Pray for Us

Quinlan gets his first orthodontic appliance today. A device that I remember well from my own adolescence, it is a wire designed to spread the roof of one's mouth in torturous increments.

Note to self: stop at liquor store on way home and stock up on tequila...


Update: Reprieve! They only put more spacers in today, so we are spared true agony for one more week. Good thing the tequila will keep until then.

Good News

I had blood work done this week, and my creatinine (indicator of kidney function) is only the teensiest bit worse than it was at last check (in October).

Yay, kidneys! Keep up the good work.

The Charity Fun Fair: Part Two, or, In Which We Sell Cookies and Receive Visitors

I found Michael across from our town's Borough Hall, with the table all set up and lookin' good. He used about half a roll of duct tape to secure the sign to the table, as it was a verrrrrrrrry windy day. Garrick didn't want to miss a moment of the cookie selling, so came along with me to relieve Michael.


(I'm inordinately proud of that sign, which was conceived and executed at about 11:30 Friday night, on no sleep and less energy.)

There is an aspect of last summer's bake sales that I had mercifully forgotten. It's the ten minutes or so that occur after you're all set up and jazzed and ready to go go go, and before the first actual customer steps up. It's murderous. Ten minutes of ohmygodi'vescrewedupentirely. Ten minutes of i'mnotgoingtosellasinglefrockin'cookie. Ten minutes of nobodylovesmeortheywouldbebuyingmycookies and whatthehellamigoingtodowithalltheleftovers? Poor Michael stuck around for that ten minutes, though I'm sure he wished (wishes?) he hadn't.

But the parade finished and the townsfolk started meandering about, and soon some friends showed up -- old friends of the family who've known me since I was a wee sprout, theatre friends and their adorable kids, family members, and very cool new friends. Lauren stopped by, and The Domestic Goddess, and MemeGRL. And we had a bone fide celebrity stop by and sample the wares:



I tried to get an action shot of our celebrity visitor enjoying her home-made dog biscuits, but she is too dang fast for me. But not as fast as her little buddy:


Bossy's Dane isn't just great, she plays well with doggies 1/100th of her size.

*****

We sold cookies and raffle tickets and dog biscuits and handed out literature and we did all of this before the rain came. In between making sure the cookies didn't blow away in the wind, it was lovely to socialize and catch up with folks. By the time the first (of very few) raindrop fell, it was time to pack up and call it a day. You can't ask for better timing than that.

The extreme windiness prevented me from counting our take until we got home, which was probably for the best. I had expected to make in the range of $300 ('bout 3x what we made on the daily bake sales last summer), and was mightily disheartened (at first) to discover that we only made $159. Now, a whole week later and with a little distance and perspective, that is actually a good haul for this event. Another booth-holder was excited that they had done so well this year ("We made more than we ever have -- $55!") so I decided to just shut my pie hole.

But if you have any facility at all for mathematics, you've realized that if we started with 360 cookies, 61 muffins, and 26 baggies of dog biscuits (at a buck each) and we only came home with $159, then I must have come home with one enormous car load of left-over cookies.

Two hundred twenty-seven cookies, 59 muffins, and 15 baggies of dog biscuits, to be exact.

I would have put my head down and wept, but we were late for a Passover Seder and had to get on the road. I threw the muffins and dog biscuits into the freezer and made sure the cookies were all airtight, and off we went to drink overly sweet wine and ask the four questions.

It is hard to enjoy a Passover Seder when you are feeling mightily disheartened. The amount of effort that I put into the cookie production was truly prodigious, and the thought of all that effort yielding such a small return was depressing as all giddy-up. In between moping through the drive to New Jersey and moping through the Seder and moping through my children's flirting with their little girl cousins and moping all the way home, I came up with one idea. I'd ask the manager of our local Co-Op (locus of last summer's bake sales) to let me put out baskets in the store in an attempt to sell off the leftovers.

