Happy 5 & 45 Birthday!

Today is both Carl's and Hannah's birthday: Carl is 45 and Hannah is 5. Wahoo!

I considered changing Hannah's clothes for this picture, but then decided to show you what I am up against when it comes to fashion in the Solomon house. Carl dressed Hannah for the day (yes, for that I am grateful...but honestly!) . Notice the Gomer long underpants that he hiked up above the waist of her too-small sweat pants. Lovely. Fortunately they will be staying around the house, but I'm certain Carl wouldn't think twice about taking Hannah to the store dressed like that.

Excuse the fuzzy pictures: I need one of those cameras that eliminates shakiness. I don't have a steady hand.

Hey Tonya! Your house is looking great. I love the color...in fact, it's almost exactly the same color that I painted my front door!

Lies, Lies, Lies

While we were at Grandma's for Thanksgiving, Hannah came into the living room from the kitchen with chocolate covering her mouth and cheeks.

"Hannah, have you been eating chocolate?" I knew that was a silly question and I expected she would answer with a mischievous grin.

Instead she looked directly at me from her chocolaty face and said, "No."

"Hannah, you have chocolate all over your face. Have you been eating chocolate?" At that point I just wanted her to tell the truth.

"No," she answered again, shaking her head.

I proceeded to tell her the importance of honesty, that we should always tell the truth, blah blah blah. Don't ask me why. Did I think she would strike The Thinker pose and say, "Gee, mom, I never considered that. I promise to be honest from this point forward"? The only thing authentic about that scenario: Hannah would probably be naked like The Thinker.

Tonight Hannah walked to me from the kitchen with a milk moustache.

"Hannah, have you been drinking milk?"

"No."

My Thanksgiving lecture obviously made a tremendous impact. And I apparently learned nothing about interrogating four-year-olds. Next time I'll have a mirror in hand before I ask silly questions. Maybe, just maybe, THEN I'll be capable of outwitting my child.

7:30 Update: Carl arrived home from work. I read this entry to him and he said, "Yeah, she's got two containers of half and half open in the kitchen." (I'm such an observant mom). I asked Hannah again, "Have you been drinking milk?"

"No," she replied as expected.

Carl asked what I hadn't thought to ask: "What have you been drinking?"

Hannah held up two fingers and answered, "Two haf hafs (two half and halfs)."

I haven't been asking the right questions!

I Haven't Posted Much Because...

Dandy-Walker. Rheumatoid Arthritis. Now let's add "Benign Paroxysmal Vertigo."

I've avoided writing about Benign Paroxysmal Vertigo because two chronic conditions in one family is...readable, understandable, plausible. But three? I don't want my entire family identity to be one of illness. And I don't want to seem like hypochondriac mom...or maybe "Munchausen by Proxy" mom.

However, since Benign Paroxysmal Vertigo has been in the Solomon family car's driver's seat since Saturday and has a lot to do with the shortage of posts this week, I'm writing about it.

When Hailey was two years old (or so) she fell and bonked her forehead on our gravel driveway, leaving a big bloody knot. At the time I thought the fall caused the dizzy spell she had moments later. In retrospect I realize that was probably her first of many "dizzy spells" that a neurologist later diagnosed as Benign Paroxysmal Vertigo." They usually last 3-5 days. She's OK if she lays around and stays out of bright light, but if she walks too far or goes out in the sun, she becomes so dizzy she vomits. (As an aside: I didn't take her to the neurologist for a couple of years, but when I noticed a pattern of dizzy spells & vomiting, I feared the worst: some kind of major brain problem. I was, frankly, relieved at the time to receive such a mild diagnosis).

This latest episode started the Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend. She was supposed to take her annual Christmas shopping trip with Grandma, but couldn't because she was dizzy. Believe me, it's an annual treat for each of my kids to shop with Grandma for two hours to point out the things they might want for Christmas, followed by going out for the snack of their choice: ice cream, McDonald's...whatever the child wants. My point: this dizziness is not in her head. What kid would give up ice cream for fake dizziness?

Hailey missed school Monday and Tuesday. On Wednesday I took her to school early to talk to the counselor and to drop off information about BPV, then left her in the capable hands of the school staff. One hour later the school called. Hailey had, um, lost her breakfast in front of the entire class...her worst fear. Katie told me later they could hear it all the way to Katie's classroom.

"Who's THAT?"

Katie replied, "I think it's my sister."

To the credit of everyone at school, no one made fun of Hailey and everyone handled the situation calmly. Hailey still isn't 100%, but she's getting better and may even return to school tomorrow. She would be mortified if she knew I was posting this blog. Oh well.

On a more thoughtful note: Hailey has now faced what she considered her very worst fear...and lived. Of course, she was embarrassed, but she has been able to laugh about it since then. There's a lesson in there somewhere.

Holiday Traveling Concluded...For Now

We made it safely back from Wichita on Saturday. We only had to stop the car once in an attempt to referee the girls. I had flashbacks to my childhood of, "Do you want me to stop this car? Do you want to walk the rest of the way?!"

