And it’s a GOOD thing. Poor Rudy was just about on her way out a couple of months ago. I honestly was beginning to think we had picked out a “special needs” dog. She could NOT get the fact that poop goes outside. She had the pee-pee part down but continued to leave little piles all around the house. Disgusting. Unacceptable. She knew better. She’s lucky to be alive.
She also would not quit running out into the street and the neighbor’s dog just got hit and killed a few months ago!
She also won’t eat her dog food. I’ve tried about 5 different kinds now and she’d rather survive on treats (for going potty outside) and Melody’s dropped stuff. She also preferred some other disgusting treats that involved the cat box, but we won’t go any further on that one.
Little Rudy was doing nothing but causing me more stress and more grief. I guess maybe that’s what the problem was. She was bought in grief. She was bought shortly after Daddy passed away in December. We got Rudy in January. I was also having a really tough time coping with Melody’s issues at the time too and just wanted someone to love and love me back. I knew Kevin and I weren’t having anymore children at that point and I wanted a “baby”. Rudy was meant to fill a void. I mean she was named after my dad for Pete’s sake. That and the fact that she is really a darn cute dog was her saving grace. As of about 6 weeks ago she had yet to fill ANY KIND OF VOID!
That has all changed now. Rudy went into her first heat a little earlier than expected. She actually just got spayed this week and is doing very well. Heat = Diapers. Diapers = No potty in house. The heat was over and we continued the diapers for potty training. Worked like a charm. She is pretty much totally housebroken now. She gets to sleep with me and curls up every night right behind my knees. It’s HER spot. And she’s also finally found that special spot in my heart too. She’s also much better about not running into the street. She still won’t eat her food, but has been surviving so far on Mel’s scraps and doggie treats so I’m not gonna worry too much. I do need to get some good pictures of her and post them. She’s a cutie. She’s a keeper.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Still Shaking
Trying to type this with shaking arms is difficult.
Near miss. Strange term if you ask me. The term is used commonly in the military, ATC and healthcare among some other professions. Doesn’t really make sense to me, but, I guess you could call what happened a few minutes ago a near miss. I myself am shaken to the core and I guess will have to call it another “gift” from God that I am here.
I went to run errands at lunch. I ran by to get my car washed and by the bank. On my way from the bank I was deciding if I wanted to stay straight and run on to the drug store or go ahead and turn right and go back to the office. I decided I didn’t really feel like getting out in the heat again at CVS so I got in the right hand turn lane, which of course caused me to slow down a little to make my turn back to work. THANK GOD that I didn’t go to the drug store at lunch today because I would no longer be here. Because as I got in the right hand turn lane, someone was flying at about 45 to 50 mph and ran the red light. Had I continued to go straight, through the green light at the 30 mph I was travelling I would have been hit, dead on, on my side of my truck. I don’t think the idiot even had a clue. There was nobody else around. I just sat at the light for 2-3 minutes in shock, shaking, thinking oh my God, what if???? The tears finally hit as I pulled back into the parking garage at work. It hasn’t even been a year since the last wreck. I haven’t even settled my legal case from the wreck…
I feel sick. I feel numb. I feel dizzy. That is all I can really type right now. Prepare to more than likely hear a major vent about careless, stupid, selfish people later.
Near miss. Strange term if you ask me. The term is used commonly in the military, ATC and healthcare among some other professions. Doesn’t really make sense to me, but, I guess you could call what happened a few minutes ago a near miss. I myself am shaken to the core and I guess will have to call it another “gift” from God that I am here.