*****

Monday morning, even before going to work, I hit the Co-Op with bribes free samples in hand. The manager was out but the assistant manager was in and susceptible to bribery gave me the go-ahead. We decided to price them to move at fifty cents each, because really, $1 per cookie is a little ballsy unless you're in a charity situation. Significantly cheered, I went about my day (NEVER OPEN A COMPANY IN MEXICO, YOU WILL THANK ME) and returned to the Co-Op on Tuesday morning with crisp signage and pretty baskets of cookies. Tuesday evening, they were ALL GONE, which cheered me even further.

All told, between Tuesday morning and Saturday night, we sold 181 cookies at the Co-Op, adding $90.50 to the take. Talk about making lemonade out of lemons. The remaining (slightly stale) cookies have found good homes in places like the kids' snack bags and down the street at my parents' house and occasionally stuck to my hips.

*****

I'm glad we did the Fair, but I'm feeling like my grass roots days are numbered. I just don't have the steam to push this hard for so little return (Exhibit A: the miserable cold that hit me on Wednesday last week and is still rattling around. Exhibit B: the condition of my house. Exhibit C: Michael who?). My dreams of ongoing bakerly glory will have to wait until the mortgage is paid off and the kids are through college. Until then, we will have a summer yard sale (date TBD), a cabaret (with raffle baskets), and I will annoy solicit friends and family for direct donations at the appropriate time. I will also put that damned grant writing experience to good use by seeking corporate sponsorship for the walk, and I'll go to some local chapter meetings to inspire other grass roots types to be creative and get enthusiastic about fundraising.

But right now, I need a nap. Or three.

The Charity Fun Fair: Part One, or, In Which I Bruise My Ass and Get Rained On

Welp, it coulda been better, coulda been worse. (For the record, next time I decide to drive round-trip to Virginia and drink like a fish socialize into the wee hours just before an all-day fundraising event, you have my permission to smack me. Thank you.)

I baked like a madwoman all last week. There were chocolate chip cookies and peanut butter cookies and chocolate oatmeal cookies and molasses spice cookies and brown sugar drop cookies and peanut butter oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and blondies and sugar cookies with pretty sugar sprinkles.



There were homemade doggie biscuits and raffle tickets. At the last minute I decided that we needed muffins as well, so there were zucchini walnut muffins and banana chocolate chip muffins, commingling in unnatural proximity in their plastic carry case. Can you tell which are which?



All told, there were 360 cookies, 61 muffins, and 26 baggies of dog biscuits. And here's what THAT looks like.



Because I do not wish to whine, I am skipping over the oven burns and the late nights and the fatigue and the general neglect of my husband and children and the low back pain and the omigodI'mnotgoingtohaveenoughstuff panic. Instead, check out the nifty containers on the far left of the photo! They have handles and snap-on tops and hold gazillions of muffins neatly, and only cost $3.99 at my local dollar store. (Yes. $3.99 at the DOLLAR store.) I love them and want to keep them near me always.

Saturday morning I finished wrapping all the goods, dipped some chocolate truffles to bring to my gardening buds (hee! Marcia made that one up), and got on the road around 2:30pm. The drive to Virginia was mostly uneventful ('cept for the damn Beltway around D.C.), but stressful in that I was watching my speedometer with one eye the whole time. See, somehow I've managed to collect a few speeding tickets in the last year (totally not my fault! I'm an excellent driver!), and if I collect one more, I think they're going to take me to the Big House and throw away the key. Or at least suspend my license.

Feeling very virtuous and lucky at having not been pulled over, I arrived to find my friends sitting out al fresco with wonderful wine and nibblies, and the evening unfolded with lots of conviviality, good cheer, great food, and big wet dogs giving sloppy kisses. (We won't discuss the ill-advised drunken tractor-pulled wagon ride, the ensuing toppling of said wagon, and the resulting bruise on my ass. Bygones.)