I specifically recalled one time when I was maybe seven years old and my brother was six. Because my Dad's family lived twenty miles from anywhere in the northwest Kansas flatlands we made the six-to-seven-hour drive to grandma and grandpa's house several times per year. The last thirty minutes of the drive took us down dirt roads with hills that rolled just enough to make our stomachs leap into our throats. By then our family had exhausted every possible traveling game from the ABC game to singing to license-plate-whatever and my brother and I had exhausted our last scrap of tolerance, which hadn't come from a large scrap heap to begin with.

On this particular trip my brother and I rode in the back seat of a burgundy 4-door 1974 Pontiac Grand Ville. The velvety velour bench seat was divided into three sections. The two primary passenger areas were separated in the middle by an eight-inch segment of seat bordered by velour tubing. That tubing designated our boundaries, effectively placing eight inches of neutral territory between my brother and me...supposedly.

Not that day. On that day as we drove the last dirt miles, my brother placed the very tip of his index finger barely over the velour boundary.

"Mo-om! Brad's on my side!"

Mom turned around to see. "Bradley Alan, stop that!"

As Mom faced the front again, Brad gave me a look that contributed to my special nickname for him, BADley, and placed his finger into my territory.

"Mo-om! He's doing it again," I tattled.

Without even looking Mom said in her warning tone, "Bradley Alan...!"

Brad removed his finger. A few minutes later Brad did it again, I tattled again, and Dad chimed in with the parental threat issued since the invention of the automobile, "If I have to pull this car over, you'll be walking!"

To be honest, I don't remember if the-finger-over-the-border was the last straw, or if one of us became more original, but Dad slammed on the brakes so hard that Brad and I rammed our heads into the back of the front seats (this was before we all became so seatbelt-conscious...however did we survive???).

"That's it! Get out of the car! I've had it!" Knowing Dad, there were probably a few expletives sprinkled in. I immediately started bawling and Brad remained stoic as we exited the car. Brad never cried, even when he received one whale of a spanking (yes, this was also before we learned that spanking ruined a child's psyche for life...snort). Dad slammed the doors and drove off over the next hill, leaving Brad and me standing in northwest Kansas dust.

"Way to go. This is all your fault," I blamed. "Now what are we going to do?"

"I know the way. Let's go," Brad convincingly bluffed me.

We walked for five minutes, which seemed like an eternity in my seven-year-old mind. Mom and Dad had driven beyond our sight and I was already panicking about supper and a place to sleep.

Finally Dad backed the car up to us and simply said, "Get in." No threats, no instructions. We didn't need them. We were perfect, quiet angels for the remainder of the drive.

Unfortunately present-day Highway 400 is not a safe place to carry out this life lesson for my own children, though it was certainly tempting Saturday afternoon as Hannah screamed at every little thing Hailey did. It was also tempting when, after finally leaving Hailey alone, Hannah began making a sucking noise with her mouth that Katie could not tolerate.

"Hannah, stop it," Katie commanded.

Suck, suck, suck, suck.

I said, "Hannah, please stop."

"BWAAAHHHH!!!" was Hannah's logical response.

Being ever the adult I said, "Well, there you have it Katie. Do you prefer THAT sound?"

Carl finally DID pull the Tahoe over so I could ride in the back with Hannah while Katie and Hailey rode in the front. Every time I would make a suggestion or comment, Carl made some tongue-in-cheek remark about backseat drivers, but at least we were all in good humor.

I know these are the stories that memories are made of and they'll be funny someday, but they sure are H-E-double-toothpicks when we're in the middle of them!

And Christmas traveling is just around the corner.

Holiday Traveling

Carl's parents, four of Carl's five sisters and their families, my mom, my sister and her family and my brother and his family ALL live in or near Wichita. Guess what we do every holiday. That's right, we travel to Wichita. Except Easter. Several years ago I declared a travel moratorium at Easter for my family so we could celebrate one holiday at home.

With over a decade of holidays under my belt, you would expect me to have preparing/packing/traveling down to a science. You would be wrong. At this moment my washing machine is agitating, my dryer is humming and my suitcases are gaping open, waiting to be filled with the clothes still in the agitating washer and humming dryer. My house is more cluttered than usual because I have started one packing project, traveled to another room for an item for that project, noticed something else that needed done in that other room and gotten sidetracked...not once, but several times. We plan to leave around 7:00 tonight. Ha!

Family members have learned not to ask what time we will arrive. Either that, or they've learned the code: 3:00 really means 7:00. Evening arrival expectations are subject to change to the next day.

Why is this? In part it is because, on some crazed level, I want to suddenly catch up on everything that has been "behind" before we leave. I let bookwork slide for several weeks, or even months, but let us make travel plans and BAM! I'm hard at it at the computer, getting everything straight. I'd like to say that part of the problem is my desire to leave an orderly house. Oh yeah, I have that desire. To this day it is an unfulfilled desire.

The biggest problem is what you are witnessing at this very moment. When I'm faced with an almost overwhelming project (like laundering and packing clothes for five people and remembering the relish tray items for which I'm responsible for Thanksgiving while refereeing the Hannah-vs.-the-Big-Girls fight), I respond with escapism. I escape to the computer to write a blog or escape into a ridiculous microcosm of packing, like detail-cleaning the suitcases.

Well, they say that the first step to overcoming a problem is acknowledging it. I'm one step closer, I guess. The problem is, I took that step years ago.