I went to run errands at lunch. I ran by to get my car washed and by the bank. On my way from the bank I was deciding if I wanted to stay straight and run on to the drug store or go ahead and turn right and go back to the office. I decided I didn’t really feel like getting out in the heat again at CVS so I got in the right hand turn lane, which of course caused me to slow down a little to make my turn back to work. THANK GOD that I didn’t go to the drug store at lunch today because I would no longer be here. Because as I got in the right hand turn lane, someone was flying at about 45 to 50 mph and ran the red light. Had I continued to go straight, through the green light at the 30 mph I was travelling I would have been hit, dead on, on my side of my truck. I don’t think the idiot even had a clue. There was nobody else around. I just sat at the light for 2-3 minutes in shock, shaking, thinking oh my God, what if???? The tears finally hit as I pulled back into the parking garage at work. It hasn’t even been a year since the last wreck. I haven’t even settled my legal case from the wreck…
I feel sick. I feel numb. I feel dizzy. That is all I can really type right now. Prepare to more than likely hear a major vent about careless, stupid, selfish people later.
Friday, July 25, 2008
A story I just had to share...
The Autism Speaks website has a section "In Your Own Words" that allows parents and people affected by Autism to write in and share their stories. This one is so dead on that I had to share it. This woman really has a good way of explaining how it is to have an autistic child.
The Crucial String By Liane Kupferberg Carter
My husband and I had grown increasingly uneasy about our second child Mickey. Though a warm, engaging baby, he showed no interest in playing Peek-a-boo, How Big is the Baby, or waving bye-bye. At monthly visits the pediatrician assured us that all was well. But by 18 months, Mickey had only three words, which is why 14 years ago we finally found ourselves sitting in a cubicle at a major teaching hospital. A team of unsmiling experts spent two hours poking, prodding and measuring our son, asking him to draw a straight line, stack cubes and put pegs in boards. I perched forward to catch the doctor's words more fully, hoping to hear how adorable, how promising my child's future was. Instead, she said, “Don't expect higher education for your son.”
It felt as if we were looking down a dark and endless tunnel. Our radiant little boy had just been diagnosed with an autistic spectrum disorder. How could she make such a prediction about a child, who was not yet two, we asked. There was no doubt, she said, that he was “special.” A puzzling word. For if he was special, did that make our other, older son Jonathan ordinary?
Just as you go through predictable stages of grief and recovery when someone you love dies, so too, learning to scale back your expectations and dreams for your child is an equally painful process. We began the endless rounds of therapy – speech, occupational therapy, sensory integration, physical therapy, vision therapy, auditory integration therapy, behavioral therapy, play therapy, dietary and biomedical interventions. At first my mood was only as good as the last therapy session had gone. It was a lonely time, as I stumbled around in an unlit room of my dark imagination. I felt isolated by my anguish, as friends and relatives rushed to dismiss my fears. “Einstein didn't talk till he was four. Give him time and he'll snap out of it. Boys talk later. Don't compare your children.”
In the next year and a half, Mickey learned to recognize letters and numbers, and showed a keen interest in reading signs and license plates. I was waiting for a “Miracle Worker” moment, a breakthrough where he would suddenly begin speaking in paragraphs. Naively, I still assumed that with enough intervention he'd be fine by the time he reached kindergarten. One night at bedtime he offered a first full sentence: “Mommy, snuggle me,” and my eyes filled.
Disability seeps into all the cracks, the corners, of one's life. It becomes the emotional center of the family. Sometimes I felt as if other, “normal” families were feasting in a great restaurant, while the four of us were standing outside, noses pressed to the glass. Birthday parties for other children were sometimes unbearable, as my child, so clearly different, was unable to bowl, do gymnastics, or participate in any other activity. People often stared at him. Equally painful were Mickey's birthday celebrations; I couldn't help remembering just how much his older brother Jonathan had been able to do at a comparable age.
I was adrift in a foreign country, without a guidebook, and I didn't know anyone else who lived there. Those first few years with Mickey were like living with someone from another culture, and it was our job to teach him the ways of our world. Slowly, we learned the language, as I dogged my son's therapists with questions and requests for more information and articles, reading voraciously, going to workshops and conferences, acquiring a new vocabulary.
You adapt. Mickey was impulsive, and would often dart away in public or dash out of the house; in response, we put a special lock on the front door. He frequently dumped every book and toy from his shelves; we stripped his room to a minimum of play materials. Loud noises - even the whir of elevators - disturbed him so much he would cover his ears and hum; we avoided crowds and learned to take the stairs.
