tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43645750958270414692024-02-18T20:17:18.686-06:00Trial RunYou only get one shot at this.
Life isn't a trial run.
This blog, however, might be.krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.comBlogger531125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-67376939394066573042017-10-23T05:40:00.001-05:002017-10-23T05:40:22.889-05:00GrowthThe Girl's biennial cardiology check up was a couple weeks ago. There was modest bribery required for the ultrasound but compared to years past when she had to be held down, screaming, it was a massive success. She's growing up. <br />
<br />
As we waited for the doctor at the end, I heard him outside the door, "Oh.... well now. <i>That's</i> interesting." <br />
<br />
Interesting, in the clinical setting, is by definition bad. Especially in that sad, flat tone he used. <br />
<br />
But this is not a story about PTSD or flashbacks. I sighed, but didn't feel the bottom of yet another cliff come rushing toward us. Which is, I suppose, progress. Maybe I'm finally growing up too.<br />
<br />
Turns out his comment had nothing to do with us and he pronounced her heart repair nigh perfect. Come back in 2 years.<br />
<br />
In the waiting room, before the bribes and the all clear, there had been 3 children giving my daughter the side eye. At one point the oldest hissed loudly at her brother to STOP STARING. I ignored them because I do not need to school every human being with whom my daughter comes into contact. Their mother eventually came out holding a very small baby, gave my girl a hard look, then suggested her children all say goodbye to their Friend in a too bright voice. The voice that meant <i>Very Special Friend, </i>capitalized, and that makes my teeth hurt from its forced gaiety and saccharine. I ignored her too because I am not going sanction such awkwardness and the kids hadn't even been playing together and <i>ffs, lady, really</i>?<br />
<br />
Except she turned as she was leaving and her baby had the most beautiful almond eyes....<br />
<br />
Oops.<br />
<br />
I dimly remember stalking people in the grocery store and stumbling over myself and my words when my girl was small and I didn't know What This All Meant (also capitalized). We have come such a long way. I hope that mother and all her Very Special Friends find peace. I wish whatever the doctor was reading was only mildly interesting and didn't involve his newest patient. I think maybe I could try to be less of a dick around strangers. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Top of Mt Tam in CA - no cliffs involved.</td></tr>
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'tkrlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-84353712206345212622017-10-22T08:55:00.000-05:002017-10-22T08:55:19.529-05:00It was a ranch and there were no balconiesWhen my <a href="http://krlr-trialrun.blogspot.com/2014/01/gigi.html" target="_blank">Gigi </a>bought her home just after the war, the lots near the ocean and the tree heavy lots inland were about the same price. She wanted trees. This was something of a family joke because the ocean lots, as you can imagine, fetch several decimal places more today.<br />
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(She also briefly owned a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duesenberg" target="_blank">Duesenberg</a>. Yet another lost inheritance.)<br />
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I had a dream my dad decided to keep and restore Gigi's home. Except now a bedroom balcony overlooked deep water and in my dream I sat near her and watched orcas and sharks and dolphins swim below. I could hear my kids running thru the house. It was beautiful and I was at peace. <br />
<br />
A month or so ago Matt was in Los Angeles and drove by Gigi's. The new owners have turned my grandmother's classy Cape Cod into... a garage.<br />
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(Apologies for the jigsaw - Matt had actually taken a video and my photo editing skills are, um, lacking.)<br />
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They also posted pictures online of a new surgical center where Gigi used to craft her meals.<br />
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At the end of my dream a massive wave crashed over the balcony. Change is hard.<br />
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krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-30668340283538308152016-08-22T12:29:00.000-05:002016-08-22T12:29:09.404-05:00A Smaller WorldI lost a friend last Friday. Alison Piepmeier was larger than life, a passionate and eloquent advocate for her daughter, Maybelle, and for equality in all things. We met online, back when I was still writing, and then in person at my first NDSC convention in Washington DC in 2012.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRwHUx6B4JimB-Za138T3J5GP1NVLZ2Ycymq4cXZpipeeovCGbbe4ioDg7h5kfa7xnxHil9UfIsymeMPhqUAH9wWeSPnlevbXO9MMWAhPMOGn3Tsyk_0NYGOa73W7her-oC6E9N2yvCPk/s640/blogger-image--1901461164.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRwHUx6B4JimB-Za138T3J5GP1NVLZ2Ycymq4cXZpipeeovCGbbe4ioDg7h5kfa7xnxHil9UfIsymeMPhqUAH9wWeSPnlevbXO9MMWAhPMOGn3Tsyk_0NYGOa73W7her-oC6E9N2yvCPk/s1600/blogger-image--1901461164.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2012 NDSC Convention</td></tr>
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She missed the next few conventions for various reasons but I always assumed we'd meet up again at the next one. But then her tumor came back. I had planned to go help out for a weekend but the dates were moved and moved again and <a href="http://alisonpiepmeier.blogspot.com/2016/06/today-at-duke-im-dying.html?m=0" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">then there was no more time</span></a>. So in the middle of July, a week before my 5th NDSC convention, I manufactured a trip to Charleston and was able to spend an hour or so with her in the morning. And then another hour in the afternoon. She was weak, she occasionally fumbled, trying to find the right words, but was as insightful and vibrant as always. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charleston, 7/11/16</td></tr>
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I, however, couldn't find any words. No profound, comforting thoughts about her looming death, or leaving her daughter nigh orphaned. Nothing about what her friendship had meant to me. I hugged her and told her I loved her and left flowers. I hope that just showing up counted, a little. I suspect my visit was more for my benefit that hers. I worry it was intrusive - two plus precious hours lost to random online friend - but am profoundly grateful her mother let me have that time. <br />
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Even more so now that I couldn't attend her memorial on Friday. At least I got to say goodbye in person. <br />