The washer and dryer are both silent. I'm stopping here, posting this, and facing my problems head-on! Laundry beware! Suitcases, here I come!

Monday Evenings

Monday evening at the Solomon house has become so predictable, it's practically ritual. At three o'clock I begin herding Hannah towards the Tahoe so we can pick up Katie and Hailey from school. Hannah does not transition well (Dandy-Walker? Sensory Integration? Beligerance???), even when the transition is towards something she wants or enjoys. As a result, moving from her 3:00 interest towards the door is...taxing, to say the least. Usually around 3:07 she is loaded and screaming and I'm contemplating the consequences of drinking and driving (not really, I would never do that, but you get the idea.)

On Monday nights Katie has Girl Scouts and Hailey has basketball practice. Both begin at 5:30. Because 5:30 is a mere two hours from our arrival home from school, I require that Katie and Hailey immediately begin their homework without much break time. Hannah absorbs the tension created by this "pressure" (oh, that my life held such "pressures"), and bounces it back onto us by tormenting Hailey while I help Katie with math.

"Mom, this problem doesn't make sense."

I reply, "OK, I can help you. Hailey, why don't you find something to eat and get ready for basketball practice while I help Katie." So far, so good. Hailey heads to the kitchen while I shuffle to the couch where Katie sits.

As I read Katie's math problem we are interrupted by Hannah's screaming in the kitchen, "No! 'Top! AAAhhh!" Katie exhales a huge sigh and I holler towards the kitchen, "Do you know what's wrong, Hailey?"

"Yes, I got a spoon out of the drawer and Hannah's mad." How dare Hailey get her own spoon. "Can I put Hannah in her room?"

"You can try," I reply and return my attention to Katie. We attempt to focus on the fraction problem as Hannah screams from her room and slams doors. I suggest to Katie that she do her homework in her room, my room, any room but the living room, which is in the center of the house. She'll have none of it, as if moving somehow equals allowing Hannah to win. Argh.

Somewhere early in all of this, the phone invariably rings. I typically ignore it, but today it is my sister-in-law who, according to my caller-i.d., has called five times while I picked up the girls from school. With the holidays upon us, I think it might be important. Katie and Hailey are each handling their homework at that moment, so I answer. My sister-in-law hasn't called for anything pressing, but I still spend twenty minutes visiting, occasionally muting the call to issue instructions. Mother of the year. Yessiree. Continuing with the phone theme, I usually call Carl around 4:15, trying not to sound as frazzled as I feel, and ask what time he'll be home. "No pressure, or anything, just wondering. Hannah is being a jewel tonight." His answer: 7:00--just in time for me to have juggled supper, taxi-driving and Hannah on my own. Again, single moms: kudos!

Although I asked the girls to be ready to walk out the door at 5:15, Katie works on a math problem until the very last second, then asks me if 420/30=120. When I say no, tears threaten to bubble from her eyes. "Bring your math and we'll look over it after we drop Hailey off. Let's get Hannah out to the Tahoe."

I won't repeat the constant rerun of "Trip-to-the-Tahoe." I trust you remember. I drop off Hailey, confer with her coach about Wednesday-before-Thanksgiving practice, look over Katie's math as I drive to Girl Scouts (is that better or worse than drinking and driving?), discover the error, watch her correct it, then drive home.

The finale turns this tragedy to a comedy. For the past four Mondays as I pull into our drive, Hannah and I have shared the following conversation:

Hannah asks, "Daa-ee?"

I translate, "Where is daDDy?" with emphasis on her missing middle "D."

She says, "Daddy...is....at...work." She's been working on that specific sentence in speech therapy.

I reply, "Yes, Daddy is at work."

She says, "Bee muh-ee?"

I translate, "Yes, he's making bean money."

She concludes with, "Eee bees?"

"Yes, so we can eat beans."

Hannah. One minute she's making me cry. In the next, she's making me laugh. Out loud.

A Google Surprise

I had grand ideas when I started this blog. I primarily intended to compile stories from my life and the lives of my children, mainly for my children. However, I also secretly hoped in the back of my consciousness that maybe someone, somewhere who was struggling with rheumatoid arthritis or who was dealing with the daily ins and outs of a child with Dandy-Walker would stumble upon my blog and be encouraged. I had visions that someone would google "rheumatoid arthritis," find my blog, and feel less alienated. Or someone else might type in "Dandy-Walker" and see him- or herself on my page.

What is her point? You're probably asking. First of all, I'm not sure what it takes to be "Google-worthy" when it comes to a common entry like "rheumatoid arthritis." Whatever it is, I don't have it, and shouldn't given my blog is in it's infancy. Though, "Dandy-Walker Alliance" is new enough that this blog shows up on the second or third page.

My second and main point is this: Sitemeter has a nifty feature that allows me to see the words, if any, that people have Googled to get to my site. Gone are any delusions of grandeur that I even THOUGHT of having. Only a handful of people have googled their way onto my blog, and here is what they have entered:


podunk kansas


keaton tumor (I googled that myself...I'm not sure what they were looking for)



doctors are human beings



humira more:for_patients injection (do people really enter that many words?)