Sunday morning in Virginia dawned cloudy and thunder-y and slightly hung over. After mainlining cold orange juice and foisting my orphan seedlings on my friends, I headed home with a bagel clutched in my hand and some wonderful new-to-me varieties of tomato and pepper seedlings in the trunk.

And it started raining.

And it rained. And it rained. It rained biblically, with sheets of water and hydroplaning and flash floods. And I tried very hard not to freak the hell out while squinting to see the unfamiliar highway through the deluge. I waited until a decent hour and called Michael: "For the love of god, please tell me it's not raining there!" "What do you mean? It's gorgeous and sunny." Salvation at hand! But I made him go check weather.com, which was calling for showers beginning around 4pm. Feeling slightly less panicked, I made the drive home in good time (WITHOUT SPEEDING!). The rain let up around Baltimore and Home was, as advertised, sunny and splendid. After dropping off my junk at the house, I drove into town to meet Michael, who had taken care of set-up and advance registration.

To be continued.......

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

A TICK! A TICK! ON MY HEAD! IN MY HAIR!

HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE!!!!!!!!

EVERYTHING ITCHES! HATE TICKS!



HAAAAAAAAAAAAATE!

Oh Hai!

I've been a little busy.

Okay, I've been a lot busy.

In the last four days I've:

• made lots of vats of cookie dough
• planted the early crops in the veg patch after turning and amending the soil (ouch)
• repotted the indoor seedlings for a heavy drinking seedling exchange party on Saturday
• admired my mother's garden and wept with envy
  
• mailed the party invites for Garrick's upcoming birthday
• fretted and plotted about Sunday's fundraising bake sale
• met with the husband of a friend of a friend who was recently diagnosed with PKD
• took the puking, rear-end-bleeding dog to the vet (he's better now)
  
• worked really late Tuesday and missed the reruns of "The Office" on TBS
  
• started physical therapy (woot!)

Do you think I've been overdoing it? Maybe?

Re: the working late, I have a little piece of advice. If your boss asks you to help open a branch of your company in Mexico? Run. You want no part of it. It will age you faster than drugs, parenting and air pollution combined.

Re: the garden and seedlings, I am cautiously optimistic. I moved four wheelbarrows full of leaf mulch by myself on Sunday and while it hurt, it didn't put me out of commission. If I manage to get everything planted on time (HA!), we should have a terrific harvest. "Lavender Touch" eggplant, anyone?....

Re: the physical therapy, I am such a wimp. During the strength test portion of the intake evaluation, I was as weak as a little newborn kitten. Pathetic. My initial exercises are insultingly gentle -- teeny tiny pelvic tilts, very mild bridges. I know this is where I have to start, but boy, do I feel old.

Re: the fundraising bake sale, I'm alternately stoked and petrified. If I manage to bake up all the cookie dough that's in the freezer before Sunday, I'll have about 450 cookies to sell. Plus the cake raffle. Plus the zucchini muffins I'll be making because Michael threatened me suggested that the 20 pounds of shredded garden (local! organic!) zucchini is taking up too much room in the freezer. Plus the banana muffins I'll HAVE to make because I've got bananas going brown on the counter. Is that too much stuff to sell, or way too little? I haven't the foggiest notion, but am perfectly willing to drive myself crazy worrying about it.

The HARDEST part is that Michael will have to do the set-up without me -- I'll be driving back from visiting my wonderful gardening friends in Virginia on the morning of the event. I know Michael will be fine and I'll be there hungover before the event starts, but it's still wigging me out. (NO, I'm not a control freak!!! How could you say such a thing?)

It might be time to break out the chocolate and tequila...

Signs of Pending Adolescence: Quinlan

Not thirty seconds elapsed between his afternoon playdate friend's departure and a dramatic flop on the couch with a haute voix declaration of "I'm bored!"

It's going to be a long six years.

You Have Not Lived

until you have shopped at BJ's (local wholesale club) with Garrick at your side, singing "Last Midnight" from Into the Woods at the top of his precious lungs. Got every damn word right, too.