And yet, for all that he could not yet do, there was so much about him that was intact. He was unfailingly sweet, carrying his collection of Puzzle Place dolls everywhere, hugging and kissing them, feeding them pretend food. He would line them up under the bed covers, whispering “Shh, take a nap.” Given the depth of his issues and his affect, his warmth and his sheer vibrancy seemed extraordinary.
The summer before kindergarten, Mickey lost his first tooth. We hadn't even known it was loose, because he still lacked the words to tell us. It was a bittersweet milestone. I remembered vividly the flush of excitement when his brother Jonathan lost his first tooth. Though Mickey seemed pleased to show off the gap in his teeth, and we cheered for him, there was no elaborate celebration this time. The tooth fairy was too abstract for him.
The age of five was also the magic cut-off point I'd always imagined when all would be well. But the first day of kindergarten, I stood in a huddle with the other mothers and watched through the window of the special ed classroom as Mickey lay on the floor and said repeatedly, “I go home.” But in the next year, he learned to follow classroom rules, and began to read. That year, when he told us his first knock-knock joke, we celebrated.
As the years have passed, I have learned to wear emotional blinders. I stay tightly focused on Mickey, celebrating every change I see. I try to tune out what other, neurotypical kids his age are doing, because the gap is still too painful. Mostly, I try not to compare him with his brother Jonathan, an excellent student who is athletic, funny and well-liked. Their trajectories are so different. It was hardest when Mickey was a toddler; if I did not remember every one of Jonathan's developmental milestones, there they all were, lovingly chronicled - by me - in his baby book. Comparing the boys is sometimes tempting, but dangerous. I must hold separate, realistic expectations for each.
Most support comes, not surprisingly, from other parents of children with special needs. When I finally connected with them after those first hard years, it felt as if I could take a deep breath after holding it too long. Today we talk with bottled eagerness, like war veterans sharing their foxhole experiences. And though each of our tours of duty is different, we all long for our discharge orders. “How do you do it?” I am often asked. I give the same answer each time. I wasn't given a choice. I just do it, one foot after the other. I have to be his advocate, because as wonderful as the therapists and teachers are, they go home every night. We are his ultimate teachers, the ones who are in it for the long haul. There's nothing particularly noble about it. We do it because it has to be done.
Acceptance doesn't mean giving up, and it isn't a constant state. Grief and anger still rear up unexpectedly. I still get tired of the relentless effort, the struggle for normalcy, the endless round of therapies and school meetings and fights with the insurance companies. This process of healing is a destination without an arrival. There is no cure, no magic bullet. Joy and grief are joined in lock-step. Ultimately, what buoys our family is hope. When I look at this child, I do not see “autism.” I see my child: an animated, endearing, and handsome fifteen-year-old with a mischievous sense of humor, who despite the early dire predictions, has learned to speak and read and do math. Parenting this trusting, gentle boy has deepened me immeasurably. But would I trade in my hard earned equanimity and expertise if someone could magically make his autism go away tomorrow?
In a heartbeat.
A few years ago, I heard a story that changed the way I framed my feelings about having a child with a disability. Itzhak Perlman was giving a concert. He made his way on crutches to the stage, seated himself, and took up his violin. He began to play, when suddenly a string snapped. Perlman looked around, seeming to measure the length of the stage, how far he would have to go on crutches to fetch a new string, and then seemed to decide that he would do without it. He lifted his violin and began to play, and even without that string, this handicapped man not only played, he played beautifully.
This is what it is like to have a disabled child. It feels as if you've lost a crucial string. And then, painstakingly, you must learn to play the instrument you've been given. Softly, differently, not playing the music you'd intended, but making music nonetheless.