AND BY FAR THE MOST ENTERTAINING...



butt clap (I don't even want to know)


For now, I'll continue blogging because I truly take pleasure in it, because I enjoy accumulating anecdotes from my otherwise mundane days, and because it is something I can do regardless of how my body has decided to operate...or not operate, depending on the day.

Thoughts on Hannah Savannah

She returned from Mass not five minutes ago and she's already naked. Hannah, that is. I don't know if it's the Sensory Integration Dysfunction, or habit that keeps her naked three-fourths of the time. I haven't written much about Hannah lately, primarily because she has improved dramatically since the beginning of the school year. Either that or I've become numb to her outbursts.

No, Hannah has improved. It has been weeks since her teachers have complained that she gawked around rather than focus on seatwork. Her meltdowns have decreased by at least 70% and their severity is markedly reduced (though far from "normal"). We had an appointment scheduled with Dr. Rachel, her therapist, Friday but Dr. Rachel called in sick. I was relieved because I have not been feeling quite right myself and dreaded the trip to Joplin.

Actually, I've been thinking of discontinuing Hannah's therapist visits. Dr. Rachel has been instrumental in pointing me in the right direction: looking into SID, testing Hannah for sensory issues, working with Hannah's school to provide occupational therapy, etc. Aside from all of that, simply having a direction in which to be pointed has been a relief! Nevertheless, treatment for SID seems to be centered around occupational therapy. In addition I have an appointment with a child psychiatrist (or is it psychologist??? Whichever can prescribe medications) so that we have our foot in the door in the event Hannah needs medicated. (Do you suppose that doctor can medicate the mother as well? Ha!). Those two professionals will probably replace Dr. Rachel--an excellent example of someone doing her job so well that she worked herself right out of her job.

No, I don't have any plans to medicate Hannah. Dr. Rachel suggested, and I agreed, that Hannah might require temporary medication if she continued to harm herself (biting herself until she bled, banging her head, etc), at least until Hannah could learn better self-soothing skills. At this point, Hannah's self-harm has decreased markedly and will hopefully continue to do so even more once we begin occupational therapy.

So, in light of all that, a little nakedness seems minor and quite tolerable. Hopefully occupational therapy will help even that. Otherwise I could buy Hannah some velvet underwear, silk pants and a cottony-soft shirt. Do you suppose she would keep those on?

Grandma Janis: "Wonderworker Extraordinaire"

Has everyone figured out that I consider my mom "Wonderworker Extraordinaire?" I've only posted that phrase about fourteen times on this blog! She has a creativity gene that, for some reason, she failed to pass on to me. Thank goodness she's willing to share.

Last weekend she visited, along with my sister, sister's husband and their four children (five if you count baby-on-the-way!). On October 8 I posted about all the accomplishments Mom, Carl & I made in Katie's & Hailey's bedroom. Last weekend Mom brought some things to put the finishing touches on their bedroom. I've posted pictures below.

These are the best "before" pictures I could find of Katie's & Hailey's room. This one shows not only how little they cared about their room (given the constant state of clutter), but also shows the yucky shelving unit that was on the south wall...sort of.

I took the picture below several months ago when I made an attempt at improving the girls' hardwood floor by oiling it. It looked MUCH better (as you can tell by the oil line in the picture)...for about two days. Hardly worth the effort THAT took!

These are the curtains that were in the girls' room. They had matching red gingham bedspreads, all of which Grandma Janis made several years ago. They've been nice, but the girls have outgrown them...plus I'm ready for something more subtle. By the way, I no longer need these curtains or matching bedspreads. Takers, anyone???

NOW FOR THE "AFTER" PICTURES

--------------------------------------------------------

Mom had some leftover curtain & bedspread material, so she made these king-sized pillow shams. I took a close-up of Katie's so you could see that the "i" on each girl's pillow is dotted with a cute purple button.

Following are the curtains mom designed & sewed. I LOVE the beads! Then she lucked out & found the cute, beaded lamps with moon pull-chains.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

This is a picture of Hailey & her neighbor friend in front of a knick-knack shelf that Carl originally made as a shoe cubby.

Unfortunately, this is the only picture I have that shows the rugs I placed in the girls' room. Hello Hannah! While you're at it, notice my shoes. Most people accidentally get thumbs and fingers in pictures... I get my shoes. Not only that, since I am the only one who takes pictures in my house, my shoes are the only part of me that regurlarly make it into pictures. When I'm dead and gone & my children are looking through photos, they'll say, "Aw, remember those shoes? That's an excellent one. I sure miss Mom and her shoes."

That's the gist of it. Amazingly, now that the girls' room feels clean & light, they tend to keep it neater. You can see the final look at the top right of my blog.

Happy weekend everyone!

Hannah on the Piannah

I am shamelessly bragging, here. This is Hannah, my 4-year-old, playing what we call "The Church Song" (because it's a song from church...duh). She must have picked it up from hearing Hailey play it.

Hannah has been able to play this song since she was about 4½ years old. She has a couple of other songs in her repertoire and currently seems to be trying to peck out "ABC" (or "Twinkle Twinkle" or "Bah Bah Black Sheep"--have you ever noticed they are all the same tune?)

By the way...please ignore the mess on the floor, in the background...basically everywhere.

