ninanevermore: (Motherhood)
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Sweet Pea was in the tub the other night, and since he still cannot be trusted to wash himself very well (he rubs the washcloth over himself lightly for all of 30 seconds and says he’s done) I was there to scrub him down. He was lying on his elbows and started to turn himself over and over like a turkey on a spit, so that I was washing the front, then the back, then the front, then the back, then the front of the boy. This inspired me to sing.

“There were ten in the bed and the little one said roll over, roll over, so they all rolled over and one fell out. There were nine in the bed and the little one said…”

“Why did the little one say that?” Sweet Pea interrupted

“To make one of the others fall out so there would be more room for him,” I replied.

Sweet Pea frowned. “Why did he keep saying that?”

“So more of them would fall out.”

“Then what did he say?”

Time for a change of management. )
ninanevermore: (Motherhood)
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The report from the Meyer Developmental Center arrived in the mail over the weekend. The doctor there was kind, but she wasn’t much help. She specializes in ADHD and Autism Spectrum disorders. She thinks my 6 year old is more likely just nuts, and referred us to a psychiatrist to drug him into submission.

“I could write you a prescription for an anti psychotic medication, if you like,” she said sweetly, “But I think you would be better off getting it from a psychiatrist who specializes in these types of conditions.” Not that she could say what my son’s condition is. She also offered to write a prescription for an ADHD stimulant-type drug, if I liked that idea better. Her willingness to let me, a person who has never been to medical school, chose whether my son was prescribed a stimulant or an antipsychotic drug made me trust her judgment about as far as I could pick her up and throw her.

Doctor, doctor, there’s a hole inside my head… )
ninanevermore: (Ferris Wheel)
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I don’t drive by the Thin Place so much anymore, where Death appears as a Carney operating the giant Ferris Wheel of life and death. My commute now takes me west instead of south, where the Thin Place lies in a divided place between the northbound and southbound lanes of a minor state highway going into the northwest corner of Houston. Instead of passing by Death every day on my way to and from work, I pass by subdivisions and shopping centers and schools and lots and lots of trees. But I made a point of dropping by yesterday; there was someone I hoped to see.

It's been too long )
ninanevermore: (Default)
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I’m sore. It feels like I fell down, which I did. I don’t remember it, but my husband says I did and he’s pretty reliable. There is a tender spot on the back of my head where it hit the wall and a bruise on my right arm from hitting God-only-knows what. My shoulder feels kind of wretched, too, like I strained the muscles in it somehow. The skin on three of my fingers on my right hand is mangled from grasping the metal mini blinds. I don’t remember doing that. I do remember lying on the floor next to the window, looking up at the mini blinds and wondering how they got so mangled. I was lying on my back. The lights were on in the bedroom. My son was in his small bed at the foot of my own bed, sound asleep.

I wondered what I was doing on the floor. I was drenched in sweat, which told me my blood sugar had dropped down really low. Had I gone into convulsions? I wasn’t sure. I’m never sure about that. When my sugar gets so low that I have convulsions, I am unconscious. During the convulsions my liver releases the emergency backup glucose it saves in case I am ever being chased by a Saber Tooth Tiger (this programming was handed from my most ancient of ancestors, who would be amazed at the shots I take and the meter that tests my blood sugar. Then again, they’d be amazed to see a battery operated flashlight, too). When this fight-or-flight sugar hits my bloodstream and I come to, I’m fine. Not normal, but aware of my surroundings and able to talk.

You may ask yourself, how did I get here? )
ninanevermore: (Default)
When I worked in Records Management, I once labeled an entire file drawer cabinet as holding "Pubic Information Requests." I love this poem. It speaks to me (but only because it is making fun of me).

ninanevermore: (Default)
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On Tuesday afternoon we heard the helicopters hovering over the mall, which seemed peculiar. Kat and Scott, who sit closest to the windows, stood up to look up at the sky.

“Are they the police?” asked The Kid. The Kid is 19, and works in our department part time on days that he doesn’t go to college.

“Media,” said Scott. He sat back down and starting typing on his keyboard. “Oh, wow. A car drove into Lake Robbins, and they’re trying to get them it.”

