On This Awesome Conference, Finally

Okay, I've been back from this conference for about three days now, and what I hoped wouldn't happen, that I would get all sidetracked with the job and the family and the cat and the daily life stuff, has happened. I'm so sidetracked its stupid.

But, for my edification if nothing more, I need to list out the key things I learned at the PEP Conference:

• It was not a "parenting" conference. The key assumption of this conference was that we were the experts on our own kids. We were specifically instructed in our three small group sessions (about 10 people plus a few moderators) not to 'rescue' and not to problem solve for others. We were there to enable ourselves to act within the educational system as advocates for our children. The Colorado Department of Education, who planned and hosted the conference with the help of experienced parents of children with disabilities, want us and our children to succeed within their bureaucracy. If that's not the most encouraging thing you've ever heard, well, I guess I can just say it's a very encouraging thing for me to hear.
• I do identify The Kid as a child with a disability, at least as defined by special educational law. I know some of you who read this and know The Kid and I have trouble with that. I am so grateful that the framework of IEP's exist, that there are laws to back up the accomodations that The Kid needs to be a student, and for that reason, his identity as a child with disabilities is actually a really good thing. He is a kid that without the right supports in place, can't possibly show his potential. Thank god for the IEP.
• Our story was rare, and bad, but not the worst. And I don't mean in his medical file, not at all. I mean in the way in which we have struggled with our school district, a little more than a year ago, to obtain reasonable special education services. I was told, "No, we can't do that" far more often than is reasonable or possibly even legal. The Kid's special educational entitlements were violated last year. I have been jaded and hurt by the general ed school that The Kid attended for Kindergarten and the first month of first grade, but now know that not only is this not normal, it is also extremely possible to counteract with specific language and specific actions on my part. I have learned what to do if I encounter the 'I won't do this for your child' response again.
• Most IEP violations take place because of ignorance, not because of spite. I need to teach myself to believe this in the case of last year's big time bad news, just to help me get over it. But also, these laws, the ADA, the IDEA, NCLB and the Colorado-specific special ed law are so complex, and teachers simply do not know them, and this is how violations occur. This conference exists to counteract this ignorance.
• I am worried about new things. Inclusion. The Kid will be heading from a very restrictive classroom environment to a less restrictive environment eventually. I don't believe this will happen until 2008, possibly not until the new school year, but it is going to happen. I am now scared of what happens when my highly intelligent young man goes back into a 'grade level' school, after having been in a classroom of 6, in a very fluid multi-age setting. He is behaviorally challenged, even in the classroom of 6, but he is also a leader there. He is, age-wise, in second grade. He is doing 3rd and 4th grade math and science. He is reading on grade level. He is writing like a first grader. How do you keep a kid with all of these gifts and challenges in a single-grade classroom? This is not a bad problem persay, but it is one that I had never considered until last weekend.
• Finally, THANK GOD FOR BLOGGING. Like I said, the seminar was split up between large lectures about disability law and IEP's, with the one smaller 'choice' breakout session, I went to the one about PBS, as I wrote earlier this week, and then punctuated with a meeting of a small support group each day. At each support group, I sobbed. I am completely incapable of talking about The Kid and his education to sympathetic ears without breaking down into sobs. One on one, I'm generally capable of being articulate and not crying a great river, but get me around a group of people looking at me and caring about what I am saying and having all been in that same place as me, I will lose it. I never cried in the big group lectures, either. Just in the small groups. So, support groups are kind of out for me. I'm not productive in them. In many ways, this blog is my support group. Important people read this blog and know me and are then able to know about what I'm thinking or feeling, and I don't have to sit around and tell them about it later at a party and end up red-faced and crying. I can also write and write and write and you won't be any the wiser if I sobbed through the writing or not. I can bare it all, or organize my thoughts. I'm so lucky to have you, readers (and I think I know each and every one of you, and most of you know me personally and know The Kid personally, and that helps so much).

Thanks for being my support group.

Oh, and Diane? There's snow above timberline. I woke up every morning to the snow machines blanketing Peak 9. Beautiful, pristine skies, bluer than you can imagine during the day, and more stars than you can count at night. I love Breckenridge.

Interview Me.

Okay, I apologize for not writing for over a fortnight. I really do have a post coming, like a good poo, but I have been far more into netflix and the fall TV line up to write lately.


So, handily, Mr. Lady came forth with a meme in which she interviews me, to get me off of the couch and onto the computer desk chair, the other place I waste my time. So, here goes:


Leave me a comment saying "Interview me." I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions. If you don't have a valid email address on your blog, please provide one. You will update your blog with a post containing your answers to the questions. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.


#1: Your choices are: remain single for the rest of your life or practice polygamy. Which do you choose and why?

I'm all about communes. My high school sweetheart was born in an ashram and I used to annoy the hell out of him by asking his parents to tell me their stories about making their own soap and how all the hippies got together to birth babies and that time they all lived in a tee pee for a year. One time in college, a jewish friend had me just about ready to sign up to live in a kibbutz after I graduated, but then I woke up the next morning with a massive hangover so instead I went out for bacon and eggs.


However, I cannot abide the paternalistic bullshit that I'm assuming comes with living in a polygamous family. Man of the house and ruler of his wives and all that. Plus, would I have to be like, fundamental LDS and stuff? I can't do that.


Yeah, I'd much rather be single. I will be anyway, so I am losing nothing in this assertion!!!


#2: Please tell in detail the single most embarrasing/humiliating thing you have ever done.

