For Tricia. And Alex.

See? We're not making it up.

Maybe the dingo ate your baby.

It all started innocently enough. A nice tax refund that would allow us the ability to rip up our old nasty carpet and put in bamboo floors. A little do-it-yourself project that could be completed in a couple of weekends.

Ha. Somewhere the gods of home improvement are laughing at our idiocy.

Sometimes when you rip up carpet, the subfloor is rotten underneath. Sometimes you find termites. And leaks. You also have to take out your HVAC vents, leaving holes in the floor that lead down to your basement. And you know what lives in the basement, right? Creatures. Lots of them.

My most-hated creature? Sprickets. You know, those things that look like a cross between a spider and a cricket. They have long spidery legs and they'll jump at your face any chance they get. I really, really hate them. Now I'm sharing my house with them. Also? Some big black ants. And various spiders. The other day, I walked through the dining room only to be surprised by a gigantic gila monster lizard that was trying to come in through the vent. Don't even get me started about the field mouse in our sunroom.

Just when my goosebumps were starting to go away, we hear coyotes just down the hill from us. A whole pack of 'em. Howling and barking. Guess we know now what happened to the cats.

So it's not only bad enough that I'm having to deal with Wild Kingdom over here, but I'm having to deal with three kids too. Ever try to go about your day with kids when all your furniture is piled in one room, the dining room table can't be seen under the heap of stuff you've had to store on it, you're walking on plywood floors whose holes are patched with duct tape, and there's a gigantic table saw set up in your sunroom? We are far from babyproofed over here. And worst of all, the DVD player was (gasp!) unhooked for two days. It's been really hard to manage the kids in this disaster, and since David is playing General Contractor every weekend, I'm having to wrangle the boys by myself. The weekend before last I took them to my mom's which is no small feat in itself. This past weekend we stayed here and I did the best I could to keep them out of the construction zone, taking them on errands and a couple of playdates (thanks Marcy and Jennifer!) And now that we've discovered an entire wall that has to be rebuilt, I have many more weeks of this to deal with. Those better be some damn good-looking floors.

Loaves and buses and bras, oh my!

I've talked before about the developmental preschool Evan goes to twice a week. He gets regular preschool time with kids with various diagnoses. He also gets therapies there: OT, ST, PT. It's a good setup and I know we'll leave him at this school at least until he's three. Maybe longer. I'd like for him to go to school with his brothers so we'll see if that's the right thing for him when the time comes (he has to be three to go to the Montessori school where Eli will be going in June).

This school is a nonprofit charter school, funded mostly through the United Way and other charitable agencies and donations. We pay for Evan to attend, but the cost is minimal because it's subsidized. I'm talking like a two-digit number for a monthly fee. We do not pay for his therapies. They are billed to insurance, and when they get rejected, billed to his secondary Medicaid policy through the state of SC, and if they still get rejected, well, I don't know who pays then but it's not us.

Part of the experience of having a child at this special school is that we get a lot of extras. Charitable donations, if you will. And it makes me feel very, very weird. We are not rich. Far from it. With only one income, and a rather large mortgage, we're just barely getting by. But I've never been the recipient of charity before, and while I appreciate everything we're given, it still makes me squirm a little.

Once a week or so, Evan comes home with a backpack full of baked goods. French bread, rolls, pies, hamburger buns. There's an organization in town that collects day-old bakery items from grocery stores and distributes them to food banks, shelters, and yes, Evan's school. The school then distributes them to the kids, and voila! We have bread with dinner or strawberry-rhubarb pie for dessert. This is totally awesome and nice, and yes, we do eat it, but I just can't help feeling that it should be going somewhere else. I mean, we're not going hungry over here. Just because my kid has an extra chromosome doesn't mean we need help with our groceries. I feel like a total bitch even saying it, because it IS a nice thing and I like bread and pie as much as anybody. But it just feels wrong to be getting it, somehow.

Evan also gets help with transportation to school. A little (yes, by little, I do mean short) bus will come around and pick him up for school and/or bring him home again. We don't send him on the bus in the morning but he does come home on it. This first started because he was going from school to his other daycare, when I was still working, but once I started staying home I just let him stay on the bus because, well, I was pregnant and pickup time is during Eli's nap and then there was Cal and it's just easier for me to have them to bring him home. I'm lazy like that. But I feel like a real shit every time the bus pulls up and I'm working in the garden and then I prance down the driveway to get my kid and I am totally able-bodied and I have a perfectly good Volvo in the driveway with a full tank of gas and really, is there any reason that I shouldn't be picking my own kid up from school? I should be reserving that seat on the bus for somebody more worthy than us. But I don't.

And now, some bra company who was inspired by Oprah's Big Give, is giving away free bras plus a professional bra fitting to all of the female employees of the school as well as the moms of all the kids. I totally need bras and somehow I've made it to 37 without ever being properly fitted for one so I'm totally excited about this and come Tuesday at 8:45 the girls and I will be at the school getting ourselves properly supported, but again, the whole idea makes me a little squirmy. I guess I've just never thought of myself as being in a position to need charity (except maybe that one rough year after college when I didn't have health insurance or any money and lived off of hot dogs and bummed cigarettes and only put three dollars worth of gas in the car at a time). The whole thing just makes me feel funny. There are millions of more deserving people than us, and because we have a child that the world considers to be disabled, free things are thrust upon us even though we don't need them. People feel sorry for us. And we continue to take and take and take, and then I drive downtown and see a homeless woman with her homeless kid sitting outside the shelter and I feel squirmy all over again.