The Car In The Lake )
ninanevermore: (Default)
[livejournal.com profile] writingmoments, you shouldn't have, but you did. Thank you for the little mystery gift on my profile. I hope St. Vanentine was good to you today. :D
ninanevermore: (Family)
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No one around my house is good at holidays, or anything that requires planning ahead, really. We are good at muddling through at the last moment. We excel at that, and do it better than anyone eles. I am certain that the secret to happiness is setting really low standards, and taking it with a grain of salf when you fail to meet even those.

I would say that today’s half-ass Valentine’s Day was pretty much typical for us, except for the part about the school nurse calling to say Sweet Pea had a fever. Since this is his first year in school, I won’t know until next year if that kind of thing is going to be a new tradition or not. Cards, chocolates, and a lemon tree. )
ninanevermore: (Default)
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Back when I first worked for the Toll Road Authority, Priss was the receptionist. She was, without a doubt, the worst receptionist I’ve ever met. She was not a people person, and she hated the telephone. Since greeting people and answering the phone where the two prime components of her job, I got a kick out watching how bad she was at it. It’s not she couldn’t do a good job; she simply didn’t care to.

The phone at the front desk rang non-stop because the calls from the public to ask about getting a Toll Tag or to check on their Toll Tag Accounts were routed through the main switchboard. Priss answered it in a monotone. “Toll road authority can I help you one moment please,” and transfer the call. If it was an EZ Tag call, she would put them in a voicemail loop where they would sit until one of the 10 or so people working in the EZ Tag store at the time picked it up, or after 20 minutes or so it would ring back to Priss.


One Caustic, One Long )
ninanevermore: (Bite Me)
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Sweet Pea has forgiven his father, and I am glad. Just last night he said he never would, and that he planned to run away and never see his dad again. He was serious. His face was long and flushed like he was trying very hard to be brave and not cry. But can you blame him? What if your father were as cold hearted and cruel as his, and told you that there would be no TV or time on the computer FOR A WHOLE EVENING?

You’d hate that person, too.

But officer, my Behavioral Intervention Plan says I can go up to 19% over the speed limit. )
ninanevermore: (Motherhood)
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Sweet Pea was sitting in the bathtub, lounging with his back against the edge and his knees pressed up against the side next to the wall. He is still small enough that this is comfortable for him.

“What if I could make girls’ clothes invisible?” he asked. “That would be embarrassing for them, wouldn’t it?”

No colors for you! )
ninanevermore: (Default)
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I had that appointment today, the one I consider to be only slightly less appealing than the idea of a root canal: my annual OB/Gyn Well Woman exam. It went well.

The ghost inside me )
ninanevermore: (Work)
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The problem with taking jobs that feed your bank account but not your soul is that the discontent hits pretty fast. I haven’t had time to read or write much these last two weeks. I go to work. I take a lunch when I can find the time. I come home. I sleep.

I need to finish reading that book about finding your calling and the work you love in only 48 days, which I started reading about 5 months ago. I never quite reached the point where I got to the tactics about setting things in motion before the ADHD set in and the outside forces in my life – some of them shiny, some of them loud – distracted me. From the start of the book, I gave myself more than 48 days to get things done, on account of the fact that time management has never been my strong point. I figured a couple of years would work better, so stop rolling your eyes (and you know you’re doing it) and thinking that there is little point to me finishing the book at this point, when I can no longer remember what it said in the first few chapters. It’s all part of my plan. Seriously.

Red Stapler Days )
ninanevermore: (Default)
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Kourtney’s mother stopped by the office the other day with Kourtney’s 2 year old son in tow. While he was her, she took him through the cubicles and offices to show him off. One of the women in accounting still had balloons up in her cube from her birthday the week before (the tradition in the office is to decorate the workspace of each employee on their birthday), and Kourtney's son scored a blue balloon and a red balloon from her. He was delighted.

"What do you have there?" I asked him.

"Bah-LOON!" he answered. This was a man who had obviously just mastered the art of saying multi-syllable words, and he acted proud to show off his verbal dexterity.

"Cool!" I said. Because it seemed like the thing to do (even though we had just met seconds before) I picked him up and spun him around, which made him throw back his head and giggle. It was a beautiful sound, and it was hard to believe that it came from a little boy who had died a few weeks before.