Running Girl

Three days ago I spouted off about how I was going to implement some new habits. Well...I've eaten more fruits and vegetables, though still not five per day and I've been drinking my vitamin shakes.

However, thoughts of exercise have transformed me into a little lump of inertia. I still find it mentally challenging, if not downright impossible, to consider this exercising...





sit straight up, lift one knee up three or four inches off of chair, hold 3 seconds...

raise one or both arms as high as possible (one arm may help the other if needed)...

touch fingers to shoulders, palms towards you; turn palms down as you straighten elbows out to side

...when in my mind I still see myself as this:

I really did run a 5K at the Wichita River Festival...in 1988.

I'm reaching the year where I have had arthritis for the same length of life as not. I sincerely cannot recall how it felt to be healthy, except for a magical week after Hannah was born and the hormones...or something...gave me a respite. I keenly recall bouncing out of bed one morning and thinking, "Is this how people feel all the time???" My joints felt like they'd been given a healthy shot of WD-40, my energy level encouraged me to do something and crisp clarity replaced the brain fog that was and still is otherwise my persistent parasitical companion.

Denial is a poor substitute for self-care, but it's become my tendency nevertheless. At some irrational level I have convinced myself that if I pretend like I'm healthy and act like I have a normal life, I don't have to face "it." I can still picture myself as the running girl you see here as long as I don't look in a mirror. However, if I sit down to do the range-of-motion exercises pictured above, suddenly I am face-to-face with what I have become and the truth that I will never again be running girl.

So, I've kept running in my mind, as if the mental running could jog me away from this body.

Please don't mistake this for self-pity. I used to be good friends with self-pity, got to know her pretty well, and this isn't she. I called it denial above. Whatever it is, it's about as useful as self-pity, but a little more dangerous. At least with self-pity I was looking directly at life--the negative side of life for sure--but still real life. This running denial is the opposite.

Hmmm. I've got it now. It is, in reality, laziness coupled with a lot of mental mumbo jumbo. All I REALLY need to do is get up...then sit down...and lift one knee up three or four inches off of chair, hold 3 seconds...

Very Quick Hair Update (sooo important)

My hair wasn't long enough to do any of the styles I posted...except the last, bald one. Mary lightly trimmed, shaped and styled my hair & I love it so far. I considered posting a picture, but that seemed a little silly & vain. Plus, I really don't have time this morning. Thanks, Sheri & Tonya for the input. Those were my two favorites, too. The flippy-do is definitely a few-months-of-growth down the pike.

"Happy Winds-day!" as Piglet would say. (You know: Whinnie-the-Pooh. Jeez, I used to take upper-level college courses and quote great thinkers. Now I've reduced myself to Piglet!)

New Hair Style

I have a hair appointment today at 5:30. Because I'm tired of my current style, I have looked through literally hundreds of styles on the internet in an attempt to find a fresh look for myself. Who knew there were so many choices? I've narrowed it down to the following. Does anyone have a favorite?


Is this picture small enough for you?



I have no idea how to make these larger...grab your bifocals!





This might be cute if you could see it. Though my hair used to be straight, it is now naturally curly. Straightening iron anyone???






Again with the straight hair. At least this woman looks more my age!





What is she, a fourteen year old giraffe? Cute hair, though. That would make me a 39-year-old trying to look like a 14-year-old giraffe, I guess.






Kinda flipped out...just like me on a typical day.








I did say that my hair is naturally curly. Whaddya think?




The perfect hair style for the morning after my Humira injection!







All these choices make me want to do this!




Those are the general ideas. I'd like something a little longer than what I've had. Mary, the gal who styles my hair, often has her own ideas. Oddly, I like that. I'm not that particular about my appearance & sometimes it's fun and easy to let Mary do her thing. I'll let you all know tomorrow...until then, leave a comment to tell me which style you like...if any.

Death of a Deer

Carl killed a big nine-point buck with his bow last night. I had mixed emotions while Carl and the girls emitted a palpable excitement throughout the house. When Carl told me over the phone that he would be late getting home (groan) & the size of the animal, Katie actually jumped, clapped and squealed. That's the reaction Carl wanted, so I'm glad someone obliged.

I'm happy for him, don't get me wrong. However, while he was sitting in his deer stand or dragging this dead creature around Labette county to show his buddies, I was helping Katie with math (actually, I was frustrating Katie to near-tears), trying to keep Hannah from screaming at Hailey so that Katie could have a "quiet study environment", making supper, shuttling Katie to girl scouts, delivering Hailey to basketball practice and going to the grocery store. I don't know how single moms do it.

I finally plopped myself in bed last night at an early 8:20, more-than-ready for my TV veg night of Heroes. Carl arrived two minutes later, full of what he calls "the juice" (really an overproduction of adrenaline), anxious to tell me every detail. "You've got to come out and see this BUCK! It's HUGE!"

"You want me to get up???" I nearly asked, but refrained. I vacillated between being thankful that my husband of fourteen years still wants to share his exciting moments with me and being seriously annoyed. Those same fourteen years have provided me with enough practice that I was capable of successfully concealing most of the second emotion by responding, "How about at commercial break?" He and Katie danced out of the room, pleasantly leaving me alone.

