past week, and told they are not to wear them unless it is a meet.  So, the "uniform" itself was an exciting thing.  They put them on, and immediately boy migit begins complaining about how he felt it in between his bottom.  Then, the tag was bothersome.  Girl child was content with the way she looked, and sat in front of the mirror until I bribed her away by promising to take some pictures of her.  Awkward. You see why I won't let her play with Barbie????  That's for another blog.  Boy child was not thrilled about the whole sensory of the suit, so I then explained that he would have to wear the swim cap as well.  We tried it on, as we had never done that before.  All I can say is, he wasn't the biggest fan of the whole swim thing by this point, and I began to wonder if he would even enjoy the meet since this was hours long, in the heat, with some nylon sinking into his tushie.  

We arrive there in plenty of time to then use permanent marker on my kids to write down their names, events, heats and lines.  No, I did not know most of that terminology when I got there. I am just using it because it sounded fancy.  And everyone who knows me, knows that I am all about sounding fancy.  Acting a fool, but sounding all fancy like.   So we take care of everything, and I find out that for some reason, I am free to watch the kids and not have a volunteer position.  This worked out well, as I had my folks and niece to hang out with.  I know they will probably not make it to another meet, and I was grateful for my kids' sake for the extra support.  For this, I will call them jockstraps.  After all, they were athletic supporters.  I love my jockstraps.  Most of them.  I don't talk to one of the jockstraps, but we all have our issues.  I think my book will be titled, "Why One of My Jockstraps Won't Talk to Me." If I were to purchase a book, I think that would grab my attention.  I don't buy books, as I am poor, but when I write it, you should buy it,  Then I could buy myself a book.  

Geoff showed up near the beginning of the meet, and saw all three events for each child.   It was cloudy, not too hot, everyone was happy and supportive, and I was enjoying it all.  But I am glad I didn't have to work the bullpen tonight.  It was undeniable that the boy offspring was not enjoying as much as his peers.  His neurotypical peers.  I always refer to children without autism as neurotypical.  It is at those moments that I see his struggles that make me sad and realize he is stuck in this autism world that I will never fully understand.  Most of that is because he doesn't know the words to share with me.  And if he did, he still can't, because severe apraxia at almost 7 years old makes him almost unintelligible.  

The meet was at a neighborhood that most of his classmates live in, and we saw a number of friends from his class there on the opposing team.  The children were very excited to see each other, and near the end, boy child was happy to hear that I had seen some of his friends.  That recovered me enough to not be sad for him.  He says he had a good time, but I know if his sister wasn't already making her plans for next years' team, he would not do it again.  But he adores her, and wants everything like his little sister.  He wants so badly to enjoy things like her.  When she doesn't like a food he loves, he stops liking it.  I guess I'm just lucky that they have each other.  I looked over their direction and I saw the two of them, side by side, and saw a smile on one face, and the other smile because he saw her doing it.   His favorite thing to watch when I allow Netflix is My Little Pony.  One day, he will find his joy in activity on his own.  And I will be able to afford it, because you had bought my book about an un-named "jockstrap" that won't talk to me because I know that that Jesus loves me.  "Jesus and the Jockstrap."  Does that sound catchier than my first title?  Would it be wrong to try to make money off a book with Jesus's name in the title?