The Crucial String By Liane Kupferberg Carter
My husband and I had grown increasingly uneasy about our second child Mickey. Though a warm, engaging baby, he showed no interest in playing Peek-a-boo, How Big is the Baby, or waving bye-bye. At monthly visits the pediatrician assured us that all was well. But by 18 months, Mickey had only three words, which is why 14 years ago we finally found ourselves sitting in a cubicle at a major teaching hospital. A team of unsmiling experts spent two hours poking, prodding and measuring our son, asking him to draw a straight line, stack cubes and put pegs in boards. I perched forward to catch the doctor's words more fully, hoping to hear how adorable, how promising my child's future was. Instead, she said, “Don't expect higher education for your son.”
It felt as if we were looking down a dark and endless tunnel. Our radiant little boy had just been diagnosed with an autistic spectrum disorder. How could she make such a prediction about a child, who was not yet two, we asked. There was no doubt, she said, that he was “special.” A puzzling word. For if he was special, did that make our other, older son Jonathan ordinary?
Just as you go through predictable stages of grief and recovery when someone you love dies, so too, learning to scale back your expectations and dreams for your child is an equally painful process. We began the endless rounds of therapy – speech, occupational therapy, sensory integration, physical therapy, vision therapy, auditory integration therapy, behavioral therapy, play therapy, dietary and biomedical interventions. At first my mood was only as good as the last therapy session had gone. It was a lonely time, as I stumbled around in an unlit room of my dark imagination. I felt isolated by my anguish, as friends and relatives rushed to dismiss my fears. “Einstein didn't talk till he was four. Give him time and he'll snap out of it. Boys talk later. Don't compare your children.”
In the next year and a half, Mickey learned to recognize letters and numbers, and showed a keen interest in reading signs and license plates. I was waiting for a “Miracle Worker” moment, a breakthrough where he would suddenly begin speaking in paragraphs. Naively, I still assumed that with enough intervention he'd be fine by the time he reached kindergarten. One night at bedtime he offered a first full sentence: “Mommy, snuggle me,” and my eyes filled.
Disability seeps into all the cracks, the corners, of one's life. It becomes the emotional center of the family. Sometimes I felt as if other, “normal” families were feasting in a great restaurant, while the four of us were standing outside, noses pressed to the glass. Birthday parties for other children were sometimes unbearable, as my child, so clearly different, was unable to bowl, do gymnastics, or participate in any other activity. People often stared at him. Equally painful were Mickey's birthday celebrations; I couldn't help remembering just how much his older brother Jonathan had been able to do at a comparable age.
I was adrift in a foreign country, without a guidebook, and I didn't know anyone else who lived there. Those first few years with Mickey were like living with someone from another culture, and it was our job to teach him the ways of our world. Slowly, we learned the language, as I dogged my son's therapists with questions and requests for more information and articles, reading voraciously, going to workshops and conferences, acquiring a new vocabulary.
You adapt. Mickey was impulsive, and would often dart away in public or dash out of the house; in response, we put a special lock on the front door. He frequently dumped every book and toy from his shelves; we stripped his room to a minimum of play materials. Loud noises - even the whir of elevators - disturbed him so much he would cover his ears and hum; we avoided crowds and learned to take the stairs.
And yet, for all that he could not yet do, there was so much about him that was intact. He was unfailingly sweet, carrying his collection of Puzzle Place dolls everywhere, hugging and kissing them, feeding them pretend food. He would line them up under the bed covers, whispering “Shh, take a nap.” Given the depth of his issues and his affect, his warmth and his sheer vibrancy seemed extraordinary.
The summer before kindergarten, Mickey lost his first tooth. We hadn't even known it was loose, because he still lacked the words to tell us. It was a bittersweet milestone. I remembered vividly the flush of excitement when his brother Jonathan lost his first tooth. Though Mickey seemed pleased to show off the gap in his teeth, and we cheered for him, there was no elaborate celebration this time. The tooth fairy was too abstract for him.
The age of five was also the magic cut-off point I'd always imagined when all would be well. But the first day of kindergarten, I stood in a huddle with the other mothers and watched through the window of the special ed classroom as Mickey lay on the floor and said repeatedly, “I go home.” But in the next year, he learned to follow classroom rules, and began to read. That year, when he told us his first knock-knock joke, we celebrated.