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Alison had this gift of making you feel like the most important person in the room. She was warm and enthusiastic about everything from a FB snapshot to long rambling post. You can see in the hundreds of comments and eulogies that she made <i>everyone</i> feel just as special and I know I am but one of hundreds who loved and will mourn her. I am, by contrast, a tetchy introvert but her loss is that much more profound to my small world. I hope I can show up for my other people with half as much gusto as she did. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alison Piepmeier<br />12/11/72 - 8/12/16</td></tr>
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krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-3204463407587619672016-03-27T21:27:00.000-05:002016-05-09T19:06:41.604-05:00And then came the sunI ran another <span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://www.runfor21k.com/home.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">half marathon</span></a> </span>last weekend, this one benefiting our local Down syndrome group. I've told anyone who asked that it was a terrible race - I hit a wall about mile 8, my legs felt like wood, and it was <i>snowing</i>. Despite a much flatter course and bonafide training I finished a full half hour slower than last year.<br />
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But the first half of the race was beautiful. The race wound thru some old neighborhoods with massive trees in full spring bloom. The flowers clashed with the dark winter sky and the snow was falling soft and heavy. <br />
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It was magical. But it suddenly occurred to me that the snow would kill off the blossoms. Mutually exclusive acts of nature. And my face crumpled into an ugly cry right there in the middle of the street as I thought this magical thing that I had wrought might be taken early by the very same, mutually occurring thing that makes her beautiful. <br />
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It is quite likely I was simply hypothermic and hypoglycemic. But the memory of the snow on the flowering trees has stayed with me... as has the fact that the snow was melting by the time I got home. The flowers survived. Comfort can be found in the strangest corners.<br />
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krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-9440083803385635552015-10-15T22:59:00.002-05:002015-10-15T22:59:38.676-05:00Four - SixteenBilly's Graham's wife was once asked if she'd ever considered divorce. <br />
"Divorce? No. Murder? Absolutely."<br />
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That answer has always cracked me up because as much as love this man, dear gawd but he can be infuriating. He snores and can be grouchy in the morning. He leaves his wet towels on the bed and doesn't replace the bag in the garbage can. And he always "puts away" my stuff where I can't find it. I have occasionally wondered how one would, hypothetically speaking of course, dispose of a body. But he is the first one I want to talk to in the morning and the last one at night, and the only hand I'll hold in the movie theater (so as long as I picked the movie). <br />
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The Grahams were married over 60 years. We're only 16 in but I can't wait for the next fifty.<br />
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Happy Anniversary, Matt! <br />
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krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-88525290948886069492015-10-13T22:50:00.001-05:002015-10-14T06:00:23.768-05:00Three - Principessa<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Who need words with a smile like this? </span></div>
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krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-72702131895827449192015-10-12T23:40:00.001-05:002015-10-12T23:40:29.316-05:00Two - Showing UpYes, more about the race. Sort of. <br />
<br />
Matt's been traveling a lot lately, and was gone for two full weeks before my race. My training was haphazard at best. <br />
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My "long" weekend runs were 3 miles, five, another five (because I couldn't quite manage six), nine (back and forth on a perfectly flat levee), then nothing. Then more nothing. I ran three miles the day before out of remorse and was lucky I didn't pull anything. <br />
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Not exactly the ideal situation. But I had paid good cash money to get up at oh-dark-thirty to sweat near 5000 people I didn't know. Even if I had trained more it could have rained or been swelteringly hot. I could have crashed my car on the drive over. I could have tripped on a pothole and fractured my patella after parking, without even eyeing the starting line. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFZ_k3yJshXL6AagimGQEJHLTpgazDQw3gJiHO-QlR6c4rY2tAO94w-opyNqyBgy4uJM8OZDj5Fc8Gphcuksj_MXqz6BYVJC_ZNlvPOCURo3sPZZgeLCI0uI9-PPXg6YoNqQzzsTiBsAc/s640/blogger-image--1601461056.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFZ_k3yJshXL6AagimGQEJHLTpgazDQw3gJiHO-QlR6c4rY2tAO94w-opyNqyBgy4uJM8OZDj5Fc8Gphcuksj_MXqz6BYVJC_ZNlvPOCURo3sPZZgeLCI0uI9-PPXg6YoNqQzzsTiBsAc/s400/blogger-image--1601461056.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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As it happens, it was a beautiful fall day. I walked a bit around mile 10 and developed an impressive 3" long blister on my foot but I finished hard and got my race shirt. Not a single damn person cares that I finished 20 minutes slower this year than I did in 2013. <br />
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I showed up. <br />
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Life is messy. You can end up a single parent. You can bomb the basics. But you show up and suck the marrow and embrace the ugly cow medal because this is all there ever will be. Our existence here is precious and short, no matter how well planned, and it would be a great tragedy if perfection cudgeled the good. <br />
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I am, of course, just talking about running. Far be it from me to postulate about other issues. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVOdKgxSt9-L3yYNRI3YFYz5Yl8kz0sRJ15b-VUk6KMx-IPrAGQZ9WEkE5zkpZ1tjDP2r2t9fNzRMcQpgEvqlPNos0-omMzobI7xb2QuRWeLnY9jfEbiZli2441bJNGGalngVvWZqr0OU/s640/blogger-image-1711718837.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVOdKgxSt9-L3yYNRI3YFYz5Yl8kz0sRJ15b-VUk6KMx-IPrAGQZ9WEkE5zkpZ1tjDP2r2t9fNzRMcQpgEvqlPNos0-omMzobI7xb2QuRWeLnY9jfEbiZli2441bJNGGalngVvWZqr0OU/s400/blogger-image-1711718837.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-36244850045177403512015-10-12T22:01:00.001-05:002015-10-13T08:34:27.438-05:00One - Inside Jokes<br>
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I ran a half marathon last weekend. While dragging my children thru the vendor expo for my race number, I passed a local running club's table. They were undeterred by my public scowl and, since I love a brave soul, I slowed. They pounced. They were warm and funny and we joked about my bad ankle and their off road routes. </div>
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If I was looking for something to do in November, they said, they were hosting a <a href="http://www.stlouistrackclub.com/half-marathon/registration/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">half marathon</span></a> to benefit the Special Olympics. </div>