The year is 1990. My friend Brianne and I have been tapped to read the daily announcements over the loudspeaker to the whole junior high school. As I'm reading, this boy I have a crush on (who coincidentally was in a torid affair with Mama Cumquat 7 years later) comes in and starts doing something, mugging for me or making faces or whatever, I can't begin to remember what it was, which causes me to lose my shit and giggle through the entire thing. Like, crying, silent gasping laughing, to which the Principal ran into the office and took over the duties for me. I composed myself and as my friend and I walk into our first period English class, the whole class stands up to give me a hooting, hollering standing ovation. I am shocked and am the center of attention, which truly, in large group settings, is not my thing, and I start crying. I'm laughing, and I'm a good sport, but bawling.


Coincidentally, we are reading To Kill a Mockingbird in that class. Later that day, I receive a letter from my english teacher (I think the standing O was her idea), talking about how Scout had to learn about stepping into Boo Radley's shoes and even though she's a grown up and a teacher, she'd do well to learn the same lesson. I was further embarrassed by the fact that my teacher felt like she needed to apologize to me via letter. I think I still have her letter.


#3: If you could only have one of the two professions listed for the rest of your life, which would you choose: Mall Santa Claus or the person who screens incoming new porn for the hard core pay per view channel?
Mall Santa. Watching that much porn would give me seisures.


#4: Several years ago, my friend and I were driving to Philadelphia to get a cheesesteak. Halfway through Chicago we saw this billboard that YOU had hung:
It intrigued me so much that I pulled over to take a picture of it, and have been lugging this picture around with me for 14 years now. Please explain it to me.

I don't think I ever told you about this, but when I was in college, I was part of a radical student movement called the Art Students for the Subversion of Color Association and Personification (ASSCAP). We were guerilla artists, aiming to change peoples notions of emotional responses to colors, which for generations were shoved down our throats by jackholes like Vincent "Yellow is the color of Insanity" Van Gogh and Wassily "Colors produce corresponding spiritual vibrations" Kandinsky. We sought to completely change the bourgeois notions of 'spring' and 'summer' colors. We raided Mary Kay parties in ape masks and stole their color draping materials. We wanted to end the concept of being an "autumn" or a "spring." You must have missed the other billboard three miles south, which stated, BLUE IS HOT.

Eventually, the group disbanded after one of our number became a nihilist decided the only true artistic expression could be a white canvas, and also we ran out of pot.

But still, every once in a while, I return to my ASSCAP days, as in my latest photo, entitled: WHITE IS GOING TO CLAW YOUR EYES OUT AREN'T YOU SCARED?

#5 Would you rather live the rest of your life without toothbrushes or whiskey?


Couldn't I repurpose something else in place of my toothbrush? I mean, you aren't saying give up the dentist and flossing and using toothpaste. I know nothing substitutes for whiskey, which reminds me I totally have a headcold and so I'm going to make a hot one right now before I go to bed. Yeah, I'd find barbie hair brushes or something to brush my teeth with. I could do without Oral-b, but not without Jameson. The sweet, sweet water of life.

Dear Jutta,

It's been so long since I've written you a letter, I don't even know where to begin. I guess I should thank you for always writing to me, in your incomprehensible German handwriting. Whenever you left us notes at the flat, the lads couldn't read them. I would have to translate them for Ronan and Skippy: "I'm at the library studying, be home by 9." or, "Fucking Skippy, I put your nasty socks in the garbage. Have a lovely day!" or, "Wait for me tomorrow morning, I want to go with you for a fry." Ah, the lovely fry ups we'd go have with Ronan on Sunday mornings... Remember? Ah, but of course, you're out in the rugged 'wesht' of Ireland with all of the rashers and the Denny "at least 15% meat product contained within" sausages you can eat. Lucky! Eat some for me. And some Digestives. God, I miss the Digestives.

The truth is I have been thinking about you so much recently. Since about September, the time of year that we first met, I have been keeping a mental ticker in my head... It's been 10 years since I moved into the flat with Jutta and Astrid... It's been 10 years since that night I met Chicca and Jutta while climbing around on the Molly Malone statue... It's been 10 years since that flurry of international student dinner parties, our smiles stained with red wine, laughing at the babel-esque language (Reiner: "I'm a fightah!", and You: "My Roommaid!"), learning to cook from the Italians and all the music that the French girls brought to us... The "Thirsty" Thursdays, polishing off way too much whisky and seeing double Juttas all the way home probably way too many times... Riding our bikes through the wet streets of Dublin to listen to jazz at the Globe... I could go on for hours with this list, you know, but be sure that I've been nostalgic all this time, and this will continue straight through for two more years, through my final year in college, which I realize you weren't present for, and then through our second year together, with the boys, until the day I left Ireland again (but hopefully not forever) to come home and become a mom.

But anyway, we met 10 years ago. For so long, it always seemed just like yesterday, but now, it surely feels like 10 years, if not more. I know that that was me, galavanting about Ireland with my drunken band of merry prankster friends, and I know that those memories are uniquely mine, but I also feel such a distance to that time. We were so carefree! We had to study and go to class, sure, and more for me than for you as I was spending my junior year abroad and my classes just needed to be passed, while you were in your chosen college and having to really work (was that hard for you, hanging out with us waste-oid international students? We were horrible influences!), but still, not a bill, not a requirement, not a "have to live up to our responsibilities RIGHT NOW" moment in that entire year. Just Guiness, Whisky, enormous amounts of Cheese and Pasta (oh, and remember the chocolate mobile we made?), Jazz, Bob Marley, and Trinity are Shite.