As the years have passed, I have learned to wear emotional blinders. I stay tightly focused on Mickey, celebrating every change I see. I try to tune out what other, neurotypical kids his age are doing, because the gap is still too painful. Mostly, I try not to compare him with his brother Jonathan, an excellent student who is athletic, funny and well-liked. Their trajectories are so different. It was hardest when Mickey was a toddler; if I did not remember every one of Jonathan's developmental milestones, there they all were, lovingly chronicled - by me - in his baby book. Comparing the boys is sometimes tempting, but dangerous. I must hold separate, realistic expectations for each.
Most support comes, not surprisingly, from other parents of children with special needs. When I finally connected with them after those first hard years, it felt as if I could take a deep breath after holding it too long. Today we talk with bottled eagerness, like war veterans sharing their foxhole experiences. And though each of our tours of duty is different, we all long for our discharge orders. “How do you do it?” I am often asked. I give the same answer each time. I wasn't given a choice. I just do it, one foot after the other. I have to be his advocate, because as wonderful as the therapists and teachers are, they go home every night. We are his ultimate teachers, the ones who are in it for the long haul. There's nothing particularly noble about it. We do it because it has to be done.
Acceptance doesn't mean giving up, and it isn't a constant state. Grief and anger still rear up unexpectedly. I still get tired of the relentless effort, the struggle for normalcy, the endless round of therapies and school meetings and fights with the insurance companies. This process of healing is a destination without an arrival. There is no cure, no magic bullet. Joy and grief are joined in lock-step. Ultimately, what buoys our family is hope. When I look at this child, I do not see “autism.” I see my child: an animated, endearing, and handsome fifteen-year-old with a mischievous sense of humor, who despite the early dire predictions, has learned to speak and read and do math. Parenting this trusting, gentle boy has deepened me immeasurably. But would I trade in my hard earned equanimity and expertise if someone could magically make his autism go away tomorrow?
In a heartbeat.
A few years ago, I heard a story that changed the way I framed my feelings about having a child with a disability. Itzhak Perlman was giving a concert. He made his way on crutches to the stage, seated himself, and took up his violin. He began to play, when suddenly a string snapped. Perlman looked around, seeming to measure the length of the stage, how far he would have to go on crutches to fetch a new string, and then seemed to decide that he would do without it. He lifted his violin and began to play, and even without that string, this handicapped man not only played, he played beautifully.
This is what it is like to have a disabled child. It feels as if you've lost a crucial string. And then, painstakingly, you must learn to play the instrument you've been given. Softly, differently, not playing the music you'd intended, but making music nonetheless.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Mini Me
My daughter is turning into a mini me. All I can pray for is that she doesn’t get my butt, thighs or boobs. Poor thing.
1) She HATES mornings. She HATES getting up before SHE is ready to get up. I have been like this for as long as I can remember. I despise mornings. “start of a brand new day… blah blah blah…” GAG!
2) A nice relaxing bath can make everything better. Of course her baths are full of play time and mine full of necessity and sometimes some relaxing. She can be having a melt down, but plop her butt in the bath and she is happy for the rest of the evening. I’m the exact same way.
3, 4, 5) The way she walks, she has my wiggle. The way she sits, legs always curled under, just like me. She has my hair. Oh how I prayed that she would get her daddy’s thick head of hair, but no, she got mine.
6) Our favorite foods are starches and Mexican. I think the only things that stops her at sweets is her Autism and sensory issues with certain foods, otherwise she'd be puttin' down the pies, cakes, ice cream, etc, just like her momma too!
7, 8) She has my patience, which is virtually non existent, AND my temper. Let me elaborate a bit further on that. When it comes to Melody and some other things, I have limitless patience for the most part. Do I loose my patience with my child, yes, but for the most part can keep my perspective about me. BUT, if I am trying to accomplish something and it isn’t going my way… I’ve been known to do some serious damage. Melody is the same way. If she is trying to do something and something is in her way or it isn’t doing what she wants… MELT DOWN. Too bad we can’t spend 24/7 in the bathtub. We’d be the happiest people ever!