Five minutes later Katie returned with a digital camera full of pictures of the dead creature. What is it about men that makes them think their wives would prefer looking at a bloody, dead beast to watching, say, the last half on an uninterrupted episode of Heroes? I thought I had married a city boy, but it turns out I had actually married a closet cave-man...who is now "out."

I finally obliged, making a trip to the garage and taking a cursory peek over the Tahoe. "Wow. That's amazing. It really is big. I'm going to bed now. You need to get to bed, too, Katie."

"Aw, Mom. I wanted to watch him clean it." Who's child is she?

"FIFTEEN MINUTES," I conceded and returned to bed.

A couple of decades ago my high school English teacher required that we write a time-line of our lives for the 20 years following graduation. I vaguely recall my own time-line, which in no way resembles the life I am leading. Of course, no one plots chronic illness into their twenty-year plans. Neither do they include children with any kind of defect. Those are obvious. However, having grown up in a family of non-hunters, I also did not even consider that at some point I might have dead animals hanging anywhere on my property or a husband beseeching me to agree to stuff and mount said dead animal's head...inside my house. Ugh. Life really is what happens while you're making other plans.

COOL

I used to think I was cool. I recall a pre-teen picture of myself (definitely pre-digital days, or I would post it). At my request Mom took the picture with our polaroid because I had spent hours getting my big hair just so. In those same days I shopped for hours to find "jammin'" clothes (probably involving parachute pants), wore HUGE plastic-framed glasses, ran regularly to keep my extra ten pounds from becoming twenty or thirty, learned all the lingo (like, I just wanted to be totally awesome, dude! Fer sure!) To all that I say: Gag me with a spoon. Alright, enough of that.

I started losing my cool around Katie's birth...in more ways than one. Sleep deprivation caused me to "lose my cool" frequently. But I also lacked time and lost interest in "being" cool. I replaced interest in my own clothes with finding the right clothes for Katie, and I didn't spend much time shopping for hers. Around that time the arthritis wreaked havoc with my feet so that I replaced my footwear fashion aspirations with more sensible ones. Running? Ha! I used to walk, but now I no longer even do that.

Most moms know what it means to completely lose herself while caring for her children, in spite of the constant cautions to the contrary. I've been told in the past "Go out! Have fun! I've got it covered here." However, what I came home to did not fit my definition of "covered," and I found it easier to stay home than to face that. (I once returned to find a deer carcass in my kitchen trash complete with hundreds of buzzing flies, my home destroyed & my children...well...can you say sugar buzz. We've come a LONG way at the Solomon house).

Because we have come a long way at the Solomon house, I have no excuses. Actually, I never had a legitimate excuse to not take care of myself...but I thought I did.

This whole "cool" thought process was triggered by two people. First Megan (http://isabellagudde.blogspot.com/) jokingly commented in my last post that she was not "cool" enough to sit with the kindergarten. (Hi Megan! That made me laugh out loud!) The inference that I might be cool enough for anything given my cane, my pronounced limp & dorky shoes caught me completely off guard. Of course, I know that wasn't Megan's point, but that's where my warped mind went.

Second, after reading Sheri's last blog entry (http://crazybutlovinit.blogspot.com/), I realized I had stopped caring about how I look...or even feel for that matter. It hasn't deep-down occured to me to take the steps Sheri has taken in a long time. Sometimes I just feel like "what's the use?" I can give you all kinds of reasons NOT to bother: No matter how well I take care of myself, I still won't feel great; I'll never lose these fat cells, only shrink them; today I purchased make-up--not so that I would look good, but so that I wouldn't look so bad; I soooo enjoy caffeine and sugar, especially when combined...need I go on??? Break out the violins!

Excuses, excuses, excuses. The fact is I'll never be "cool" again. Do I even want to??? I probably never was. I can be healthy again. At least healthier. I take very good care of my girls' health by feeding them healthy foods, making sure they get enough sleep, limiting the junk foods and drinks. Sadly, though, as adults they probably won't take care of themselves as I have taken care of them. They will take care of themselves as I have taken care of ME. They are amazing little mirrors.

This week I'm going to start an exercise regimen, even if it only consists of range-of-motion exercises that increase my flexibility. I'll start taking my vitamin shakes daily again. Though I'm not going to give up coffee just yet, I will begin eating my fruits and vegetables again. This one's for my girls. Hopefully that will someday metamorphose into being for me, because that's the kind of woman I want my girls to become. But for now I'll do it for them.

Whew! It's past 10 o'clock! That's way past this UN-cool, aging woman's bedtime, especially if I'm going to do all I've said I'm going to do!

My Lessons During a School Lunch

I ate lunch at school with Katie and Hailey. I learned two things in thirty minutes.

First, I cannot parallel park. I knew that before today, but I confirmed it by parking on the school's sidewalk.

Second, chicken has bones. Again, I knew that before today, but evidently several Kindergarten through second graders were shocked to find bones in the chicken thighs the school served them. The chicken nuggets & chicken strips they were probably accustomed to were decidedly void of bones...or so one hopes.

I vividly recall the day Mom took me to grandma's house to clean chickens. My-eight-year-old mind could barely bridge the gap between the cruelty to those headless, running creatures and the delicious meal served that evening. Yes, I definitely knew before today that chickens have bones.