I'm so happy to hear you are going back to school to become a psychologist. In some ways, I fancy myself your first patient! Remember those first months after Shamus and I broke up? I was an unstable mess, and you were a constant and peaceful force in my life. You stood up for me, in light of my ex-boyfriend, his new girlfriend and our other flatmate gathering nightly (or seemingly nightly, at least) at our kitchen table, saying, "You know what? Molly kind of needs space. You're here all of the time. It's driving her crazy." Or the night when we had those aborted plans to go out, and we stayed home and admitted to eachother that we were sad, and were just sad together. That was the night I knew you'd be one of my best friends forever. Even if I suck at writing you letters.

I am also so much more appreciative of the job that a psychologist does. The Kid is not well, Jutta. He is mentally ill. He has been diagnosed, technically, with a mood disorder on the bipolar spectrum, ADHD and now we are having to look into an Austism Spectrum Disorder as well. In actuality, it means that he has a hard time taking bad news, he becomes violent and is completely unruly in large social settings, he has a hard time with impulse control, as in, he can't control the urge to do just about anything whenever he wants to. School is the real challenge. He's been enrolled in four schools just in this, his first grade, year. I think we've finally found a good, theraputic setting for him, or at least one that will cater to his needs and help him learn how to teach himself how to be a part of a classroom.

I guess the lesson here, missy, is watch out with whom you mate. It's funny because you were out of town the entire time The Kid's dad was around. It was easter break, and I don't know where you were, but I was traveling for my thesis. We met in Galway and he and his friend traveled with me for a day or two and then he came back to Dublin to stay with me for a week. We only had that one night in "heaven," and I wonder, had you been in Dublin that night in early May, 1999... Oh, who am I kidding, it would have happened anyway, but just not in our room. Perhaps the garden... with the slugs. That would have been, um, just as probable.

But I don't want this one letter in three years to show The Kid in a bad light. Not at all! He's the light of my life, and I don't regret having him. So yes, he's difficult and he throws his shoes at his teachers from time to time, but he's brilliant. He's so smart, and so full. So big and gloriously vital. We went to the art museum here in Denver a couple of weeks ago. There was a journal sitting out on a table for people to write in. On the table was a small sign, asking, "What do you think is beautiful?" I read the sign, gave The Kid a crayon and said, "You can draw or write anything you'd like." Do you know what he wrote? In small, purple, first-grade handwriting, he wrote, "Life." And then directly beneath, in large, purple, first-grade handwriting, he wrote, "Life."

So yes, he's everything, but also more.

And my life is completely built around him. It wouldn't function any other way. I get my "me time," I definitely do, and I do have what passes as a successful career over here, but in that classic way, that only another 9 on the enneagram would do (as I remember, you are a 9 too), I've found myself bending towards his light, getting my energy and passion from him, from learning all I can about these disabilities that effect his life (and mine, and everyone who knows him). But like he said, his life is beautiful. It can only logically follow that so is mine.

So, sweet Jutta, I hope I actually do send you this letter. I write it, or something like it, every year. I chew on your Christmas letter for weeks every year. I think about you constantly on your birthday, you leap-year baby, you. But the letter never gets sent, and the year goes by, and my beautiful and consuming life keeps me from telling me how much I really love you, and wish you the best. Thank you for being my friend.

Much love,
Molly

I can't begin to tell you how happy I am that it is 2007. 2006 was a challenge, to put things in the most optimistic way possible. But in 2007, things so far are good for The Kid and I. Four whole days into 2007, and I can tell you all is well.

Why do I love 2007? Let me list the ways...

• The Kid is kicking life's butt right now. He is calm, when he is not calm he is reasonably redirectable. He's "graduating" from Hospital School tomorrow and will head back out into the public school system on Tuesday.
• My sweetheart of a cousin very randomly gave me his copy of Veronica Mars Season 1, and that will only lead to girls nights, which are always a good thing. Shannon? I can smell the champagne and nail polish, yo. Will you braid my hair? Peggy, you are so invited.
• While I'm still fighting the insurance companies to pay our huge amount of claims from 2006 and no psychiatrist within our shrinking insurance network will provide care for The Kid, the lead attending at the hospital The Kid has been both inpatient and attending school called me today and agreed to provide us ongoing psychiatric care at a reduced rate at his private practice. He said he cares a lot about The Kid and wants him to succeed. Me too, Doc, and thank you.
• I'm enjoying work again for the first time in months. It's the thrill of the hunt, I think. Like, today? I brought in about $30,000 of potential new business, and I'm feeling like I am back on top of my shit there. And, I don't want to cry as I drive into my parking garage, which is always a good thing.
• I am fresh off of visits from so many of my favorite people on this earth over the week between Christmas and New Years, only to be anticipating a visit from my favorite Tiger on earth, Jaci, next weekend. I have so many great friends, my family is the best, this just has to be the best of all possible worlds.

I've outsourced blogging about my son...

I have no energy to post on this blog apparently. So, Mr. Lady wrote a really lovely little snippet of what life is like with The Kid. Please go read it and remember how I used to write with gusto about how much I love him. I still do love him, it's the writing with gusto part that is hard for me.

See, I'm writing this from my mom's house. Things had been going reasonably well for The Kid at hospital school, and still are. But life is always ready to throw a curve ball.

My mom, my awesome sweetheart of a mom, had surgery to repair a detached retina two weeks ago. It's really not the worlds worst thing that can happen to a body, as long as it is caught early and is repaired well. However, this happened to her before, when The Kid was a baby. We lived here then, too.

