This Has Been a Test of the Emergency Broadcast System

My family firmly believes that I am a happier person when I am writing and they are probably right. There, I said it. My 15 year-old nephew, Thomas, was one of the family members who would give me gentle encouragement in ways that only a six foot some-odd inch basketball player can subtly muster, which one night included a bluntly put if completely unsolicited, "Do you know what I think you should start doing again? BLOGGING."

This comment almost gave my niece apoplexy, until she realized that Thomas had not just told me that I needed to start JOGGING, and was not, in fact, commenting on my sorry physical shape, but rather growing weary of never seeing his name and/or image grace the pages of my blog.

Consequently, I have been reminded that I like to write, perhaps I even need to write, hence my recent predilection for prose, which may most accurately be described as my WAAAAAH, WAAAAAH, WAAAAAH period. Again, insert the wisdom of a 15 year-old, who instead of congratulating me on my triumphant return, asked the following question.

Isn't your blog called OUR butterfly moments and not MY butterfly moments? Enough about you. What about David?

And my response to this verbal sparring?

Touché.

So, we now return you to our regularly scheduled programming....

Stay tuned tomorrow for more of David's madcap misadventures and an account from my hairdresser that the “shiners" (her polite term for gray hair) have recently been multiplying exponentially at my temples.

In Therapy?

Judging from the startled look on her face, my physician did not expect me to start crying when she informed me that my thyroid levels were completely normal.

You see, I had convinced myself that my thyroid had shriveled up and died.

Most of the women in my family have thyroid glands that just pack it up and move to Florida at about my age.  In my mind, that was the perfect explanation for so many things.  The fatigue.  The agonizingly slow weight loss.  The sluggish global economy.

And, after telling me what she had anticipated as the “good news,” my doctor hesitantly moved to the discussion of cholesterol.

After five months of exercise and watching my diet, I had managed to lower my LDL (bad) cholesterol by almost 10 points, but I had also managed to lower my HDL (good) cholesterol by about the same amount.  And the really exciting news?  My triglycerides were up 20 points.

And for those of you who need not worry about the intricacies of cholesterol components, ideally “triglycerides” should not be paired with the directional descriptor “up.”

My reaction?  More tears.

And then she kindly asked about David, how I was sleeping and if maybe, just maybe I was under a tad bit of stress.

Full blown weeping.

I am not exactly sure what she said then, but it included the phrases someone to talk to, really good therapist, and at least four visits.  Before I could even blow my nose she had sprinted back to her office to retrieve a business card containing the referral information.

I never thought of myself as someone who would be “in therapy.”

Although I must admit that there is some appeal in being able to say things like I am terribly sorry Jill/Rob/Shakira that I cannot help with the fundraiser/room party/mini-oreo cookie eating contest, but my THERAPIST has advised me that I need to put myself first and limit my commitments.

But then again, four sessions times a $20 co-pay per session equals $80.  Does anyone know where I can schedule a hot stone massage?

Clearing the Hurdles

I feel as if I have lost my footing.

 

I am not exactly happy, not terribly sad, just tired.

 

Like I have been running a race and believe that I am nearing the finish line, when instead I am tripped up by the first in another long series of hurdles that stretch off into the distance.

 

I feel like I have my priorities all wrong, but without some dramatic action I am not sure how to make them right again.

 

Michael and I mistakenly assumed that once we could get David talking, everything else would be a piece of cake.

 

Well, we were wrong.

 

Just when I feel like we have something mastered, it seems as if we don't. Just when I stop worrying about things like the first day of summer school, recalling all of the other "first days," smugly thinking we've got this, David pulls me back into reality by doing something cute like throwing up on his shoes.

 

Three times.

 

Once for each of the grievous sins of the day.

 

The bus arrived 45 minutes late and was not a wheelchair bus--no hydraulic lift.

 

Unaware of the lunch routine, the summer school teacher, upon seeing David without a cold lunch--usually a nutritous pairing of goldfish crackers and a yogurt stick--put him in the hot lunch line instead of prompting him to go back to he room and get his lunch bag.

 

And finally, the field trip shirts that were distributed are black and not David's beloved red. He refused even to shove it into his backpack.

 

Instead, he punctuated the day by throwing up.

 

Didn't we have to fight this same field trip shirt battle last year?

 

Did I really think that the disgusting combination of a little too much chardonnay, paired with nacho cheese doritos and a mini oreo cookie kicker would make me feel any better? Because I nearly ended up urping on my own shoes.

 

I am trying to take a page from David's playbook. David, who smiles most of the time and flashes his big blue eyes at everyone he meets. David, who on the second day of summer school, pointed out the puke on his shoes, but refused to let me change them--or clean them--or hear any talk of replacing the shoes that he has worn the whole year and have seen better days.

 

Instead, he marched bravely out to the bus, head held high, wearing his splattered shoes like a badge of honor.

 

And so, we move forward. Still trying to appreciate the little milestones even if they seem like they should be routine by now.

 

Still trying to snap a picture of David, who went to the zoo today wearing his new black t-shirt.

 

Even without a red shirt over it.

 

 

The FIRST of March

It has been a recurring refrain in our house.

I go to a hotel.  Maybe in March.

Several months ago, we drove past a local hotel, a Courtyard by Marriott.  We had stayed at this hotel during summer break in 2009 because we were worried that David would not tolerate a full-blown vacation.  Instead, we opted for a stay-cation with a convenient plan B—go home.

David recognized that hotel from almost three years ago and asked if he could stay there again.  He remembered the pool.  He remembered the elevators.  I remembered the conveniently located Starbucks’ cart in the lobby after a terrible night’s sleep.

So I told David that we could stay there again—maybe in March.  I was thinking of the possibility of spending a night there over the boys’ spring break, but I was honestly more hoping that in the intervening months, David would forget about it.  (I know—I can hear you laughing from here.)

Last night, he repeated his proclamation for the umpteenth time.

I go to a hotel.  Maybe in March.

But then, he ripped the February label off of the giant calendar that hangs on our front door and replaced it with a shamrock-studded March label.

Once again, he repeated his mantra but this time with a twist.

I go to a hotel—on the ONETH of the month.

The oneth of the month?  Oh, the oneth of the month.  Today is March 1^st, the oneth of the month and David had expected that we would be relaxing by the pool right about now.

The oneth of the month makes perfect sense when you think about it.  David is a pretty clever boy for a myriad of reasons.

Oneth, he invented a more sensible system of ordinal numbers and twoth, he found a way to get what he wanted as we have made a reservation to stay at that very same hotel later this month.