In addition to these two things I also learned one student's nickname, four students' opinions of yesterday's vegetarian lasagna, the procedure for getting seconds, that I'm going deaf and that, AMAZINGLY three or four adults can very successfully control an entire lunchroom of grade school children.

Katie and Hailey have requested that I eat lunch with them every Friday. I think I'll take them up on that one...well, not EVERY Friday, but regularly. I know the days of having my girls request that I spend time with them amongst their peers are numbered.

One last thing before I go: Hey Shannon!!! FOUR readers??? I'm definitely on the road to fame! I think "blog" is short for "web log." If anyone knows differently, let me know.

Mattress Update

The mattress delivery man assembled our bed frame, set up our new mattress & moved our old mattress out to the black hole...I mean building project. After two nights on our new mattress, I LOVE IT! I'm concerned that the fancy foam euro (la-dee-dah) pillow top will eventually break down, but for now it's practically decadent.

By the way--hello Tonya! Wow! Three people read my blog??? Does that mean I'm famous? When one of the three is my own mother...probably not.

Regarding price of my mattress: it was less than $1800--that made me feel much better. Of course I showed Carl that figure so he would consider it the deal of the century...I wish.

This blog is short and sweet because I'm preparing for yet another weekend with "Grandma Janis" (remember wonder worker extraordinaire?) as well as my sister, her husband and their four kids. I'm certain THAT combination will provide at least one blogworthy story!

Sticker Shock

I purchased a new Sealy Posturpedic king-size euro-pillow-top mattress with low profile ("low profile" so I don't need a step ladder to climb into bed) box springs Saturday. YIKES!!! I practically needed a home equity loan to pay for the thing. I negotiated a small fortune off of the price, my first-ever attempt at negotiating.

My sister-in-law, Stacey, is an accomplished price negotiator. Through my entire negotiating process I kept repeating to myself, "I am Stacey. I am Stacey." When I told her this, she laughed and asked, "Didn't you love it?"

"No. I hated every minute of it." I considered it a close second to receiving a Humira injection.

I have a question for you. What would you expect to pay for a Sealy Posturpedic king-size euro-pillow-top mattress with low profile box springs? If you have the time, please post an answer as a "comment." Unfortunately, the two people who read my blog already know what I paid. If I have any surprise readers, I hope to hear from you.

AAHHHH. Tuesday Tranquility

Tuesday mornings are the absolute best here.

Carl takes Fridays off, or if he does work, he works at home where he can pinch hit with the kids. Hannah has no preschool Fridays. That, combined with the constant companionship of the weekend, usually including neighborhood children, leaves me relationship-saturated by Monday morning. On Mondays Liz cleans my house, thank God, because we are slobs. I'm ashamed to admit it, but it's true.

Tuesdays are bliss. My house is still basically clean (though we've had 24 hours to mess with perfection) and I practically shove my children and husband out the door so I can enjoy 2-3 hours of silence. Alone. In my own home.

However, I have a quandary: what do I do with my time? Because I'm evidently incapable of planning and preparing more than 24 hours in advance, I have yet to map out the perfect Tuesday morning. Therefore, I often spend a chunk of time wandering aimlessly, trying to decide what to do. Do I finish housework? Do I complete bookwork, which is much more easily accomplished without interruption? Do I read? Do I pray (the big "should")? Do I talk on the phone?

Do I have a hobby? What do I enjoy? Eleven years of parenthood wrapped in fourteen years of marriage have left me at a loss for answers to those questions. It's not that I don't have anything to do, believe me. It's the choosing.

Today I've chosen blogging. If this is the most difficult decision I have to make today, I'm one blessed woman.

Shhh. Hear that? (dead silence). That's a little slice of heaven.

No Hannah? No Way!

What if Hannah were never born?

I've joined a yahoogroup consisting of other people struggling with Dandy-Walker malformations of the brain. Some members are high-functioning adults with Dandy-Walker. They give me hope for Hannah. Others are parents of infants/toddlers/adolescents/every-conceivable-age-child with varying degrees of Dandy-Walker. The members who move me most, though, are those who have just been told their unborn child has a Dandy-Walker defect. Often their doctors recommend abortion.

I am fundamentally opposed to abortion and never would have considered it had I been told Hannah had Dandy-Walker in utero. However, I'm enough of a realist to believe that abortion will exist until the end of time, whether legal or not. According to several posts in my yahoogroup, these same doctors who have recommended aborting Dandy-Walker children have also had to admit that their diagnosis was wrong or greatly exaggerated. Yikes.

Doctors are human beings, just like you and I. Highly educated human beings to be sure, but still fallable human beings. They may have statistical information, years of practice and experience with ungodly amounts of book knowledge, but they do not have a crystal ball. They do not know the future and they cannot predict a miracle.

Most of all, they cannot measure the human spirit.

When I found out I was pregnant with Hannah--and this was WITHOUT knowing she would have Dandy-Walker--I bawled my eyes out. I don't cry easily. I could not imagine handling another child with the limitations I already had. But, as moms do, I grew into the idea and actually looked forward to Hannah's birth. She turned out to be an easy infant and a complete joy.