A retinal detachment is repaired by inserting a bubble of gas into the eyeball. After the procedure, the recovering eyeball needs to have the pressure of the gas against the effected area. Usually that effected area is at the back of your eyeball. Quickly do the science experiment (use a snow globe with a little bit of air in it perhaps?) in your mind... To have the gas bubble touching the back of a person's eyeball that person must have their face down. When my mom had this happen the first time, she was face-down for about three months. She had the surgery, I think, three times. But the retina never re-attached, and she is now blind in that eye.

But the good news about this time is that she caught it within days of the detachment, the surgery was almost immediate, and it was successful. But she has had to do the face-down thing again.

For a few days there, she was almost completely blind. Every day since, however, she sees more as the gas bubble 'resolves' (that's what the doctors call it), and she is able to be more independent.

The Kid and I have been staying with her since the night of her surgery. We have basically moved in. I like it here for the nice washer and dryer, and the big kitchen. The Kid likes the multiple televisions. I hope that my mom likes us here for the home cooked meals and the company. What I don't feel like I can do here, though, is my blogging habits. And so, a little drought creatively as well as in quantity.

I think we'll go home tomorrow, as she's pretty much back to kicking this thing, and we really need to get a Christmas tree put up in our probably very dusty and sad little dark home of our own. And so, hopefully, we'll get back to our routine, and I'll be back to blogging about the wonderful things that come out of The Kid's mouth, although Mr. Lady is so very good at it.

Goodbye again, John Lennon

So, it's been a while since I blogged. I guess one should not count a survey of Christmas habits as a real post, what when my last posts described The Kid's jaunt through the hospital and all that.

You know what, though?

I don't have time or energy to update you now.

What I do need to do today is to wish my dear friend Sarah a happy birthday. I know Sarah doesn't mind the whole 'keeping you updated on every detail of life' thing, as she is the kind of friend that could talk to you every day and it would be awesome; you could even crash on the floor of her apartment for the majority of a summer and she won't even be outwardly be annoyed with your sloth, depression, or strange baked potato eating (I did this to her and Mama Cumquat in 1997); or you could not get in touch for the larger part of a year (or more!), but when you did, it would be the same, strong, great friendship. She and I have alternated between those modes of communication for the last 10 years or so.

That said, I'm really really grateful that 2006 has been a year that I've been in close touch with Sarah. I couldn't do what I'm doing if I didn't have the wonderful support that I get from her. She's a pretty rocking friend.

Happy Birthday, Sarah. I can't wait to see you and give you the world's biggest hug when you are in Denver for Christmas....

I am incapable of writing about real life, so I'm giving you a meme, Shannon.

1. Eggnog or Hot Chocolate? (And 'fess up - do you spike your drink, and if so - with what?)
Eggnog. Because you can drink Hot Chocolate all year 'round. Actually, for real holiday-only beverages, I'm partial to our own family holiday drink, The Nutty Irishman, baileys and frangelico... Mmmm.

2. Colored lights or white lights?
I like white lights on the outside of a house, it just looks cleaner. Colored lights on the tree. I'm all about the messy family home made decorations type tree.

3. Does Santa wrap presents at your house, or sit them underneath the tree unwrapped?
He wraps them. Last year, I did my santa wrapping at mom's house and left the santa paper over there. The Kid discovered it late afternoon on Christmas, and came and got me and said, Look! Meema has the same paper as Santa! She always knows the best places to shop!

Phew. That was a pass.

4. Do you hang mistletoe?
Nope. I'm pretty minimal on the christmas decor.

5. When do you put up your decorations?
Usually the weekend following Thanksgiving. I got my balcony lights on that weekend this year, and if I remember right, last year. But the week following Thanksgiving this year and last year were a little too tumultuous personally and I was late last year getting my tree up. This year, I've not even been home enough to even think about the tree. So, from the outside, though, my house looks decorated for Christmas. My dear friend Jaci reminded me that this is a good thing, as it is always better to look good on the outside. ; )

6. What is your favorite holiday food?
Moose munch. Who invented chocolate covered popcorn? I will marry that guy. Shoot, I want to marry moose munch.

Well, and Hamloaf. It's a family delicacy. God I love that stuff.

7. What is your favorite childhood holiday memory?
My sisters have reminded me of playing Name that Tune with our Uncle Bob. I've been laughing all day about it. It's hard to describe, but his humming... Oh, funny, but indescribable.

Basically, Christmas memories mostly center around my sisters and just being super duper silly with them. Every year we have some kind of running joke going... Last year? 'That's cool." In two thousand fizzle? Ah, shizzle it was return of the kizzle. Oh, and it is an annual mission to quote Elf as much as possible.

8. Do you believe in Santa? If not, why?
SANTA! SANTA!!! I know him!!!! (see what I did there? Did you HEAR THAT?)

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve?
No. We don't do that. I think we'd have a hard time stopping if I allowed that.

10. Describe your Christmas tree:
It is 4.5 feet tall. I place it on a little ottoman table thingie I have so it will feel bigger. Most of our ornaments are lovingly home made, or candy canes. There were a couple years there where I was making my friends make ornaments for us if they came over to my house. Jaci and Erin, I still have the ornaments you made for us. Our angel will have to be remade this year, I'm just remembering. Hmmm, sounds like craft time! Whoo hoo!
Most of the stuff on my tree is sentimental. My favorite ornaments are the ornaments I made as a kid, the ornaments from our family tree that my mom has given me (nothing valuable, I assure you), the holy family Jaci gave me, the Tiger Jaci gave me and most of all The Kid-Picture-Wreath he made two years ago.