Holy Crap!!!!

Dudes, you're SO not going to believe this. Remember the International Songwriting Competition that Michael and his partner were finalists for? And remember how the same song won first place in a national competition just a short time after that?

Guess what?

They found out today that their song, "I'm Not Your Friend", has won the GRAND FROCKIN' PRIZE in the International Songwriting Competition!!! That's not "Best Rock Song" or "First Place", that's GRAND PRIZE for the WHOLE competition (with 15,000 entrants this year).

This is a HUGE deal. This competition is judged by people like Tom Waits and Nelly Furtado and Ray Davies and Jerry Lee Lewis fer cryin' out loud, as well as music industry professionals whose names I don't recognize. The prize package is AMAZING (sorry, Mom, rock musicians just make more money than poets, I guess) and it's all making me just a little bit giddy (even though Michael's likely to spend the prize money on something OTHER than jewelery for his loving wife). There will be a demo CD with all of the winning songs distributed to a vast array of music professionals, and this all could be the start of something very exciting for my honey.

Swoon!

Answering the Burning Question

of how many cookies can/will 100 sweaty, jacked-up 6th graders eat/buy in a two-hour period?

The answer is 62. Of course, I brought 200. The good news is that they freeze well and I have a jump on the baking for the April 20 Charity Fun Fair. The bad news is that I'm now out of room in the freezer.

So, the name! For the baking! I haven't forgotten the contest, have just been distracted by kids turning 12 and infections and plumbing disasters other good times. Thank you all for your ideas -- it truly ended up being a group effort. The Name for the Baking is henceforth and evermore will be:

LEMONADE & KIDNEYS
Delectable Desserts

Prizes to The Domestic Goddess and to Marcia. Pick your poison, ladies, and I'll bake you up your very own batches of yumminess.

To My Hoo-Ha

Dear Lady Parts,

Between the PMS and the UTI, you have been less than a joy to live with the last few days. Please take pity on me and spare me the usual Cipro-induced {censored}, whaddya say?

Love,

Me

Malkovich, Malkovich, Malkovich!

I want to participate in Simply Nutmeg's Filch It Friday carnival, but I have an overwhelming urge to filch from myself. Is this legal? Or will it cause a time/space fissure resulting in something along the lines of the brilliant scene in "Being John Malkovich" where Malkovich forces John Cusak to let him through the portal to his own brain, and everyone in the restaurant around him is him, causing a melting down of consciousness and linear reality that only Charlie Kaufman could have pulled off?!



(Digression: during my soujourn in New York as a waiter actor, Malkovich was starring on Broadway with Joan Allen in Lanford Wilson's stunning play "Burn This". This was before either of them was much of a name in the biz, and you could still get half-price Broadway tickets without wincing. I must have seen that production 7 times, many viewings from the second or third row of the theatre. Malkovich was brilliant [and very sweaty]. Joan was gorgeously heartbreaking. The play still hits me like a body blow. End of digression.)

(Oops, spoke too soon. On the topic of Charlie Kaufman, have you seen "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind"? You should. It makes me cry [in a good way].)

On to the self-filch (which isn't anywhere near as dirty as it sounds):

THE GOOD

We have finally managed to make arrangements for our long-awaited family trip to Paris! We're going in September, along with my parents, and my kid brother, who lives in Singapore, will meet us there with his girlfriend. It's going to be a once-in-a-lifetime event. I cannot wait.


THE BAD

It turns out that the annual PKD Foundation fundraising walk falls smack-dab in the middle of our Paris trip.


THE UGLY

Can I in good conscience solicit donations in support of an event that I won't be able to attend? I don't think I can top last year's fundraising results, but I want to at least try. Maybe we can do an adjunct walk around the Jardin des Plantes on the same day, recording it all for posterity and posting it to the blog afterward as proof? What do you all think?

*****

I'll be posting the winning not-quite-a-business-name later today -- someone's getting some cookies!