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Ah-HA! </div>
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So you saw me as a soft target, eh? </div>
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They tried to look innocent. I nodded at my girl and raised my eyebrows. </div>
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They grinned. I signed up. </div>
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I later bought flowers for my mother in law for watching my children during the race. I picked up some tulips for myself. Because schmaltz & cliches aside, I fucking love the Dutch. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_8EMUbv60K-LpjnBpi_yQhzbrVWelMTHxSqWVhyphenhyphen-OsWYth9Ulp_SK1t50kueJNHU30RBimTmmE_DaUXbNxcrnQmGQMQ0r9FL1nqiWE5McfePO7Qijnt5FiChEUc_WkEW_KIB-fP0I6Lg/s640/blogger-image--331870337.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_8EMUbv60K-LpjnBpi_yQhzbrVWelMTHxSqWVhyphenhyphen-OsWYth9Ulp_SK1t50kueJNHU30RBimTmmE_DaUXbNxcrnQmGQMQ0r9FL1nqiWE5McfePO7Qijnt5FiChEUc_WkEW_KIB-fP0I6Lg/s400/blogger-image--331870337.jpg" width="300"></a></div>
krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-65610340050507085402015-08-05T22:35:00.002-05:002015-08-06T06:06:49.614-05:00Of Time and Place<br />
Just before school let out, I learned The Girl's favorite para had a brother with Down syndrome. He wasn't allowed to go to school, suggesting he was born in the 1960s, when babies with Ds were still routinely institutionalized. I wonder about his parents, who defied all social convention when they took him home. I wonder how bittersweet it must have been for them when <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Individuals_with_Disabilities_Education_Act" target="_blank">IDEA</a> was enacted in 1975, 15(?) years too late. <br />
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I wonder if they feel a little twinge knowing their daughter spends her days enabling something their son never had. <br />
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1975 is the same year <a href="http://www.gore.com/timeline/index.html" target="_blank">Gore-tex</a> started their medical division. I don't know when the survival rate for pediatric open heart surgery shifted from abysmal to only slightly terrifying, but 33 years later a tiny piece of rain jacket fixed the giant gaping hole in my daughter's heart. Had she been born the same year I was, she would have died. <br />
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In 1982, relying on medical advice, an appellate court in Indiana allowed six day old Baby Doe to die. Baby Doe had Down syndrome - a fact his parents found so abhorrent, rather than allow someone else to adopt him & fix a fairly routine medical issue, they withheld food and water till <span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://www.downsyndromeprenataltesting.com/today-baby-doe-died/" target="_blank">stomach acid ate his lungs</a>.</span><br />
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I wonder about the parents who would have chewed off their own arm for corrective surgery but didn't have caring doctors or the right technology. I imagine it would sting a little, seeing my girl running across the playground with only a faint scar on her chest to document fortune's grace, knowing their own child was just one decade or late night lab discovery shy of a full life. </div>
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I attended the NDSC convention in June and marveled at the self congratulatory nature of it all. There is still much work to be done - 5 minutes of Q&A about school inclusion is painful confirmation of this, & my pedicure lady at the hotel reminded me that children w/Ds in Serbia are still hidden away and shameful. But in this country, today, we have dedicated professionals, best practices, and the full weight and force of federal law. We have the ABLE act. We have the internet and each other. </div>
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And we have medical research. </div>
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It's not uncommon to hear parents fervently swear they wouldn't change a thing about their child. "She wouldn't be who she is without Down syndrome!" I wonder how much of this is a reflexive reaction to the trolls and naysayers - we become such fearsome advocates for our children we fear anything other than rainbow spewing giddiness will validate the eugenicists or scare a frightened expectant girl into a clinic. <br />
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I think this is the secular version of "special angels sent by God." My child has a third copy of the 21st chromosome and we do not need to ascribe her otherworldly missions or insight to honor her place in this world. That extra "love chromosome" (gag) dicked with her heart and landed her in the PICU when she was 3 months old. That extra coding dicks around with the chemicals and proteins in her brain and makes her neurons fire inefficiently. This makes it hard for her to learn things and exceptionally difficult for her to express herself. Assuming her soul would be any less fantastic if the chemical soup in her head processed language faster is tantamount to claiming she's awesome <i>because she is slow</i>. It is as reductive and damaging as finding an amputee inspiring simply because they get out of bed in the morning. My daughter is a fucking <i>delight</i> - not because she has Down syndrome, but because she is. And it kills me that she cannot tell me her stories. <br />
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At the NDSC conference, as I heard about research into drugs that may quiet overactive proteins or activate sleepy neural pathways, I wondered about the doors <i>we</i> will never open. None of the research sounds remotely close to actual application and, just as I started to daydream about experimenting on my 7 year old, one of the researchers mentioned thalidomide. Woe betide those that fuck with the delicate balance of the human body. <br />
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But I wonder if twenty or forty years from now Down syndrome will be medically treated, just like diabetes or hypothyroidism. I wonder if I will feel a little twinge in my sunset years, seeing stories about miracles of modern medicine, valedictorians with a little extra, or ivy leaguers. I wonder if I will regret my caution, just as the little pills prove safe… just as I start watching for signs of Alzheimer's in my baby. I wonder.<br />
