WalMart and SpongeBob

No deep introspection today, folks. Just me, my Chantix, my bubble gum, my Diet Coke (they will have to pry it out of my cold, dead fingers), and life in general.

This morning we made a run to WalMart. Now usually it takes an act of Congress (or my lunch with my parents) to pry me out of the house before noon on a Sunday. But for various reasons, most of which are totally under my control, my younger son's bedroom was never officially "decorated," and we finally remedied that today.

Back when we bought this house we were at one kid, and one kid only. Then one day (I think Bloody Marys were involved) we both agreed that if we were going to have another child, we should really get started on it sometime soon as Himself didn't want to be seventy years old watching his own kid graduating from high school.

Well, the birthday of the younger child puts him firmly at sixty-three when that child will finally graduate, so he's safe there unless I get knocked up at forty.*

But on the day of our closing, neither of us knew I was about eleven days pregnant. Neither of us knew that God had been actively listening when we said "We really should get started on it soon," and took us at our word (or failing that, He was pretty sure we'd change our minds if swift action wasn't taken).

When we were driving home from signing our lives away for the next thirty years (I think by now we own the pantry outright), I realized that I was technically "due" that day and nothing had happened.

It wasn't only that, though, as I'm notoriously all over the map as far as my periods are concerned. It was also the fact that I'd been napping and had developed an aversion to both coffee and Cool Ranch Doritos, which for me are pretty sure signs of gestation. Also, there was the weird development that while most of my body measurements were going down (I was in week three or four of the Body-for-LIFE program), my waist measurement was increasing slightly.

Eeewwww.

So I put the then-only child to bed, and hurried off to buy a home pregnancy test.

I came home and did the whole pee-on-a-stick thing, then sat and watched the results window.

Two lines.

Huh.

I walked out of the bathroom, found my husband, and handed him the test. His brilliant response?

"There are two lines. And?"

"Yes, there are two lines."

"Ohhhh... two lines. Uhm, are we happy about this?"

"I'm not sure. I'll let you know in the morning. In the meantime, I think we'd better scratch that idea about having a guest bedroom."

They're not kidding when they say "Man plans, God laughs."

Anyway, the next morning I'd had time to absorb what this new pregnancy meant and was more fully with the program.

"Honey?"

"What?"

"We're happy about this."

"Okay."

So we moved from our apartment into the house in a few weeks when morning sickness was finally in full swing, which made me so much less helpful than I would have liked to have been. We got the extra-utero child's room fixed up for him with a big boy bed and matching sheets and comforter.

He didn't care what was on his bed, so I picked out something semi-normal looking.

The crib went into the "guest" room, along with various boxes that contained nothing vital enough to unpack (but of course vital enough to move) and a full size bed my husband had in storage. I made that one up with some other sheets and comforter that I chose. So for about eight months we had a guest room/ nursery/ storage room.

Time passed, the second son was born, the boxes were eventually unpacked, and for a couple of years he couldn't have cared less about what was in his bedroom. However, eventually he wanted a "big boy" bed. So we moved the full bed and the crib out and got him a little twin bed like his big brother's.

I had good intentions about getting him a comforter and some such stuff, but my grandmother had just died and we had tons of sheets and other things from her house. He fell in love with a set of butterfly print sheets (very old, very soft, very orange -- the child has an interesting sense of style), and things just kind of remained that way for the next couple of years.

But last weekend as we were doing the weekly dredging of his room to be sure he still had a carpet, he mentioned he might like a bedspread other than his SpongeBob throw blanket. So that's how I ended up at WalMart this morning, relieved that we were finally not going to see SpongeBob plastered over the top of his bed anymore.

We walked down the bedding aisle and he saw it. The Holy Grail of bedspreads.

(Y'all know where this is going, of course.)

Yes, it's got SpongeBob on it. So does his new set of sheets and both pillowcases.

And then there's the little fold-out SpongeBob table and chair set we got to complete the look, because, well, we must have somewhere to do all our artwork, I guess.

Oh, and to write the sign he's affixed to the door of his bedroom which says "No cats. Only kids allowed." He wanted to add "No big brothers," but I told him that would be a bit tacky.

Emily can't read, though, and scoots through his door anytime she can manage it, much to his eternal consernation.

His SpongeBob throw blanket is now carefully arranged on his floor as a rug.

He has also informed me that we need to paint one of his walls to look like a sponge. I told my husband, who just clutched his head between his hands.