Ripping Off the Band-Aid

Asperger syndrome is a condition marked by impaired social interactions and limited repetitive patterns of behavior. Motor milestones may be delayed and clumsiness is often observed. Asperger syndrome is very similar to or may be the same as high functioning autism (HFA).

*****

At dinner time last Wednesday, Garrick asked "Did you know that Thomas Edison had a learning disability?" This was news to me. "Really? What kind of learning disability did he have?" "Uhh.... I think there's just one kind."

*****

When Quinlan was diagnosed with Asperger Syndrome, at the end of his second grade year, it shook me. He'd been identified as having some sensory issues back in kindergarten and had been receiving occupational, speech and physical therapy through our incredible school system, but somehow it had never occurred to me that there was something "real" and intrinsic wrong with or different about him. I remember getting the call from the school psychologist at work almost four years ago now, and weeping into the phone while she detailed his test results.

*****

"Actually, buddy, there are lots of different kinds of learning disabilities. Have you heard of dyslexia?" At this point, I was vamping a little -- stalling for time to decide quickly how far I wanted to take this conversation with the kids. Michael was out for the evening and I was quite on my own. "People with dyslexia have a hard time reading because their brains don't process the words on the page the same way most people do."

*****

We had never heard of Asperger Syndrome before Quin's diagnosis, but with the internet as our friend, we learned quickly. The shock of recognition hit time and time again as we scoured articles, grasping at the proverbial straws. Repetitive patterns of behavior, check. Restricted interests, check. Motor clumsiness, check. Atypical use of language, check. And on and on.

*****

"Can you think of any other learning disabilities?" "Down Syndrome!" Quin piped up. "Well, sort of. Down Syndrome is more of a developmental disability -- though it certainly affects a person's ability to learn, it affects a whole lot of other things, as well." "What did Thomas Edison invent, again?" This from Garrick, who is still thinking about facts and history and science and wanting to get it all right. "The light bulb, Peanut. He invented the light bulb."

*****

News of Quin's diagnosis was received by our extended family members with some controversy. Michael's mother's immediate reaction was "Oh yes, I thought that might be the case." (But it never occurred to you to suggest it to us?!!?) My mother's reaction was the opposite -- complete denial. It took months and months for her to accept that Quin wasn't just a bit unique, that he had a clinically diagnosed developmental disability.

*****

"What about autism, guys? You know about autism, right?" One of Quin's best friends has a younger sibling who's autistic, and I know that the elementary school has discussed autism with the student body as a group. "Oh yeah, autism!" This from Quin, who was following the discussion quite a bit more actively than I would have expected him to. I paused, not sure how much further down the path to go.

*****

When Garrick was diagnosed with Asperger's at the end of his first grade year, it was almost old hat to us. We'd had a year to get our bearings with regard to the extra services the school would provide Quinlan, and the sting of potential stigma at the new label had mostly faded. Quin was still Quin, after all, with all of his quirks and talents and undiscriminating heart unchanged. He was making good progress with occupational and speech therapy, and I was learning to game the system to ensure that school provided everything they could to ensure his academic success. My immediate reaction to Garrick's diagnosis was, "Great -- now I have the leverage I need to make sure he gets a teacher next year who's not going to be so rigid that he's out in the hallway crying three times week." First grade was a tough year for my baby.

*****

A very deep breath, now. "There's actually another learning disability that's similar to autism, but not as severe. It's called Asperger Syndrome." "Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone." "Absolutely right, G-man. Um, Asperger Syndrome is kind of interesting. Some of the characteristics of Asperger Syndrome are things like hand-flapping, Quin." Silence. What have I gotten into? Help! "Gar, another characteristic of Asperger Syndrome is being able to learn and retain lots of factual information about things." "Quin, do YOU have Asperger Syndrome?" This delivered to his brother with the same sly, teasing smile on his face that he uses when he makes an outrageously false and insulting comment, like "My brother has no brain!"