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krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-39744865998280951912015-04-10T08:04:00.001-05:002015-04-10T08:27:16.718-05:00Other MilestonesThe Boy needed socks. I knew he'd graduated into adult sizes but in the shoe store you just mosey one aisle over & it's no big deal, right? But I stood next to the superhero underwear, confused, wondering what was wrong with Target's inventory management that I couldn't find the right size. The men's section? <i>That</i> couldn't be right, could it? The men's section is in a completely different part of the store, separated from the children by rows of electronics & camping gear. I found his socks there, next to boxer shorts wrapped in pictures of grown men with beards & chest hair, then floated around the rest of the store clutching those white crews to my chest like the baby I swear I was holding only yesterday. <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB1YxqWwVK2RVx40f6UUooejzgKIlvUH8ZOp7pZKnJdM4-WWSIQiChMeU0n_GPL3BXtKGkOnYiPQgr_GW5fCKxlEsGN3j3oY-YmqzCN7GCFW-8yx6BBDhffdRR2Ey8Xfm9Sjh_jEtrHAU/s640/blogger-image--1105047939.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoCWHANIKyPbnXslkGR8NMeRWhUO9tv8q1QvvTdeTNdoKSbbnuqRu6HC_r23vDK_RlZxMgkdSMmeCUhSxMl4EmmWMtshFEo0tApkEFkPSfepxjnhdjLeNcwToaV0fNWPlYByKYg-Vye6w/s640/blogger-image-1268920544.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoCWHANIKyPbnXslkGR8NMeRWhUO9tv8q1QvvTdeTNdoKSbbnuqRu6HC_r23vDK_RlZxMgkdSMmeCUhSxMl4EmmWMtshFEo0tApkEFkPSfepxjnhdjLeNcwToaV0fNWPlYByKYg-Vye6w/s640/blogger-image-1268920544.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Almost grown. </div></div>krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-15395400069595821042015-03-19T06:02:00.002-05:002015-03-19T09:22:06.676-05:00Dear Doc<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dear Doc -</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Once upon a time there was a beautiful little girl. She was very special but, as in all fairy tales, she was given certain challenges. As soon as she was born she was whisked off to the first doctor, but he reached deep inside her heart and made it strong. His magic would allow the girl to live a long life and run fast. The girl's parents were well pleased.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Her parents then took her to the eye doctor so she could see all the flowers and story books. They took her to an ear doctor so she could hear her family laugh and the dogs bark. There were other people for her feet and still others for her neck - courtiers abounded. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But some of these doctors gave her shots and stuck needles in her arms. Sometimes she would visit a doctor, fall asleep, and wake up feeling sick in a different place. That was scary. One time the little girl was very, very ill and stayed in a hospital where they had the temerity to <i>vacuum</i> her nose like a <i>peasant</i>. Once they actually <i>held</i> her trying to get pictures! Audacious paparazzi!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The girl did not care for these gross invasions of personal space. Their paltry compensation - stickers! ice cream! - was beneath her and she scorned it all. (Well, maybe not the ice cream but it was wildly insufficient.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The girl began to believe her parents had abdicated their duties. She ignored their entreaties and became an expert at spotting and eluding anyone with medical training. If cornered, she would roar like a dragon and fight back. Hard. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Though she was impressively fierce, this made her parents sad. They loved her very much and wanted her to have all the flowers and laughter. They believed these alchemists could help, but they wanted her to be happy too. Confusion and darkness spread across the land. </span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLzsE9uzvTbdfgSInotKCTkOCw6WxvFyt0msuXFWUSkRayva-XchiV_wCLDxCOpJPxGYzgo_BMbkGLvgyfuA29VDZ3gqKdtMG9WzGVm2iAja2vHte9x8IX6KnRlD6-PD4fch2HkK2LEM/s1600/IMG_8154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLzsE9uzvTbdfgSInotKCTkOCw6WxvFyt0msuXFWUSkRayva-XchiV_wCLDxCOpJPxGYzgo_BMbkGLvgyfuA29VDZ3gqKdtMG9WzGVm2iAja2vHte9x8IX6KnRlD6-PD4fch2HkK2LEM/s1600/IMG_8154.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But then the girl met you, Doc. She watched you coax reluctant patients into treatment. She saw you check their ears, check their eyes, and find out what was going on. She saw how much you cared and how hard you worked to help. She watched you reset limbs, excise debris, and patch tears. She saw how happy your patients were by the end of each episode.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLJZKhok_hqFwvo2ZMqPbFephUPZ2BM-YMBe5_h2n0hr2TcHrIS1f3w6epehH1JfcxGqwVgyMKiSEEqLjyfgy3z7Xu61-DkL6mkOg9pX0dCjQXthI-UT5vNaMGz56-5_o2QVrKrOVgQNc/s1600/IMG_8118.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLJZKhok_hqFwvo2ZMqPbFephUPZ2BM-YMBe5_h2n0hr2TcHrIS1f3w6epehH1JfcxGqwVgyMKiSEEqLjyfgy3z7Xu61-DkL6mkOg9pX0dCjQXthI-UT5vNaMGz56-5_o2QVrKrOVgQNc/s1600/IMG_8118.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Because of you, the girl decided to give the doctors another chance. Perhaps not aallll of them were evil trolls, after all? She started bringing you with her to appointments for a second opinion. </span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLC5C2NDcuZQeKS2zs6iUBkk1jzZAMlDG1rel3lv_ngNnybzSC7-b6QhhjlyvzBp8g22bTyaYOT9esPE-b8fGWkG8M6E1lurZJm9ShR39tGtVygP3AWORqEysBDqsF0U_I3KenydJQiPk/s1600/IMG_8110.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLC5C2NDcuZQeKS2zs6iUBkk1jzZAMlDG1rel3lv_ngNnybzSC7-b6QhhjlyvzBp8g22bTyaYOT9esPE-b8fGWkG8M6E1lurZJm9ShR39tGtVygP3AWORqEysBDqsF0U_I3KenydJQiPk/s1600/IMG_8110.jpg" height="400" width="325" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Like a food taster of old, you would gallantly test the equipment on her behalf.</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFRNlk23BOd8fDk5zF7gq93zFBACLVrpr91HuhJdIruRSDjPHY9NG-083yZ29ls5HDWme6EBRcq8py4JVCVHrwAxfvSMKm8YduWlY_Loza6TX09KaxJzQGkbZPkImY_OrX6WBoA6nhBq8/s1600/IMG_6016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFRNlk23BOd8fDk5zF7gq93zFBACLVrpr91HuhJdIruRSDjPHY9NG-083yZ29ls5HDWme6EBRcq8py4JVCVHrwAxfvSMKm8YduWlY_Loza6TX09KaxJzQGkbZPkImY_OrX6WBoA6nhBq8/s1600/IMG_6016.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">You submitted to exams to evaluate the physician's technique. Charlatans who failed to respect or recognize their peer were quickly dispatched.</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyOgnj9VkNYHwZ2Nk9iAKrAgXkCWMLmSKRFLkwU4Ehd5_Af8-08D2nGL3yiKRONcO1_WW_1lFxejRqHyEkJMWF61E-sz00gsccR8JLGvKQW3Jvl5O3wJ4d7ejan5yEHpgW9ZJql6gzDcY/s1600/IMG_8100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyOgnj9VkNYHwZ2Nk9iAKrAgXkCWMLmSKRFLkwU4Ehd5_Af8-08D2nGL3yiKRONcO1_WW_1lFxejRqHyEkJMWF61E-sz00gsccR8JLGvKQW3Jvl5O3wJ4d7ejan5yEHpgW9ZJql6gzDcY/s1600/IMG_8100.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Because of you, the girl was properly treated, with deference and every courtesy. Because of you, the girl's parents were assured she was given every advantage. Peace was restored and both the girl <i>and</i> the parents were pleased. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEIERGwWfqaME3hEdM_nveHhM3hCcez-GzN0sJhrzM2dNznXCNWYnO6_C4S5ewUxl7N9mPAVFl3p0ODvS1EL-gsQgXEIMQgnjH7piEbWqchIN6G6YmuZbbWuKbem8gSIyBWvKMEwc2Z5E/s640/blogger-image-1169962927.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEIERGwWfqaME3hEdM_nveHhM3hCcez-GzN0sJhrzM2dNznXCNWYnO6_C4S5ewUxl7N9mPAVFl3p0ODvS1EL-gsQgXEIMQgnjH7piEbWqchIN6G6YmuZbbWuKbem8gSIyBWvKMEwc2Z5E/s400/blogger-image-1169962927.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Thank you, Doc McStuffins. </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thank you. </span></i></div>