I know there are many things to come and a lot more personality to develop on her part, but for now, even with the bad things, that she is like me, it makes me smile.
1) She HATES mornings. She HATES getting up before SHE is ready to get up. I have been like this for as long as I can remember. I despise mornings. “start of a brand new day… blah blah blah…” GAG!
2) A nice relaxing bath can make everything better. Of course her baths are full of play time and mine full of necessity and sometimes some relaxing. She can be having a melt down, but plop her butt in the bath and she is happy for the rest of the evening. I’m the exact same way.
3, 4, 5) The way she walks, she has my wiggle. The way she sits, legs always curled under, just like me. She has my hair. Oh how I prayed that she would get her daddy’s thick head of hair, but no, she got mine.
6) Our favorite foods are starches and Mexican. I think the only things that stops her at sweets is her Autism and sensory issues with certain foods, otherwise she'd be puttin' down the pies, cakes, ice cream, etc, just like her momma too!
7, 8) She has my patience, which is virtually non existent, AND my temper. Let me elaborate a bit further on that. When it comes to Melody and some other things, I have limitless patience for the most part. Do I loose my patience with my child, yes, but for the most part can keep my perspective about me. BUT, if I am trying to accomplish something and it isn’t going my way… I’ve been known to do some serious damage. Melody is the same way. If she is trying to do something and something is in her way or it isn’t doing what she wants… MELT DOWN. Too bad we can’t spend 24/7 in the bathtub. We’d be the happiest people ever!
I know there are many things to come and a lot more personality to develop on her part, but for now, even with the bad things, that she is like me, it makes me smile.
Friday, July 18, 2008
6 Hours of Sleep My A$$
We are high tech in our building here at work. Our elevators have little monitors that have news and trivia and of course advertisements. There was just an ad for a mattress. The commercial states that the average person gets 6 hours of sleep at night. The ad goes on to say “make sure those 6 hours of sleep are better…, blah, blah, blah…” I’m standing there thinking… 6 HOURS????? 6 HOURS. You have GOT to be kidding me! WHEN has it become acceptable that 6 HOURS of sleep is the average? Things like this anger me. Our world is so fast paced anymore there is NEVER enough time to do everything. I so envy mothers that can stay home with their kids. I always think if I got to stay home and didn’t have to work, this would be better, that would be better, but the few mothers that I know that do get to stay home, guess what? Their time is totally and completely full too. I think stay at home moms, the majority of them, take on enough stuff outside of being a stay at home mom that they are in the same boat in a lot of ways as us working moms. Anyway… back to the 6 HOURS of sleep. Just check out what sleep deprivation does to the body. All the effects it can have…
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sleep_deprivation
Myself? I require at least 8 hours of sleep at night to feel like I function to my full potential each day. I prefer 9 hours to feel that I reach my fullest potential, but I’ve never been one who has had to have absolute perfection. At 6 hours of sleep a night I would be: ANGRY, sporting a hellacious headache, would be nauseous, totally impatient with anything and everything, pretty much an out and out bitch and I’m not kidding in the least. It just flat out isn’t fair to make people try to function on 6 hours of sleep.
I, personally, being me, find the section on torture a bit comical. This is really good: "At the very least, sleep deprivation is cruel, inhumane and degrading. If used for prolonged periods of time it is torture." Okay, stop me if I’m incorrect, but is this not what we are asked to do day in and day out, week after week, year after year anymore? NO wonder everything has gone or is going to crap!! I think if we all slept more and better, the world would be a lot nicer place. I’d like to say “WAKE UP PEOPLE”, but instead I’ll say “GO TO SLEEP PEOPLE!!”