About two months into her life we discovered the Dandy-Walker. Upon receiving the information from her pediatrician, my first instinct was to call my husband and my mother. However, I waited. I knew that my reaction, whether calm, frightened or frenzied, would influence everyone else's reaction. I called people only after I had calmed down and decided I could and would handle this...hopefully "with the grace of a woman, and not the grief of a child" as an old poem goes.

I've learned that the human spirit is given the strength needed to handle any given situation...right when it is needed and rarely before. If I decide I can or can't handle something difficult based on the strength I have today, I probably can't handle it. But if I plow forward and trust (assuming this is something I am called to do), an unanticipated Strength materializes.

Back to my original question: What if Hannah were never born? What if someone had convinced me prior to her birth that she would be too much trouble, that she wouldn't have a "normal" quality of life and therefore should have no life? I'm at a loss for words. Prior to her birth, I would have never chosen this life. Now I would have it no other way...well...maybe a few less meltdowns...and frankly I wish she was potty trained. But no Hannah? No way!

For the Record

Katie, my eleven-year-old, never wants a car; she only wants a golf cart. Of this I have been assured on numerous occasions. Tonight I asked her, "Do you want a cute golf cart? What kind of golf cart?"

Her verbatim answer: "Umm. Just pretty much a golf cart."

I have, on the same numerous occasions, informed her that...I wasn't buying it. I know she will assuredly one day turn sixteen and desire an actual car, a car that can--at a bare minimum--reach 55 and provide protection from the elements.

No, they make plastic golf cart covers, she tells me. She guarantees that she will only require a golf cart. And the electricity with which to charge it.

As gasoline hits $3 a gallon with promises of skyrocketing, I decided to place this post for the record. In September, 2012 Katie will turn sixteen. At that time I will scrounge around for this blog post, wrap it with a ridiculous red ribbon and wish her a happy birthday.

Selfish Prayer Request for ME

The needle weenie has returned. It's that time again: time for my Humira injection. Tonight. In the next couple of hours. For those who are religiously offended, I apologize in advance for telling you that I have had a little Sake (pronounced sah-kee. Japanese heated rice wine. Yum...to me. Yuck to the majority of Americans).

For those who subscribe to the Labette Avenue, turn to page 14 of the latest edition. Are you there yet? Do you see the large ad for the "Community Flu Shot Clinics"? I can only ask...WHAT WERE THEY THINKING!!!???

For those who do not have access to this publication, allow me to describe it. The title reads Community Flu Shot Clinics and pictures a pair of hands holding a syringe with a 2-inch needle. TWO INCHES! Any courageous thoughts I imagined of getting a flu shot have now vanished. I'm barely white-knuckling it through this evening.

So, please pray for me as you read this blog. If you read it after November 3, pray anyways. God does not exist in time, and I believe that prayers are therefore unlimited by time. How's that for deep thought...with a little Sake.

A Day at the Mock

Hannah has now added two moves to her repetoire. First, we've taught her the "chicken dance" and it is a RIOT! We sing, to the chicken dance tune, "Clams, clams, clams, clams. Wings, Wings, Wings, Wings. Shake-your-butt, Shake-your-butt. Clap, clap, clap, clap!" By the time we've repeated this three times, the entire family has decided to take part and looks basically goofy. Tonight this was followed by the hokey pokey. I just sit and watch. Well, I sing, too and sometimes try to take pictures, if I can find my camera.

Second, Hannah has begun turning around and around, then says, "I'm BUSY!"

"You mean you're dizzy?"

"Yeah! Busy!" I can relate.

I'm glad to have these momentary lapses in general sanity in my household. It provides a break from the otherwise constant chatter of Hannah. I don't mind the chatter, except she no longer accepts my vague, "Is that right?" when I don't understand her. No. She repeats herself over, and over, and over...and OVER. If I don't crack the code in five attempts, I get the booby prize: meltdowns of differing calibers, depending on the day.

For example, yesterday I promised to take her to the park after her nap. She has never remembered my pre-nap promises. I could promise her Disneyland (if she knew what that was)...better yet, a trip to grandma's house. It wouldn't matter. Two hours and one complete nap later I'd be off the hook.

When she awoke, she came into the livingroom and we did our usual, "Hi Hannah! How's my girl? Did you have a good nap?"

"Yeah!"

"Are you hungry?" I ask.

"Pay mock," she replies.

I pause. This is a new one. "Some kind of milk?"

"No. Pay mock."

I try again. "You want a sock?"

Beginning to get exasperated, "Nooo. Paaaay Mmock!"

I have no idea. One more try. "You want to take a walk?" That's obviously not it, so I ask, "Can you show me pay mock?"

"No! Pay Mock!!!"

I'm thinking, "Yeah, repeat it one more time, kid. I didn't quite catch it." I've exhausted every vocabulary word of Hannah's and NOTHING is coming to mind. Pay mock is nearly doomed to permanent imprisonment in Hannah's mind when it dawns on me. "You want to play at the park!!!"

"Yeah! Pay mock! 'Mon Mom!"

THANK GOD!!! I took Hannah to the mock and all was well. I couldn't believe she remembered my pre-nap promise. Now I'll have to change tactics.

Can you imagine what that would be like, to have your words stuck in your mind, to be unable to express yourself? I would be placed in the local mental health facility, probably singing the chicken dance tune. Hannah's a real trooper.