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krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-30907100500513460832015-03-16T15:02:00.001-05:002015-03-16T15:02:07.384-05:00Monday, MondayThings to be grateful for on this first day of yet another week:<div><br></div><div>Pediatric dentists who have Saturday hours, and who call to remind me to order my girl's pre-dental antibiotics. </div><div><br></div><div>And the sun, which made the pavement sparkle like the night sky as I walked over to the other building for yet another meeting. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrEUySHzUMS6_pHhW3PfC4HAuqlqVHFR71B_PS_mNuEdnMnc5JV2_nfwgC9rJ4Iu0AifUcBbrBGUROzG73lk-Jj2iBbuYp9rrvypnkRxwAJwRP4eRGDRSA3aIb2BvHzxFfVkBwdORTAE/s640/blogger-image--1191724803.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrEUySHzUMS6_pHhW3PfC4HAuqlqVHFR71B_PS_mNuEdnMnc5JV2_nfwgC9rJ4Iu0AifUcBbrBGUROzG73lk-Jj2iBbuYp9rrvypnkRxwAJwRP4eRGDRSA3aIb2BvHzxFfVkBwdORTAE/s640/blogger-image--1191724803.jpg"></a></div><br></div>krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-57318954824026444752015-03-02T06:10:00.002-06:002015-03-02T06:10:46.508-06:00The Road TakenLast Sunday I ran 9 miles. It was in the 20s with a biting wind and I considered bailing, but I paid good cash money for a race next month, my first in 18 months, and I don't want to embarrass myself.<br />
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(Plantar fasciitis is the devil. It's been a slow recovery).<br />
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I also needed to get out the house. I was snappy and tense and didn't like the sound of my voice; nor did I want to deal with the damn dirty kitchen (again) or laundry pile (still and always). <br />
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The sidewalks were covered in snow and ice, forcing me & my shaky, aging ankles onto the road. I told myself I'd just do the 5mile loop around town.<br />
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Two miles in, my hands were still cold inside my gloves and I'd stopped blowing my nose because the snot was insulating my sinuses. But a mile later, when I reached the spot where my roads diverged, I turned right and kept going.<br />
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I ran facing traffic but my presence in the street still enraged one driver enough to warrant a double angry fist pump. Another laid on the horn so aggressively I nearly fell into a snow bank. But I also got a thumbs up from a farmer in a pick up and a not unattractive man grinned at me at a stop sign. Most drivers just edged over a few feet and carried on.<br />
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By the time I made it back to my car and home I felt peaceful. It was a nice reminder in the midst of my mid-life angst that the journey <i>is</i> the point. Even off path and against traffic.<br />
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krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-42290935775864371522015-02-11T21:25:00.000-06:002015-02-11T21:25:42.574-06:00Still Here. So. Here we are, February again. The holidays happened. Winter is still happening. I probably owe y'all an update, yes? <br />
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The extended family converged not once, but twice this year - at Thanksgiving here in flyover country and again in CA for Christmas. There was a remarkable lack of drama - which is, I suppose, dramatic in its absence. Turns out we actually all like each other.<br />
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There were no Christmas cards. Whoops! There was a photo shoot but then…. yeah. <br />
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Papa Fritz was very excited to take the kids out on his new boat. I had more than a couple nightmares about the ocean swallowing my children, and practical angst my girl would freak the fuck out on the boat, but she LOVED it and no one drown. Win! </div>
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I am tired though. On New Years Eve it dawned on me that my son is 9 1/2 years old and the time given me to shape him into a reasonable human being is half over. What will he remember of his childhood? The unending grind of school, homework and his frazzled mommy - or the Christmas we went sailing with Papa? What will <i>I</i> remember of these years? They seem too much a blur to claim the victory of a life well lived. Too many days are spent grinding thru work-dinner-homework with an eye on the clock and yet ten years just <i>vanished</i>. At the end I'll only have this woefully neglected blog and random snapshots to remind me my children were once small and needy… shouldn't I be savoring it all more? Or is that just so much hippy-HuffPost-airbrushed bullshit? <br />
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I'm obviously in the midst of some mid-life post-vacation late-winter existential <i>meh</i>. I'm weirdly not unhappy and we have lots of good things coming up, but this milestone has done a number on my head. A situation not improved when I re-watched <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BOksW_NabEk" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">the jelly bean video</span></a>. Which is silly and triggers my sweet tooth, but I figure I only have about 14,000 beans left. What shall I do? <br />
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krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-21428925491309631292014-10-29T06:22:00.000-05:002014-10-29T06:22:01.845-05:00Through the pinkMatt & I have both been working long, intense hours lately, culminating in a not very healthy or productive "discussion" about who has been doing what domestic chores. <i>Good times!</i> Then he left for a two week long business trip. <br />
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The first day he was gone I overslept by two full hours. The second day my car wouldn't start. That night the dishwasher nearly exploded, forcing me to manhandle the much feared circuit breaker box. As my Gigi liked to say, "That'll learn ya."<br />
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Yet in the midst of all the chaos this month, I have been gifted moments of peace.<br />
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A rare walk thru the early morning drizzle with my wolf-like puppy.<br />
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These two, always.<br />
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Even these times.<br />
Actually…. especially these times. </div>
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Buying groceries, a much loathed task, and finding the oysters my Gigi always bought.<br />
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My drive home through pink light.<br />
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There was also a recent moment when I fled my desk, this stack of paper, and the inane, incessant late Friday chatter of my co-workers. I walked into the break room just as the rainy clouds parted and the fridge stopped humming. The sudden sun and silence were damn near spiritual. <br />