11. SNOW. Love it? Or Dread it?
Dread, I think, is the most perfect word for how I feel about snow. I don't hate snow. I enjoy it often. Snowmen, snowball fights, I like to ski, etc. But even on nice peaceful nights, when the city is being blanketed in snow, all I can think about is scraping my windows off the next morning. And then driving my ten miles to work with 100,000 freaking a-holes.

12. Can you ice skate?
Yes, yes I can. I'm all like that Sasha Baron Cohen bitch up in an ice rink. Like, exactly, sexytime, fo sho.

13. What is your favorite Christmas gift of all time?
Wow, I had so many. There would be the boom box I got in 10th grade, I was all psyched about it, but then quickly turned to brat because it wasn't accompanied with The Police Box Set, but then my family tried to give it to me all Christmas Story AFTER all the other presents were opened, and I felt like a poop. But both of those things gave me endless joy.
I also remember getting my doll house that had working lights.
Oh, and every girl has their "my first ambulance toy" story, right? All girls pine for and pitch fits about model ambulance toys with little working stretchers and comes stocked with super beefy EMT's? Well, yeah, I was lucky enough to get my very own ambulance toy when I was about 7 or 8. I was also a complete brat about it because it didn't have a siren (as I parent now, I understand that!), but then I played with that sucker for years and now all of our children have played with it too. It's a pretty kick heinie ambulance.

14. Which do you prefer: Giving or receiving?
Oh, without a doubt, giving.

15. Tell us about your favorite holiday tradition.
The Kid and I haven't truly developed a tradition. We usually read The Night Before Christmas, and we ALWAYS set out cookies and milk for Santa, and spread oats out front of the house for the reindeer. Beyond that, not too much.
What I love to do, and what I have done since I've been old enough to acheive it, is to be the last one to go to bed on Christmas eve. I just LOVE to sit in the dark (well, all dark but the tree), sometimes listening to Xmas music, sometimes silently, just basking in the glory of the tree. In fact, I used to sneak out of my room early morning as a kid so that I could do that. It's not really a tradition, because it isn't shared, but it is by far one of my favorite things about Christmas.

16. What tops your tree?
Well, we made a big yellow star out of construction paper and glitter, and then glued together and stuffed with cotton balls, and it was kind of ugly, but we had so much fun making it, but anyway it totally kicked the bucket last year. So, The Kid and I have a job cut out for us. Angel or star? I'll leave it up to him.

17. What is your favorite holiday movie or tv special?
It's a Wonderful Life. That movie truly has no equal. Second place? Elf. Third? A Christmas Story.

18. What is your favorite Christmas song?
Bing's White Christmas, isn't it just a yummy song? I love the Charlie Brown Christmas album so very much as well.

19. Candy canes ... yuck? or yum?
Yum! I'm surprised that people out there think they are yuck!

20. Describe the oddest or most unique Christmas you've experienced.
21 years old, I traveled around Europe with my ex-boyfriend (and technically, he was my ex even then, so that was something, like straight out of the freaking Amazing Race). We spent Christmas skiing in clouds at Chamonix, France. We stayed in a youth hostel with a bunch of insane ski bums from around the world. There were a bunch of amazingly sustained-drunk aussies (and some possibly british, it was honestly difficult to tease out the accents between the slurring), two really sweet japanese girls, a kindred spirit of an argentinian girl that I shared a bottle of wine with after sourpuss ex boyfriend went to bed. It was incredibly lonely, and the only Christmas ever that I haven't spent here in my mom's house, which I love.

Merry Christmas everyone!

And, since I'm supposed to tag people at the end of a meme, if that is what one could consider this, I will tag all of you. Mr. Lady's unique take on Christmas as a recovering jehovahs witness will be good, no doubt. I want to hear from Caty, Sarah, Alison and Diane too!!!

My Other Best Friend From High School

In all of the drama of the past few weeks, I've neglected to direct your attention to Mama Cumquat, aka my best friend from high school. She happens to be the person who introduced me to both Mr. Lady and Sarah.

She also happens to be the first friend I had, outside of my sisters, who really got me and she did a great deal towards teaching me how to be myself around people. Because before her, I was a pretty lonely little teenager. I was never unpopular in school, but I definitely didn't get to talk about the stuff I wanted to talk about with my friends. In fact, right before I met Ms. Cumquat, I was told by a friend that I used too big of words, and if I wanted to be friends with her, I needed to not be so serious all of the time. Yeah. Teenagers suck.

So anyway, enter Mama Cumquat. She was the new kid, she was in my french class, she wore lots of silver and listened to cool music. She had a thing for Peter Gabriel. We became fast friends, and with her I was able to incorporate my love of books and movies and talking about real life things like politics and religion with wanting to talk about boys and clothes.

Recently, she's been blessed with a son. I've not met him in person yet, but every time I see a picture of this kid, I couldn't love him more. He's gonna be as warm and funny as his mama, I can tell. Anyway, check out her blog!

Girl, you better work!

Sorry, is that joke about 20 years old now? sheesh. old, that's me.