Just my thoughts! Happy Friday! Get an extra hour or so of sleep this weekend! YOU deserve it! =)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sleep_deprivation
Myself? I require at least 8 hours of sleep at night to feel like I function to my full potential each day. I prefer 9 hours to feel that I reach my fullest potential, but I’ve never been one who has had to have absolute perfection. At 6 hours of sleep a night I would be: ANGRY, sporting a hellacious headache, would be nauseous, totally impatient with anything and everything, pretty much an out and out bitch and I’m not kidding in the least. It just flat out isn’t fair to make people try to function on 6 hours of sleep.
I, personally, being me, find the section on torture a bit comical. This is really good: "At the very least, sleep deprivation is cruel, inhumane and degrading. If used for prolonged periods of time it is torture." Okay, stop me if I’m incorrect, but is this not what we are asked to do day in and day out, week after week, year after year anymore? NO wonder everything has gone or is going to crap!! I think if we all slept more and better, the world would be a lot nicer place. I’d like to say “WAKE UP PEOPLE”, but instead I’ll say “GO TO SLEEP PEOPLE!!”
Just my thoughts! Happy Friday! Get an extra hour or so of sleep this weekend! YOU deserve it! =)
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Thanks Punks
Phantom pains. That is what I’ve been experiencing lately every Monday through Friday, leaving work, when I go through the intersection of Leeland and O’Connor Road in Irving. It is like a splitting pain through my chest that makes it hard to breathe. You see, this is where in September of last year, I was hit head on. It is strange how I went months and months with no problem going through that intersection, I’m still trying to figure out what triggered the pains. The intersection is still spotted with green paint on the curb showing the accident, where his vehicle impacted my vehicle. A constant reminder I guess of how lucky I am. But I still get mad at the PUNKS that caused it. I will refer to these people as punks to keep it clean as I have much more colorful words I prefer to use referring to them, but punk it is.
You see, I’m angry. Angry that people just don’t care. They are completely careless when it comes to others. The horrible accident last weekend where the family of five was left dead on their way home from church due to the guy running a red light at 98 mph has reminded me of this. But this happens all the time. Every day. I could have very easily died that day myself, but God spared me. I try to remember to thank Him daily for this not because I’m especially glad to be here some days, but because I get to continue to be a mommy to Melody and hopefully watch her grow to be a totally normal, typical girl. THAT is my dream.
But still, almost a year after that accident, I am reminded constantly that I will probably never be “normal” again. Along with aging, it just puts a whammy on your body, so today I want to “Thank” those PUNKS. Thanks for breaking my ankle and making my life a living and complete hell for two months. Thanks for the pain I still have to this day any time I do a lot of manual labor (house work, yard work, etc) and not just my ankle now, but my legs and back, etc. Thank you also so much for those phantom pains I now get every day at about 4:55 from my memory of the seat belt bruising I sustained and the severe pain it caused. Enough pain to make me think at that moment that perhaps I was dying. Thanks for being such selfish individuals that those few coins in the coke machine or the actual coke machine (I’m still not completely sure WHAT they were trying to steal) was more important than all those people on the road you could have very well killed that day at rush hour. All probably for a Friday/weekend drug fix I’m guessing from the looks of them. *%&($# $*!@)$& PUNKS!!!!
A true Thanks for letting me vent! I promise my next post will be more uplifting!
You see, I’m angry. Angry that people just don’t care. They are completely careless when it comes to others. The horrible accident last weekend where the family of five was left dead on their way home from church due to the guy running a red light at 98 mph has reminded me of this. But this happens all the time. Every day. I could have very easily died that day myself, but God spared me. I try to remember to thank Him daily for this not because I’m especially glad to be here some days, but because I get to continue to be a mommy to Melody and hopefully watch her grow to be a totally normal, typical girl. THAT is my dream.