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It is a mystery to me why these moments come - what slight shift in the brain chemistry allows me to find beauty in fleeting moments while other days I'm left gritting my teeth and slurping coffee. Perhaps I'm being too cynical in assuming it <i>is</i> chemical, and should just be grateful my cold, old heart can still find magic in the world. Even on the odd day. </div>
krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-62794250245706034182014-10-03T00:03:00.000-05:002014-10-03T00:03:07.080-05:00It's a Glamorous Life File this under the cover of "families with special needs - they're just like everyone else!"<br />
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<i>(Otherwise known as a cheater post)</i><br />
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This morning the odd little old lady with whom I'd had an appointment last night called and <i>scolded</i> me for forgetting it. Then I learned my laid back boss is leaving and my work load will be doubling. I got home an hour after I was supposed to tonight and my adorable father in law didn't say anything but he looked tired and quickly left. The hamburger was still frozen so I popped in a pizza except The Girl doesn't like pizza any more (insert wildly inappropriate genetic joke about falling too far from the tree) and she asked for spaghetti via Proloquo instead. I am powerless to resist when she uses Proloquo spontaneously. Except we don't have spaghetti and given the choice between poop-brown Extra Fiber! Penne and nuclear-orange mac&cheese she picked the latter. In my head I start calling it Italian night because nothing screams Venice like frozen pizza and boxed macaroni. I find salad in the back of the fridge which is surprisingly not gross despite being from last weekend but I snacked on all the toppings last night so I just add dressing except there's no spout on the dressing and I drown the salad. <br />
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Then the dog ate half the pizza. <br />
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Pity my children if you must, but let's agree the only genetic flaw in their lives may be their mother and her poor domestic skills. <br />
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<a href="http://mdbeau.blogspot.com/2014/09/8th-annual-31-for-21-blog-challenge.html"><img src="http://i185.photobucket.com/albums/x198/wish4rk/TTR31for21-5.png" /></a><br />
<a href="http://mdbeau.blogspot.com/2014/09/8th-annual-31-for-21-blog-challenge.html">Grab This Button</a>krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-44309018969125230912014-10-02T06:58:00.001-05:002014-10-02T06:58:45.688-05:00This is how you do it. I've told this story a couple times, on FB and in other people's comment sections, but to kick off 31 for 21 and Down syndrome Acceptance Month, I'll share here. <div>
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I was seven months pregnant and a frequent flyer at the high risk perinatal center when they found something <i>amiss</i>. I was immediately shuffled upstairs to talk to the pediatric cardiologist. You have got to love to the efficiency - no appointment, no wait, just take this elevator, turn right, walk 50 feet. Apparently pending open heart surgery merits special treatment. </div>
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And/or they wanted to shove the hugely pregnant, snotty weeping mess into someone else's office. </div>
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And/or they were trying to atone for the fact they missed the GIANT hole in my child's heart during the first three ultrasounds. </div>
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But I digress. </div>
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The cardiologist explained what an <span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://www.cdc.gov/ncbddd/heartdefects/avsd.html" target="_blank">atrioventricular septal defect</a> </span>was and sketched out a picture for me. He told me how they'd fix it. I'd backed out of my scheduled amnio and my blood tests were clear so we still didn't know, but he explained this particular type of heart defect had an incredibly high correlation with Down syndrome. "Don't worry. Even if she does have it, they've completely revamped the way they teach these kids and she'll be more productive than half of society." </div>
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He was relaxed and upbeat. No tragedy here, folks, move along. They were going to fix her heart and teach her well and everything was going to be ok. [I don't think "productivity" should be the go-to standard now, but it was comforting at the time & I seized on it.]</div>
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At the next appointment with my regular OB, the nurse said they'd only had "this happen" once before… and she grabbed one of those happy family Christmas cards that line all OBs' halls, testament to the fruits of their, um, labor (couldn't resist!).</div>
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It was shot of a brother and sister, snuggling. The little boy had Ds. </div>
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"Aren't they beautiful?"</div>
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There are some ghastly diagnosis stories out there - doctors presuming and even advocating for termination, or coldly pointing out all the phenotypes of Ds on a newborn to parents, as if they were mid-autopsy or just found something in a petri dish. Most Ds organizations try to include doctor training in their mission but it's an uphill battle. </div>
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I was spared most the grieving and dismay many parents experience with the Ds diagnosis. <a href="http://krlr-trialrun.blogspot.com/2011/04/april-6th.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">We'd lost our first baby</span></a> and contemplating losing another in heart surgery was so gut wrenching, perspective wasn't so much gifted us as forced down our throats. But I haven't given enough credit to those first conversations ~ they <i>were</i> beautiful. </div>
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<a href="http://mdbeau.blogspot.com/2014/09/8th-annual-31-for-21-blog-challenge.html"><img src="http://i185.photobucket.com/albums/x198/wish4rk/TTR31for21-5.png" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://mdbeau.blogspot.com/2014/09/8th-annual-31-for-21-blog-challenge.html">Grab This Button</a></div>
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krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-17108259340989837972014-09-30T21:43:00.002-05:002014-09-30T22:03:49.236-05:00Little Idea(s) about SchoolTwo weeks ago I went with The Girl's kindy teacher to hear Patti McVay talk about inclusion. If you have a child with special needs - any kind - you should listen to her. Her presentation at the NDSC convention in Denver left me in tears and I started to get choked up again this time but pinched my arm and stared at my shoes till it passed. She is a true believer in the power of an inclusive education - not just for those with IEPs but for the typical kids too. She talks about how to make it work with behavior plans, modified work, para support, etc. Listening to her it all seems quite reasonable, <i>easy </i>even.<br />