Maybe it's just my ill-fitting bra.

Brothers

Note to self: if you want your kids to actually look at the camera, it would be a good idea to turn the television off first. At least Cal cooperated (probably because he can't see as far as the TV yet).

They miss her already...

And so does their mama! Sylvia, we hope you have a great summer in Minnesota (i.e.; make tons of money and meet the man of your dreams), but that you come back to SC very, very soon. Our Friday mornings will never be as fun again! (plus, Eli really misses those doughnuts you would bring and I am NEVER going to get them for him because the sugar turns him into a freaking psychopath. But thanks for taking the brunt of it!)

Callum at 12 weeks

Cal is 12 weeks old today. Is he sleeping through the night, you may ask? Why, no, he's not; thanks for asking. Not only is he NOT sleeping through the night, he's still getting up every two hours just like he did as a newborn.

The chunkman is 15 pounds, up 7 pounds from birth. I don't think he needs the nutrition, do you? When he gets up, he nurses just a little, like five minutes or so, then is right back to sleep.

So what do I do? Eli slept through at 10 weeks. He was such a good baby (now, however, is another story entirely). Evan slept through at 4 months, but at least he had cut down to one or maybe two feedings a night before then. But Cal still thinks he's a newborn, I guess. I don't know at what point to just let him cry it out.

He still sleeps swaddled because he's got a really strong startle reflex and his arms are flailing about all the time. He's not interested in the pacifier at night, really.

If I don't get some sleep soon, I might crack up. And I don't mean laugh, either.

Aside from the sleep issues, he's a lovemuffin. Still likes to be held, but will tolerate being put down now. Is starting to really play with toys, like the baby gym. Likes the swing and the bouncy seat. Is smiling a lot and chuckling just a little. Still has his newborn-blue eyes. Hates tummy time. Loves his paci. Likes the bath.

I'm trying very hard to enjoy every minute of his babyhood, because I don't want to do this again. No more babies for me. It's too exhausting. Plus, I'm no spring chicken, you know? Especially after three months of no sleep!

Just one of many things that get on my nerves

It's these bumper stickers:

They seriously bother me. I'm sorry if you have one on your car, but I have to be truthful here. I think they're obnoxious. There's just something so self-congratulatory about them. It's like "oh, look how perfectly perfect we all are, right down to our one dog and one cat."

And it's only white, traditional families that seem to have them plastered on their windshield. What about the single-parent family? Or the family with two mommies? Why don't we ever see any of those? How about Dad in a wheelchair? Families from the Middle East, with the women in their burquas? Or Siamese twins? A pet goat?

Things like this drive me crazy. It's one of my character faults, I guess. It's kind of reminiscent of how I felt in the 80s about Volvo wagons with those Baby on Board things in the windows. And now I drive a Volvo wagon. So, really, what the hell do I know?

Survey

That last post and its comments have gotten me thinking about the stupid things that people say. So I ask you, what is the dumbest, and/or most offensive thing someone has said to you in regards to Down syndrome? And how did you react?

Last night's experience was probably mine. That, and the time my OB, whom I generally think very highly of, said about Evan, "Well, he'll always be a very loving child". Holy crap.

So, like, gag me with a spoon, okay?

Glad that's over. Last class for the spring term (the class is Art for the Child). I've been in panic mode over the last few days trying to finish a paper, and a powerpoint, and a portfolio full of lesson plans and artwork. Serves me right for waiting until the last minute, but damn. I'm tired.

So I gave my little presentation on my paper, which was titled "Visual Arts for Children with Special Needs". It was probably remotely interesting to some people, but maybe I'm fooling myself. I thought it was interesting, anyway. And after me, another girl, of the young and ditzy sort, gave her presentation about artists with disabilities, which was a cool topic. She had a posterboard with artwork on it, so afterwards I went up to check it out and talk to her.

One of the artists she had on there was Michael Jurogue Johnson, who has Down syndrome. I'm sure most of you have seen his work. Anyway, I was talking to her about Michael and mentioned that I was interested in the subject because I have a son with Down syndrome. So she does this little head bob thing and with a lilt in her voice says "oh, awesome!". It was like something straight out of Valley Girl. I had to restrain myself from responding, "yeah, it's like totally rad, dude" so instead I just said "he's a really great kid and he's doing well". Then she looks right at me and says "So, how severe is his?"

OMG. How am I supposed to respond to a question like that? What exactly is she wanting to know...like, if he's a complete vegetable, or something? She might as well have said "exactly how retarded is he?" In the end, I just said "oh, he's doing great" or something banal like that, and was fortunately spared more horrific questions by the next presentation that was beginning.

I try to be understanding about these kinds of situations, because I know that before I had Evan I would have probably asked stupid questions too. Hopefully not THAT stupid, but who knows? I've said a lot of stupid things in my lifetime. And it really didn't make me mad or anything; it just made me realize how utterly clueless the majority of the population is. Not that I didn't already know that.

Like I needed another reason to love Target

Target Kids catalog, page 27, in the Snug 'n Secure Swing. I think that's a kid with Down syndrome. Maybe.

Anybody else get that in the mail? I couldn't find it online.


Also, I've been swamped this week. My last class is tonight and I'm frantically trying to complete everything that's due.

More later.