Truth is, I have a lot of work to do this weekend. My poor boss is about to tear his hair out because of all of the time I've missed from work dealing with The Kid's many advocacy issues. In the last week, I've missed at least another whole day's worth of work at meetings and visiting SIED classrooms. I'm so lucky because my boss has been through everything I've been through. He understands how dire the situation is. His mom was bipolar, and a messy-wouldn't-take-meds-and-would-wake-him-up-at-2am-to-drive-him-to-disneyland-only-to-turn-around-just-north-of-anaheim-because-she'd-get-depressed-and-then-sleep-for-a-month type of bipolar. His son is bipolar as well, and when he was 7 years old, it all hit the fan in a manner similar to they way it has for The Kid. It is vital that I know my boss because I also know that due to his and his wife's efforts (not to discredit the efforts on the part of my boss's son), his son is now enjoying the sweet success of a great high school career behind him (senior class presidency and lacrosse star and all the dreams of popularity in high school), and has just entered his freshman year at the University of Montana. Knowing my boss shows me that success for kids with mental illness happens, thank god.

But anyway, the point here is that I not only need to make up work to save my vacation time which has been quickly depleting and I would really like to spend time with the fam for Christmas, but also because I owe it to my boss. He's the ideal boss for me, we are so well matched. But I've not been a model employee for the last month, and I feel so terrible that my boss has been putting in the hours to make up for my absence, and while his understanding of my situation seems boundless, I need to make the effort because he's not only my boss, he's my mentor and my friend.

So, there's the job work. Gotta do some.

But I also have "The Kid work" to do to. Next Tuesday, I'm having the meeting from hell with The School, a couple of district brass-types, my advocate and me. It's a continuation of the "informal" meeting we started on 9/12, but it also the formal discussion of where we'll get him placed, the forum for my complaints about The School's non-compliance with special education and/or disability law, and ultimately to change all of the inaccurate and horrible things that they've written about The Kid in his IEP.

I'm so grateful to have this blog because it lets me blow off the anger and steam that builds up from how frustrating this situation is. Once I get all of the really mad stuff out of my system via the keyboard and post it on the blog, I am able to write very reasoned, tactful letters and agendas. It helps me essentialize, but it also helps me express the anger and honestly allows me to share that anger with someone on a somewhat formal forum so that I can return to the real task at hand and not be the crazed-with-anger mama-bear, but instead the mom who is a tough advocate but is also reasonable enough to work in a team. At least, that's the hope.

I'm Not Saying You Should Sweat The Small Stuff...

But that small stuff can sure cheer you up from time to time.

Case in point #1:

On my way to work every day, I walk past the Museum of Contemporary Art in Sakura Square. They have a installation up right now that consists of a motion detector and two speakers on the side of the building. As you walk by, it gives you compliments. "Hey there, you look terrific." "I can tell you are going to have a great day." "Nice shoes!" I look forward to it every day.

Case in point #2:

Going out of town for the weekend and returning to dozens of emails from friends, e-friends and perfect strangers giving me encouragement and good advice.

Case in point #3:

Aspen leaves. I know that most of you who read this blog either live in Colorado or have at one time lived in Colorado (and one of you is headed BACK to Colorado-yea!), so, you already know what fall is like in Colorado, especially in the mountains. But for those of you who don't know, let me give you a quick primer on fall in CO. It is short. Like, it lasts for a few days.

That is, if you measure fall by the brightly colored leaves on the deciduous trees in the area, the decay of green summer into bright oranges and yellows and even reds that trickle down onto the ground. When I lived in Indiana, I was always amazed at how fall seemed to go and go and go. How in October, the leaves on the enormous trees on my school's campus slowly lost their summer chloroform and turned deep reds and oranges and all the colors you'd hope to see in a sunset. More amazing, was how in November I could still see those colors. In the montaine regions of Colorado, there really is only one kind of deciduous tree (I'm no scientist, there are probably others, but when you're talking iconic Colorado, yes, there is only one): The Aspen.

This weekend, my mom took The Kid and I to the Rockies to breathe in the peak of the turning of the aspen leaves. It was so wonderful to get away, to sleep in a mostly empty, clean condo, and eat mountain-style home cooking. In short, I'm rested, and ready for another week.

So, northeast, you can take your big fancy trees with their months of color, the raking and that oddly comforting smell of decaying summer. Here in Colorado, we get our bursts of color for only a day or two, and for the first time in my life, we made the trek up the hills on the exact right weekend. It was heavenly.

Note: blogger is driving me slightly batty tonight and I can't get my photos attached to this post. I have, however, totally stollen the idea from Mr. Lady's fabulous flikr link on her page, and if you want to see what I did this weekend, check out the photos!!!

And so, I'd like all three of you who read my blog to go check out The HiPo Lounge. It is written by my dearest friend Sarah. Let me tell you a few things about Sarah Dawson.

I must tell you about the first time I met Sarah. I was a freshman at DePauw. I flew out to Oregon to visit my best friend from high school (for the interest of brevity, her name is Caty, and I guess I've caught a little of the Sarah Dawson, "I'm Direct" disease) at her college for a long weekend. Caty, being an anxious type, was very nervous about my visit and feverishly planned how I would meet her new best friend. She just wanted to make it a big deal that she had loads of new friends in college and her new best friend from college was the coolest girl in the world. She is just kind of neurotic that way. So there was a big party, and Caty was so fiendishly involved in being popular in her new college that I hung out with her new best friend from college and got to know her a little better. What ended up happening? Sarah Dawson became one of my new best friends in college and on and on.

