Last week after sprinting jauntily to the mailbox to see if I’d finally won that bazillion dollars I keep hearing about (a Nigerian Prince TOLD ME SO), when I found a pile of junk mail. After sorting through it, I realized that I had one piece that was not junk. From the county. Dreading anything I ever get from the county (on principal, not because they send me Nasty-Grams. DOWN WITH THE MAN!!), I tore into it.
It was a referral for Amelia to Early Interventions.
This wasn’t the first time I’d seen this paper (the name of the child was different, of course) and for some reason it smacked me blind. It’s SO not the end of the world to have a kid that needs some therapy. Shit, she’s in decent shape, by comparison (and by comparison, I mean NOT DEAD. Because this kills a lot of kids), and I really need to get the fcuk over myself.
I guess I’d just been in denial the whole time. Like going through the day to day motions with all that goes on in my Circus of a House, without thinking, honestly THINKING about what a diagnosis of encephalocele really means. I am, apparently, the only one who thinks this way because I called The Daver at work that day in a mild panic:
“OHMYGOD DAVER, OHMYGOD.”
“Uh…what?” (he knows better than to really worry when I call in a panic)
“Amelia….got her referral to Early Intervention,” I waited to hear him freak out.
“….” Typing sounds in the background.
I sighed deeply before we hung up. Apparently, I am the only one who is bothered by this. Figures.
I need to put on my big girl panties and just call for the appointments and evaluations, I know I do. Well, okay, I’ll tell YOU Internet, but let’s keep it between us, okay? I actually DID call. And then I promptly hung up when someone answered. Maturity has never been my strong suit, you know?
So I will do what I always do! Distract you with pictures! Because what else can I do? AND WHO DOESN’T LIKE PICTURES?
The Devil doesn’t. I swear.
I know that I post more pictures of my younger kids and while that would make it appear that I am favoring them, I assure you that it’s not.
This, this picture is Ben, In Real Life. Always in motion.
And this is my second born, Alex:
Playing with bath crayons. Outside the bath. Because he is that kind of kid. (what the fuck ever that means)
Daver was sick a couple of weeks ago with the flu–influenza I mean–and slept pretty much 24 by 7 for a week. While I am normally annoyed by him and his irritating and incredibly dramatical Man Colds, my cold, mean heart felt sorry for him.
MAYBE IT WAS THE SWINE FLU!! OH EM GEE!! (note the 2 exclamation points which should illustrate just HOW emphatically emotional I was being) Actually, I think it might have been.
And lastly, Amelia says, “You moron. It wasn’t the fucking swine flu.”