Little Boy Code Blue )
ninanevermore: (Default)
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In the weeks leading up to Christmas, I wasn’t getting near enough sleep. As a result of this, the areas under my eyes were swollen, like my face was providing little pillows to invite my eyelids to drop down and take a snooze. It looked awful.

I read somewhere a long time ago that there is a very simple and effective remedy for this. Maybe not as effective as getting enough sleep would be, but available over the counter (extra time to get much needed sleep still not being available without a prescription): hemorrhoid cream. I read that it works wonders. But I did not immediately run out and buy this magic elixir because of the imaginary 6th grader that lives in my head. If I were to walk into a pharmacy and purchase that particular product, the 6th grader in my head would mock me and say, “ASS cream?! Why are you buying ASS cream?! Are you going to put it on your face?!!!!”

Since the answer is yes, that’s exactly why I would be buying it, I would refuse to answer the 6th grader, who would then exclaim, “Ha! I knew it! Ass-face! Ha-ha! You’re an ass-face!”

I hate that kid, but I hated the bags under my eyes even more. So I punched the 6th grader in her imaginary face and purchased the hemorrhoid cream. For my face. It worked like a charm. I have no regrets. I may have an ass face, but it looks presentable again.

Even the 6th grader in my head agrees.


* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
ninanevermore: (Motherhood)
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I was driving Sweet Pea home from school the other night when he started telling me about the family of one of his Kindergarten classmates. The dymanics of this little girl's family are a bit surprising, to say the least.

Read? More. )
ninanevermore: (Default)
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Book Club last week was a lot of fun, even if the book we read wasn’t much fun at all. The fact that the book was almost universally hated by the five of us who showed up made it fun to sit around in a circle and talk about just why we hated it so much. Only one member was sympathetic toward it. She didn’t consider it great, finally admitted that it made her sentimental for her dear departed grandma, who used to like such books.

Can we make Mary contrary? )
ninanevermore: (Bite Me)
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I don’t think the average jerk knows he or she is a jerk, or feels at all like a jerk even at their jerkiest moments. They aren’t trying to be jerks. They aren’t trying to be self righteous or small-minded or hateful. Life just hasn’t handed most of them a mirror and forced them to see themselves for what they are. Last week I was handed just such a mirror, and I'm holding it up just in case anyone else out there needs to take a look in it.

I've discovered that phone calls from my son’s school have a way of changing my viewpoints. I should be thankful for the opportunities to gain these wisdoms and insights, but I’m not: I liked being ignorant. Being a jerk is easy. Being kind and insightful is a lot of work, and the self examination leading up to it is painful, to boot.

Riding the Bus to Wisdom )
ninanevermore: (Default)
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The last New Year’s Resolution I ever made was to stop making New Years Resolution. A few years ago, I broke that one, but the incident served as a reminder about why I gave up on the whole idea of the NYR in the first place: the best way to doom a goal to failure is to actually resolve to get it done, and to make this decision while I still have the remnants of the previous night’s champagne coursing through my veins.

I do, however, have goals from time to time that I set in January. Goals involve less of a commitment than a resolution. This year my main goal is to get the huge rotting corpse out of my front yard, because the neighbors have stopped making eye contact with us and this makes me sad.

A Creepy Feng Shui )
ninanevermore: (Christmas)
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I need to boycott any and all events on my side of the family when my stepsister will not be there. When she and her family show up, it is easy to forget that my family is not actually fun. They are good people, mind you, but the kind of good people that bore you to tears.

Let’s take, for example, a typical gathering involving me, my two brothers who do not consider me to be the living dead, and my stepbrother. Mostly, they will all stare the TV watching what ever kind of sport is in season or maybe Fox News (which my dad watches when there is not a game that he cares about being broadcasted). Any conversation that takes place will happen during the commercials, when my father will try to convince me that America is in a state of decline and it is mostly my fault because sometimes I vote for Democrats. I will smile and make a comment about the weather, and my dad will say that no, I need to listen to him because…and then the game will come back on and the conversation will have to be continued during the next commercial.

Hours go by, and the pattern repeats at commercial intervals until I feel I have done my time and I can make an excuse to leave. But when my stepsister is there, the TV may not even be on. Even if it were, you couldn’t hear it over the ruckus. )

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