It's SpongeBob-ariffic. I kind of wince when I walk by, but he's such a happy prideful little guy about it that I end up smiling even though an interior design desecration induced migraine is trying to beat my eyes out with a ballpeen hammer.

So anyway, that was my day. Happy four-year-old, pained-but-amused husband, and an eight-year-old who still doesn't care what sheets or bedspread are on his bed, but who is now the proud owner of a purple beanbag chair.

It's all minor, but sometimes life is just good. Even with WalMart and SpongeBob.

*God, please don't take this as a challenge. I will swear off sex before I have another child, and if you're that determined I should lose what little is left of my mind and become the mother of three, I'm gonna make a killing in the tabloids.

Weight and Body Issues (and other stuff, because I'm ADD-ish like that)

Well, I told Scott I'd address this in another post, so here I am.

Addressing it.

In another post.

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First though, I've been visiting a ton of blogs by people who are much much better at this writing thing than I am. Like, say, Scott's blog. Or the Queen of Dysfunction, who is now totally my idol in blogging about family matters and such. That chick knows how to bring the funny. Seriously. And although I know it's difficult to contemplate, I think she has a better grasp on profanity than even I possess.

I have an English degree (which I've mentioned once or twenty times here). All I can think when I look at this blog is that my professors must have been on some serious crack.

And then there are all the clearly focused blogs, like Mostly True Stories (labor and delivery), or any one of Angel's blogs (chronic headaches, weight loss, hurricanes, quilting, and crafting, in that order), or Stan's blog, which chronicles his adventures in Chantix land and the aftermath thereof.

Me? I'm all over the place. Rants? Got 'em. Family silliness? Got it. Bleeding forever without dying? It's here. Smoking? Yep. And now the quitting smoking and Chantix stuff.

I'd link it, but, well... you can find it in the archives if you're interested.

And to all this mish-mash, I'm adding weight loss issues.

Oish.

So if any of you come here hoping for some kind of consistency in the nature of the posts, I'm very sorry for disappointing you.

I mean that sincerely.

Hell, sometimes I wonder why I do this myself. I'll notice readership going up, get all freaked out, and wonder if I should even keep inflicting this mess on a small but slowly-increasing segment of the unsuspecting public.

But then I screw my head on straight and figure, well, I like blogging. I liked it before anyone even read this damn thing (I have two other ancient blogs to attest to this). And apparently, it's good enough for some folks to read.

I just question your judgment and mine in my more dark and introspective moments ;)

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Anyway, on to weight issues!

I was always a very skinny little kid. Or slender. Whatever. When I was four I had my tonsils out and scared my parents out of about ten years' growth by my impersonation of an ambulatory skeleton for about six months after the surgery.

Mom was very conscious about feeding her family healthy food. I remember once in mid-elementary school we were learning about what happens when food goes bad. It must have been related to a book the teacher was reading us or something. But anyway, one night Mom was serving us meatloaf and I spied something, uhm, "off" in my slice of loaf.

"Mom! This meat is bad! It's... it's... green."

"That's just a spice, sweetie."

Uh-huh. But gullible child that I was, I swallowed her lie.

And the freaking peas that she'd ground up and put into my Holy and Sacred ketchup-drenched meatloaf.

I hate peas. Hate them with a passion unequalled. I came home from class one day to find my husband (who is well aware of my hatred of these particular legumes) feeding our precious-and-then-only son this vile vegetable.

The little ingrate was gulping them down with great relish.

Since that time, when the man cooks? He makes peas as the vegetable. And I, conscientious mother that I am (I will set a good example, dammit), shovel them into my mouth in HUGE spoonfuls, hold them carefully on my tongue, and then swallow them down whole with a huge gulp of whatever liquid I'm happening to drink that night.

If it's wine, I'm good and buzzed by the time I have to do the dishes.

When #2 son was born, I stared the nasty beast of engorgement dead in the eye. What was the solution to the agony of my breasts? Frozen. Freaking. Peas.

God, I can still smell them thawing/cooking on my chest. I saved them for after-care for my husband's vasectomy-that-has-yet-to-happen.

I probably should toss them, along with the frozen breastmilk that's been gathering dust for four years.

And then there's the placenta from Son #2's birth, which we really meant to plant/ bury somewhere. But we didn't, and as it's a biohazard we're supposed to take it back to the birth center to dispose of it. So there it sits, taking up room in my freezer... oish.

Anyway...

Brought up eating healthily, even if slightly against my will, skinny kid, blah blah blah... which brings me to high school.