Other things to know about Sarah:

• She thinks talking like a stoner is both ironical and funny.
• I can speak to her with complete sarcasm and she always gets it. Like, I have no need to put the, Just kidding! at the end of a particularly sarcastic comment.
• She loves dogs.
• She lived in Ireland and knows all about the student villages at the University College Dublin
• She shares my deep, true adoration of the job of bridesmaid
• We grew up 45 miles from each other, went to the same concerts in H.S., hung out at the same young, hip coffee shops and hangouts in H.S., but we never met until that trip to Oregon in 1995.
• Most importantly, she is a truly great writer. Check her blog out!

A Post For This One Girl Who is Moving to Canada

My mom called me tonight about a half hour after The Kid and I got home from work. She told me that my dad's best friend, Bill, was in town, and would be stopping by to visit tonight around 7pm. I had been home long enough to feed The Kid a pre-dinner pbj, so he'd eaten. I dropped everything and went straight over to her house. I'd drop anything for this friend of my dad's.

We spent the evening talking about our families, the places Bill had lived. He told us about the first time he remembered playing with my dad. Their mothers were planning a dinner at the church, and the two boys were getting into things. There was a ticket booth that they were climbing on, around, and making noise over. In a move that speaks wonders at both the parenting styles of days gone by and the kindred feeling of frustrated mothers everywhere, they gave the boys 20 cents, and shooed them off to the movie theater. Bill and my dad watched a Roy Rogers movie, and were best friends ever since.

He also told me about the time he and my dad ditched school (which I have a feeling was only the tip of the iceberg of that type of story), how they used to take the train up to Denver to stay in a cheap hotel where the famous "cash register" building now stands. He brought us pictures of my dad and their friends. Bill said that heartbreaking thing I've heard before from my dear friend and surrogate Uncle Charlie as we looked at the young faces of my dad and their friends: "I'm the only one left of these guys now."

I would always drop anything to see him. He's a wonderful man, and a wonderful connection to my dad, who I miss so much.

And so, as I drove home, I got to thinking about Shannon, about my friends, and about how once you reach 30, the friends who knew you when mean so much more. Shannon is my oldest friend. Not counting family, Shannon has known me longer than anyone I know today. Shannon, you are my Bill. And I will drop everything for you, any time. I know you have to go to Canada, and I also know that you are going to really love it there. My life has been a series of hellos and goodbyes, but goodbye has always been an easy thing for me. Perhaps this is what happens when your dad dies when you are young, but I think I've learned that few goodbyes are ever truly final. Life is an extraordinary thing, with time and distance and long separations, but we're truly lucky to have memory, and sentiment. Shannon, my dearest, longest held friend: this is only the beginning.

Cong Hong I Cong A Gong O

This post just happens to be my 100th. Whoo, I guess.

I spent the last weekend in Chicago. I went to celebrate my 30th year on earth, along with these two, who are aging with me. The first night was low-key, at a bar with a dude playing dj with his mac, and at one time hilariously he tried to accompany his Fat Boy Slim remix with some sadly poor bongo-drumming. And I learned a new language.

Because three is totally a crowd, we decided to invite a few more dear friends to come along with us for our girls night out on Saturday. A few other friends who either live nearby or were miraculously also visiting Chicagoland came up to the city for shopping, kickass Moroccan and more booze. Of course, being that it was a Saturday night in the big city, I invited a couple extra girls out for our big night on the town. So, in the photo below, we have Heather, Brandi, Ernin, me, Paige and of course directly in front of me are Breasty and Chesty. We all had a fabulous dinner out accompanied by some of the best margaritas I've ever had, followed by bar hopping which somehow ended in a heavy metal night club. Like, they played Guns n Roses. It was pretty rocking. Nay, I would say it RAWKED.



As is usually necessitated by a RAWKING Saturday, Sunday was started off with brunch:


Yes. It had pepperoni in it. AND parmesan. AND Guinness.

Of course, the trip was not all booze. Jaci and I spent Sunday at the MCA, which is generally a Sunday well-spent. Jaci and I, of course, being 66% of the initiators of the Sundae Sunday tradition (The Kid being that other third), headed over on this extremely hot day for ice cream, as is our custom:



We spent Sunday night at a barbeque with a bunch of strangers, having been brought to the party by a friend from college, and then spent the rest of the night in a lovely courtyard bar watching hipsters play basketball. Chicago is cool like that.

On Monday, we set back out, this time hitting Millenium Park. There is a Frank Gehry ampitheatre, beautiful gardens...



And The BEAN. The Bean is the single most mesmerizing piece of public sculpture I think has ever been made. On the outside, it looks like a giant, reflective bean. Hence, the name BEAN.



You can walk under it, and look up. It is a huge concave mirror. If you look closely, you can see my camera flash in about 6 different spots:

So, I learned some great things in Chicago:

1. People in Chicago have really cool phones.

2. Hanging out with my best friend, who I admire so much, makes me want to simplify my life. I want to learn how to sew. And take the bus.

3. Don't try to learn a junior high super secret language after your fourth beer. It will make you look like an I Dong I O Tong. But you will have a good laugh for days about it.

4. The 80's are way back, at least at Urban Outfitters.

5. Also in: Crock pot cooking.

In other news:

The Kid graduated from Kindergarten on Wednesday. He's a first grader now. I'm a little stunned about this one. I find I have almost nothing to say, except that I'm proud of him and I love him, and he made really tremendous progress this year.

In still other news:

My sister's dog, Dexter, got married last weekend. Here's one of the wedding stills. My neice officiated. The entire neighborhood attended. Like, had we been home, we so would have been there. Reports are, however, that Dexter and his new bride are sleeping in separate beds, and Dexter apparently has a wandering eye. What a cad.