<br />
She stressed and I have heard over & over again that every study ever done confirms the benefits of inclusion. <br />
<br />
But I get lost in the details. The fact is my daughter has an IEP because she has certain delays. She needs extra time and practice to pick things up. Her biggest delay, of course, is that she's effectively non-verbal and inclusion be damned but I would cut off my own arm if I could get her in 5 hours of speech a day. I think the answer to that would be she's not going to learn to talk sitting in a back room with a bunch of other non-verbal kids, but she WAS in daycare and preschool with typical kids and the only thing she picked up from them were cold germs. Be it motor planning or low tone, she's going to have to practice-practice-practice and work 50x harder than other kids to learn to enunciate. She is using an AAC but in my mind little will affect her ability to be <i>meaningfully included</i> and to eventually live independently more than her ability to speak clearly. <br />
<br />
But I have no idea how to make that happen. She's already 6 - I don't know if it <i>will </i>happen. <br />
<br />
And 5 hours of speech therapy/day does not make for happy, well-rounded children or fiscally solvent families so... we're back to the inclusive class. Thank God for Apple & Proloquo. <br />
<br />
Going into this year, the school and I did try maximize her time with her peers. We cut PT in half and what's left is push in, half her OT is push in (which the kindy teacher was thrilled about), and I think about half her speech is. I think Patti would ask why it isn't ALL push in. And she'd ask why The Girl is still spending time in the SpEd room. (Or resource room. Or whatever the hell they call it).<br />
<br />
At the workshop I asked what the SpEd teacher was supposed to do if kids were 100% included. The answer was co-teaching. I have no idea what co-teaching looks like.<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><br /></span>
<a href="http://krlr-trialrun.blogspot.com/2014/04/query-and-friends-over-forty.html" target="_blank">So I went out to </a><a href="http://krlr-trialrun.blogspot.com/2014/04/query-and-friends-over-forty.html" target="_blank">breakfast again </a>with the most fabulous SpEd teacher ever and asked, ever so delicately, what she was doing with my kid. Last year this teacher gave my child a voice - she's the reason my daughter uses Proloquo. Did I mention I love her? This year she's teaching my daughter to read. And do math. But, most of all, she is teaching my non-verbal 6 year old to <i>read</i>. Oh, my heart. <br />
<br />
I have no idea how that happens. I have no teaching credential or educational theories on my bookshelf but reading is right behind speaking on my list of hopes & dreams for my girl. I tried to work with my son when he was making an awkward transition from "See Cat Run" to full sentences but only managed to frustrate both of us. Then his 2nd grade teacher did something magic and it suddenly just clicked for him. I don't think it will magically and organically click for my girl though. <br />
<br />
One of the sessions I went to at this year's NDSC convention was on teaching kids with Ds to read. The presenter opened with a story about watching the kid with an
IEP get pulled out for "therapy" just as the other kids were sitting
down for story time. Which seems a wee bit counter-intuitive, even to
me. Inclusion, right? <br />
<br />
Except she went on to say that she's never had a person (some were adults) not learn to read, but sometimes it took a LOT of practice. Annndddd..... we're back in the resource room. <br />
<br />
I laid out my angst on Facebook and the general consensus was that a little tutoring isn't a bad thing (also that calling it tutoring makes it sound better). Which is the place I keep coming back to too, though I feel guilty for being OK with this knowing how hard other families have fought for a 100% setting. I have no idea if The Girl's current SpEd/gen ed ratio is ideal <i>for her.</i> I have no idea how long it will take her to learn to read. But I DO know both her teachers care about teaching her. I know that matters. I hope it matters enough. <br />
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div>
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Speaking of books, The Boy and I just finished Percy Jackson, which had immediately followed Harry Potter. We needed to give the magical superpowers a rest before Narnia or The Hobbit and I thought Little House on the Prairie would be nicely grounding. My copies were given away years ago but I decided we'd skip the library & ordered the full set on Amazon. I thought they'd be nice to have around... for both my children to read. They arrived today. <br />
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krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-20621866673688124522014-09-21T11:50:00.003-05:002014-09-21T11:50:57.248-05:00Membership Has Its PrivilegesYesterday I took The Girl 45 minutes into town to get her glasses repaired. I was annoyed about 5 different things - not the least of which was that we bought her glasses, and the accompanying warranty, 45 minutes away. The eye center is attached to the hospital… and right around a couple corners from the perinatal center, where we first discovered the extra bit of magic that was to enter our lives. The Girl likes to run the empty halls on the weekend and invariably tries out this door. I often think we should come back during the week and hang out. <br />
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Because, you know, <i>advocacy</i>.<br />
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Or maybe because I have a twisted sense of humor. <br />
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As we were leaving, a woman smiled at us and asked how old she was. And while dealing with the gen pop is not one of my strong suits (talking! strangers!), something in her voice made me smile and slow. </div>
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"She's six."</div>
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"My son is… my son was…"</div>
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She faltered. </div>
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Her son was 50 but had passed. She said he was a gift and touched everyone who met him. </div>
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Which was why I was hugging this unnamed woman three seconds after we met, and crying, and kissing my girl, who was alarmed and urgently signing "home." The long drive and missed appointments and everything else gnawing at me was forgotten. </div>
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We joke about being members of this club, and there are <i>hard</i> things that come with it, but not much else will move me to hug complete strangers. </div>
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Magic. </div>
