So here’s the button should you want to vote for me. Should you NOT want to vote, I dig that too. It’s a simple process, hand to God.
I am also up for the other two Bloggers Choice Awards displayed so kindly on my sidebar, and should you want to go through the annoying registration, I would be most thrilled. If only so that I could beat Dooce, who wins everything.
I also wanted to let you know that–should you want to be bored stiff–I am on Facebook as I am a lemming. A stupid, stupid lemming. My full name is at the bottom of your screen. We should SO be BFF.
Okay, so that top shit was written this morning when I was anxiously awaiting the Early Intervention people.
Dave and I handle adverse situations differently. While I am busy wringing my hands and preparing myself for the worst possible outcome, he calmly expects the best of any given situation. I’m not exactly Chicken Little, instead I’m his cousin, Aunt Chicken The-Sky-Might-Fall-Soon-Better-Prepare-Now and while I do appreciate Daver’s rose colored glasses, honestly my way has proved to be more useful for me.
Neither way is either wrong or right.
Amelia had her meeting with the therapists this afternoon, and all week I’ve had a sort of heavy-rock-in-my-guts type feeling. Not because, you see, I was terribly concerned about what they would find–shocking, I know–but because, I guess, I didn’t know what was going to happen. Which to me is worse than the bad outcomes. Dave, on the other hand, was optimistic and unconcerned.
Today, I have to eat my words (with a side of fava beans): Amelia, it has been determined, is (so far) normal. Completely meeting her milestones, ripping ass and taking names. The therapists will be back in a couple months to reevaluate, because her diagnosis is an automatic qualifier for the program, but so far, she’s spectacularly…normal.
I’m so beyond thrilled that I’m in shock. Tonight, the champagne will flow freely, but today, I will simply gape, slack-jawed at my daughter. My principessa.
I’m not worthy.