Two of my unconventionally favorite things about parenting

1. Going on trips, to get away from The Kid. Which is what I am doing tomorrow through Monday. I'm so incredibly lucky to get away and be with grown ups only for three whole days. And not just grown ups, my best friends in the universe!!!

But seriously, it is not all to get away from him. He's not that hard to parent. And I always love him. In fact, the real highlight of being away from The Kid is getting to call him at his grandma's house, and hearing his tiny voice over the phone. He sounds so little on the phone, and it just makes me love him so much. And after three days of separation, I will be so appreciative of my life with him, and I will miss him so much. But I will have fun in the meantime. It's a total win-win situation.

2. Finding random toys stacked in interesting arrangements about our home:




Being an archaeologist by training, I can't help but try to reconstruct the play that was intended by the stack above. Is he guarding something? Is he riding a doomsday animal of some sort? By the way, the toys that are stacked (from bottom to top):

• Rubber ducky
• Cap to Johnson & Johnson baby wash, in lavender (The Kid's signature fragrance)
• Baby Alligator, head covered by the middle body part of a "stackable" Ronald Mc Donald
• Arctic Excavator Guy from Playmobile, armed with a totally contraban shotgun that the Kid must have conned off of the neighbor kid (it is so not our toy).

Have a nice Memorial Day Weekend! I'm outta here!

Oh, Mr. Lady, How I Do Love Thee

Oh, Mr. Lady. It's your BIRTHDAY. Happy 21st birthday, dude!

I went out for my birthday on Saturday night, where my friend and I specially went to Mr. Lady's bar so that she could serve me unhealthy amounts of whisky and mystery shots that I believe were called a shillelagh and definitely had bailey's in them. Naturally, being Irish, the whisky made me kind of weepy, and I rambled on and on about how much I love Mr. Lady (oh, and also mother Ireland, but that goes without saying). Because today is her birthday, I want to write an extremely touching little post about how this person has blessed my life and how absolutely lucky I am to know her. I already wrote a rough draft that I scribbled on a cocktail napkin on Saturday night and left for her at her bar. Unfortunately, however, I can't quite tell you what it said, as I wrote it one glass of whisky past the "I LOVE YOU, MAN" phase of the night.

So, starting over, I must tell you that she had a red datsun called Betsy, inadvertently killed about 435 pet hamsters by the time she was 18, and really had a thing for Dr. Pepper and Hawaiian pizza while in high school. She also has the most infectious laugh of all time, and I remember at that time in my life (15 years old or so) really needing to learn how to laugh with her, because I hadn't known joy and laughter like that, at least with my school friends. I remember driving around our home town together spilling our guts to each other, telling each other things I'm fairly confident that neither of us have told anyone else, ever.

She also has this uncanny knack of getting pregnant every time I leave town or lose touch with her for a few months. So, I move back from Ireland the first time almost 9 years ago. I call her to see she'd been up to and she replies, "Having a baby." The second time I come home from Ireland, I call her to tell her that this time I am pregnant. Not to be outdone, girlfriend replies, "Um, me too." Dammit. With her most recent pregnancy, we'd just spaced each other out for about a year, but sure enough, I call her up and ask her how's she's been, and she replies, AGAIN, "I'm pregnant." I've made assurances to her and to her husband that I will never fall out of touch with her ever again.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Lady. You know how much I love you. I'm mushed out, but just know that I admire everything about you, that I marvel in the triumph that is the script of your life. I celebrate today! Much yud!!!

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Erin Go Bragh, Mr. Hunkyhoff! Rowr!

* * * * *

I love St. Patrick's Day. I am of Irish descent. I lived in Ireland. I love Irish Whisky. My birthday is the day prior.

I was in Ireland for two St. Patrick's Days. The first was my 21st birthday. It was wild wonderful fun. I was friends with this crazy french guy, named Fred. Seriously. His name was really Fred. Not a pseudonym. Fred was tall and lanky, and when I think of that St. Patrick's day, I envision Fred the French Guy dancing in his long-legged way that was really more aerobics class than dance fever, singing happy birthday to me in front of the Bank of Ireland. I also remember meeting Matty-o for a pint at the very yummy Porter House and laying a big fat smooch on him that day.

My second St. Paddy's day in Ireland was spent at a heavy metal bar, listening to AC/DC cover bands all night, thanks to my crazy Bostonian friends. The details are fuzzy from this particular St. Patrick's day, but I do remember one of the bands was called Joan of Arse, which will go down in my book as the funniest band names in the whole history of the world.

So, par for the course, I awoke this morning to a very strong sense of nostalgia for Ireland, and for Dublin especially. I hope I can go back sometime. In the meantime, I plan to drink a few Guinness, then a few Smithwicks, and hopefully the sense memory can appease my nostalgia.

Slainte!

ON THE SIDE:

Happy birthday to my brother-in-law, Scott. Your last name may be german, but at least you had the good sense to be born on an Irish holiday! Love you!

Party like a Rock Star Scare

So, the Harry Potter birthday party for The Kid's 6th went off without a hitch on Saturday.

I invited about 24 people to invade my mom's house. She had just remodeled the guest bathroom and bought new furniture, and the 10 or so 5-13 year olds managed to have a pretty rocking party without destroying any property.











Mr. Lady's children were in attendance, and apparently they all got the memo about wearing red, black and white. They are so super color coordinated, that perhaps they can use this as their first album cover when they form their band in 9 years. They're so like the White Stripes here, minus any scary facial hair.