But still, almost a year after that accident, I am reminded constantly that I will probably never be “normal” again. Along with aging, it just puts a whammy on your body, so today I want to “Thank” those PUNKS. Thanks for breaking my ankle and making my life a living and complete hell for two months. Thanks for the pain I still have to this day any time I do a lot of manual labor (house work, yard work, etc) and not just my ankle now, but my legs and back, etc. Thank you also so much for those phantom pains I now get every day at about 4:55 from my memory of the seat belt bruising I sustained and the severe pain it caused. Enough pain to make me think at that moment that perhaps I was dying. Thanks for being such selfish individuals that those few coins in the coke machine or the actual coke machine (I’m still not completely sure WHAT they were trying to steal) was more important than all those people on the road you could have very well killed that day at rush hour. All probably for a Friday/weekend drug fix I’m guessing from the looks of them. *%&($# $*!@)$& PUNKS!!!!
A true Thanks for letting me vent! I promise my next post will be more uplifting!
Monday, June 30, 2008
I Have a New Man In My Life...
He is very handsome, sleek, strong and powerful and he makes me sweat! His name is Dyson. He is my vacuum cleaner. You can’t REALLY consider him a vacuum cleaner though. He is so far beyond ANY vacuum I’ve ever used before. Every woman in America should have one of these “men” in her life. I don’t refer to him as a vacuum at all. He is referred to in my house as Dyson. The other night Kevin said, where is the vacuum cleaner? I told him that “he is sleeping with me tonight”. Okay, I didn’t actually put him in bed with me he was just in the room.
I Dyson my floors just about every night. Especially now that we have the two dogs and the two “used to be garage cats” in the house. Since we were infested with fleas in the garage about a month ago, the cats have become house cats again. They are happy. Me? Not quite so thrilled, but that is a whole other journal entry!
Anyway, the fleas. For anyone with sensitive ears I apologize but they are bastards. I LOATHE them. There is nothing good about them. They are just little mini vampires in BUG form. There is nothing worse than fleas except cockroaches. We are STILL fighting them. As anyone who has gone through this before or knows someone who has, a critical piece of flea fighting equipment is a vacuum cleaner. Well, I broke the belt on my Hoover Savvy for about the 5th time and on those, you can’t just replace it yourself, you have to take it in and spend $37 to have it replaced. Anyway, it broke on a Saturday night and I had to have a new one on Sunday so that is where Dyson came into my life. So, I guess from the fleas, one good thing came out of it.
Dyson has a 5 year warranty. He was designed with perfection. The sucking power is amazing. Everything just works with the click of a button. Even dumping the canister is clean and easy. My Dyson is the DC 17 Animal, and animal he is. There isn’t a trace of animal hair after you use him. If you’ve never tried one out, I highly recommend giving one a whirl. Of course be sure you have room on the credit card ‘cause once you go Dyson, you never go back. I’m serious. ;)
I Dyson my floors just about every night. Especially now that we have the two dogs and the two “used to be garage cats” in the house. Since we were infested with fleas in the garage about a month ago, the cats have become house cats again. They are happy. Me? Not quite so thrilled, but that is a whole other journal entry!
Anyway, the fleas. For anyone with sensitive ears I apologize but they are bastards. I LOATHE them. There is nothing good about them. They are just little mini vampires in BUG form. There is nothing worse than fleas except cockroaches. We are STILL fighting them. As anyone who has gone through this before or knows someone who has, a critical piece of flea fighting equipment is a vacuum cleaner. Well, I broke the belt on my Hoover Savvy for about the 5th time and on those, you can’t just replace it yourself, you have to take it in and spend $37 to have it replaced. Anyway, it broke on a Saturday night and I had to have a new one on Sunday so that is where Dyson came into my life. So, I guess from the fleas, one good thing came out of it.
Dyson has a 5 year warranty. He was designed with perfection. The sucking power is amazing. Everything just works with the click of a button. Even dumping the canister is clean and easy. My Dyson is the DC 17 Animal, and animal he is. There isn’t a trace of animal hair after you use him. If you’ve never tried one out, I highly recommend giving one a whirl. Of course be sure you have room on the credit card ‘cause once you go Dyson, you never go back. I’m serious. ;)
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