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krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-12977383317653391682014-09-08T22:25:00.000-05:002014-09-08T22:25:27.577-05:00Monday, MondayWe had a lovely low key weekend - Matt returned from a 5 day business trip (!), which we survived without any <a href="http://krlr-trialrun.blogspot.com/2014/03/diary-of-single-mom.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">ER visits</span></a>, all family meals involved fresh produce, which is my new minimalistic parenting goal, and I binge watched Orange is the New Black while folding 354 loads of laundry. I am happy to have neither committed any felonies, nor to have grown up in foster care. Perspective, yo.<br />
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Other things that are making me happy:</div>
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<br />
<ul>
<li>I ran 2.5 miles on Friday & another 2 this morning.</li>
<li>It finally cooled off, making my morning runs less sauna-like, and more crisp fall, damn-I'm-glad-to-be-alive-like. </li>
<li>That self congratulatory feeling I get when I get my ass out of bed and go running before work. </li>
<li>The Boy and his friend finally tired of Minecraft during Saturday's sleepover… and pulled out a chess set.</li>
<li>Bedtime stories and sibling pix.</li>
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Things I'm not loving, just to keep it real:</div>
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<ul>
<li>That I haven't had the cash to chip in (yet) to the 6 fundraisers for people I actually know & like. Real people, real friends, not random faceless organizations. </li>
<li>Nor have I bought that shower gift, my brother's birthday/graduation gift, or sent flowers to the 5 people to whom I should send flowers. </li>
<li>That after Friday's whopping 2.5 miles I spent all weekend hobbling around, cursing my feet & middle age.</li>
<li>The aforementioned ass. </li>
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krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-49755863563672726142014-09-07T08:00:00.000-05:002014-09-07T08:00:02.823-05:00Conversations with my Children, Part III<div style="text-align: left;">
The Girl, first thing in the morning, signing "cracker."</div>
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Me: "No, sweetie, you can't have crackers for breakfast. How about cereal?"<br />
The girl grabbing her iPad, emphatically pounds, "[WOMAN!] I WANT CRACKERS!"<br />
Just in case I'd misunderstood her.<br />
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~~~~~~~~~~ </div>
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The Girl, voluntarily (!) turning off Princess Sofia to switch to Proloquo: "Snack, I want please."<br />
Me: "What kind of snack do you want?"<br />
The girl: "Yogurt, please."<br />
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~~~~~~~~~~</div>
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The Girl, signing, "Goodnight, Mommy. Bye-bye."<br />
Me, surprised at the abbreviated process & picking her iPad to recharge it, "Goodnight, sweetheart."<br />
The Girl starts crying, having realized there would be no midnight showing of Frozen: <br />
"Noooooo! More book, please? Snuggle? Lights out!"<br />
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~~~~~~~~~~</div>
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The Girl, upon hearing we were having (coffee) cake for breakfast, "<a href="http://krlr-trialrun.blogspot.com/2014/09/reason-enough-to-celebrate.html" target="_blank">Candles</a>?"</div>
~~~~~~~~~~<br />
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The Girl, during a thunderstorm, signing: "Outside? Bikes?"</div>
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Me: "No, it's raining outside."</div>
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She grinned and returned a moment later with her rain boots on. </div>
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"Outside? Bikes?"</div>
~~~~~~~~~~</div>
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This is a terrible picture, but she drew out the "Little monkeys jumping on the bed" song and was able to explain it to her para (who kindly provided captions). </div>
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Back in May, at the end-of-kindy IEP, The Girl's school peeps formally announced the goal of communicating her <i>wants and needs through multiple modes across a variety of settings 20x/day over 3 consecutive dates</i> had
been met eons ago and needed to be updated. This may or may not have
been followed by a wry look, a chuckle, an eye roll, and a comment about
how very glad they are that she was at <i>their</i> school. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. That goal was a carry over from her preschool. The school where <a href="http://krlr-trialrun.blogspot.com/2013/07/the-school-post_10.html" target="_blank">her principal wondered if she had <i>anything</i> to say. </a></div>
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Did I mention we were never, ever moving? </div>
krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-5476107989810188292014-09-06T18:00:00.000-05:002014-09-06T18:11:10.932-05:00Reason Enough to Celebrate<div class="" style="clear: both;">
It was Saturday, there was coffee cake, which The Girl did not distinguish from regular cake, and she asked for candles. </div>
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I couldn't think of any reason not to. </div>
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Happy Saturday! </div>
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krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-48216765700533849602014-09-05T23:30:00.000-05:002014-09-06T17:57:04.368-05:00Tiny little bubbles<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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So I've been thinking about getting back to the roots of this ol' blog and posting a daily picture for the grandparents.<br />
No promises (especially since I had to backdate this one).<br />
I'm also guessing there will be an excessive number of end-of-day PJ shots.<br />
Meh. I'm going to assume you believe they went to school in real clothes. <br />
Outfits aside, <i>damn</i>, they are adorable or what? <br />
And, yes, they were blowing bubbles inside cause that's the way we roll. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlhyGqEY-BfjFB29t-EAOK_Hs1QUlxiIiCfOAf6I3U4OkuEQO3aIY9Hu3Qsm6YcB19Z6Y3pHLhYDS2RsqDCRCuq_oI3fBSES_YwDGms_8xJKgr8JMa9cRb0ZHLTV2JRKeh5PHhzqPDOcU/s1600/blogger-image-1738198261.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlhyGqEY-BfjFB29t-EAOK_Hs1QUlxiIiCfOAf6I3U4OkuEQO3aIY9Hu3Qsm6YcB19Z6Y3pHLhYDS2RsqDCRCuq_oI3fBSES_YwDGms_8xJKgr8JMa9cRb0ZHLTV2JRKeh5PHhzqPDOcU/s640/blogger-image-1738198261.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-44970169816041126052014-09-04T08:19:00.001-05:002014-09-06T17:47:21.723-05:00Best Part Of My Day<br />
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krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4364575095827041469.post-77412539089340059782014-09-03T08:12:00.001-05:002014-09-06T17:46:56.810-05:00Bedtime<span style="font-size: small;">Dear children, Sleep. <i>Please</i>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">"One more chapter? More snuggles?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Gets me every time.</span><br />
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krlrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14392064691347464660noreply@blogger.com0