*****

Because Garrick's symptoms present in very different ways from Quin's, there once again was some controversy in getting some members of the family to accept his diagnosis. This time, I didn't really care. I saw no need to haul Garrick down to Children's Hospital for more formal testing, as I had Quin -- what difference would it make? Bring on the speech therapists for social pragmatics and give us a warm and accepting second grade teacher, and we'll manage, thanks.

*****

Jumping off the cliff, now. "Actually, Garrick, people who are experts in this kind of thing have told me and Daddy that both you and Quin have a lot of characteristics of Asperger Syndrome. Like Quin's hand-flapping and your ability to absorb and remember all those facts about the solar system." "And about dinosaurs?" Quin is always my helpful boy. "Right, Quin, and about dinosaurs. A lot of people with Asperger's are only interested in one or two topics, like model trains or dinosaurs, and learn as much as they can about just that topic." I can't remember another time that they were both so rapt with attention. "Quin, you know how you have such a fabulous memory and such an intense sense of smell? That's to do with Asperger's. And Garrick, all of the information you've learned about so many things -- dinosaurs, the solar system, the human body -- that's to do with Asperger's, too."

*****

Quin's magical year was fourth grade. Things just suddenly got easier for him. Instead of being socially isolated, he made one terrific friend (to this day, his best friend) and that experience just opened his whole world. He'd always been comfortable interacting with adults and with children younger than himself, but had no idea how to connect with his peers. In fourth grade, that started to change.

*****

"You guys know how you have speech therapy in school, and sometimes you've had occupational therapy? And Quin, you remember having physical therapy? Those were things we arranged for you both to help you learn stuff that is harder with Asperger's. Basically, people with Asperger's brains just work a little differently than most people's, and some things that most people learn just by instinct are harder for people with Asperger's to learn. So that's why we arranged those things for you, to make it a little easier." I kept checking their faces for any signs of confusion or distress, and there were none. Just rapt attention and an eagerness to understand.

*****

There is some controversy in Asperger's circles as to whether to tell a child that he or she has the syndrome. One school of thought is that the kid will self-identify as different or somehow wrong, causing poor self-esteem and exacerbating any existing emotional problems. Another school of thought is that knowing the diagnosis is empowering to kids, allowing them to understand why they feel different from their peers, and giving them tools for coping with those differences. Obviously, it's going to be different for everyone. But I kept remembering what my friend Val had told me, years ago. Her daughter is some years older than Quin, and she has Asperger's. I had sought Val out for advice and support in my weeks of flailing after Quin's diagnosis. "You'll know when it's time to tell him," she told me. She was right.

*****

Dinner ended, as dinners do, and the kids scattered to read books and pet the dog and line trading cards up along the floor of the playroom, as kids do. Alone, I cleaned the kitchen and made the lunches and walked the dog and the whole time felt as though the earth were spinning in a slightly different sphere, at a slightly different angle. Had anything really changed? Of course not. Was it different? Absolutely. Later, as I tucked each of my monkeys into bed, I made sure to invite more response -- "As you think about this in the days and weeks to come, if you have any questions, let me know" -- but they were both completely unflapped by the whole discussion. It's just one more set of facts to store away about the world and How Things Are.

The Band-Aid is off.

*****

Today is World Autism Day. For some wonderful posts on autism, visit The Domestic Goddess and The HG-Spot.

April Foolishness

THE GOOD

Audit is over, sweet merciful heavens! I can actually sit at my desk and get work done. (Or blog. Whatever.)


THE BAD BITTERSWEET

My first-born turns twelve this week. And has a mustache. How did it come to this? I can still feel the phantom pangs of his foot wrapping itself around my left hipbone while in utero and now he's got pimples.


THE UGLY

I've decided that this recent haircut was a tragic mistake. Too long to be short, too short to be long, and too many layers that frizz out into a crazed nimbus at the first sign of humidity and in complete defiance of hair products. The question is, can I grow out the layers by June? If not, drastic steps will be taken.