I was in the high school orchestra with Angel's husband. Our director was an interesting individual. One time I was wearing a skirt that clearly showed my rather narrow waist (it was twenty-two inches back in the day), and our conductor said, "Do you ever eat?"

Uhm, yeah. Actually, I did. I had a rather healthy relationship with food. My parents had given up trying to serve me peas -- it helped that I ate just about any vegetable that wasn't a pea -- and when it came to hunger, I ate. When I wasn't hungry anymore, I didn't eat.

You know, reasonable stuff like that.

But with this being orchestra, and with various evening performances and eating afterward, it was like some sort of eagle eye was upon me.

We'd go to Pizza Hut and I'd eat a slice of pizza or two, and all I'd hear was, "Good lord, eat girl! You're going to waste away to nothing!"

No, no I wasn't. Yes, I had a very narrow waist, but that isn't where I gain my weight. First place any excess weight goes on me is to my thighs and butt (the song Baby Got Back was so written for me). Saddlebags are the bane of my existence. In a full skirt with a narrow waist, sure I looked like a toothpick. But put me in jeans, shorts, or a straight skirt and it was very VERY clear I wasn't skeletal.

Still, I was at that whole "craving approval" stage, so I ate on command.

Over time, I got used to eating more than I should, just so no one would look at me with that "She's anorexic, we must feed and/or institutionalize her" expression in their eyes. Luckily, at that point my metabolism kicked all kinds of ass, and I stayed within the 122-127 range.

Unfortunately, over time my metabolism slowed. And over time my stress increased, and I dealt with stress by cramming more and more food down my gullet. After all, eating gained me approval. Approval felt good. Ergo, stress was relieved by eating!

Brilliant, eh?

Still, I managed to hold my weight around 140 or 150 up until I hit my early thirties. I wasn't totally happy at those weights, but my husband met me at 140 and thought I was the most beautiful creature he'd ever met (have I mentioned how insanely brilliant he is recently?), so I was content.

But then I went back to work. And although working was definitely a stress reliever in some ways (I didn't have to potty train my second son -- hah!), it brought stress in other ways, especially the whole "Dealing with clients who are getting divorced/ dealing with CPS/ looking at prison sentences" thing.

And so I ate, and ate more. Because it felt good.

Then I was out trying to buy something to wear for my brother's May 2006 wedding. Holy cow, everything I tried on made me look fat!

I was wearing my size 18 "immediately post-partum" jeans by then, but still, they were clothes I already owned, so I hadn't really paid attention to the increasing girth of my body.

The pictures came back from the wedding. Ouch. I'd weighed myself sometime within relatively recent memory and had seen that I was weighing about 180. Not good.

But that "recent memory" had been several months in the past.

Finally, in August of 2006, it happened. That "Eureka!" moment. The moment I knew I'd crossed the line from "rather curvier than usual" into "fat."

It was a Saturday. I was at Publix with my kids. My elder son got on the scale to weigh himself -- it's a hobby of his -- and then I figured I might as well see the bad news.

I didn't have to see it. The dear boy broadcast it for the entire store.

"Mommy, you weigh 200! Isn't that quite a lot?"

Shit.

"Yes, honey, it is quite a lot."

My mother had noticed my weight gain more than I had up until that point, and had said that she'd pay for a month of NutriSystem for me if I wanted to try it out. She wasn't pushy (she's never pushy with stuff like that), but she let me know the offer was there.

I e-mailed her the following Monday and let her know I was ready.

I stayed on NutriSystem for three months, and lost 27 pounds on it. After that point, I decided to do it on my own. And besides, Lean Cuisine is really rather tasty, in a "good Lord, would they just give me MORE FOOD" kind of way.

So since that time I've been counting calories, and have attempted to keep my daily intake between 1200 and 1500. If I go over it, eh, it happens. And if I'm under 1200, I eat until I've made it to 1200. I don't want to totally freak my body into starvation mode or anything.

Besides, cheese is really really good at 10:00 at night. Hee.

So now, about a year later, I weigh between 159 and 160. It's hugely different from the 200, but it's still a far cry from the 150/140 I was accustomed to, and even farther from the 122-127 range I used to enjoy.

I don't need to ever hit the 120's again. But I wouldn't mind dipping into the 130's. So I keep going, keep counting, and keep hoping.

So anyway, that's my whole "Amanda Gains and Then Loses Massive Amounts of Weight" story. Yeah, it's "only" forty pounds, but folks, it's FORTY FREAKING POUNDS. That's EIGHT 5 lb. sacks of flour.

That's the weight of my four-year-old.

So hell yeah, it's an accomplishment. And I'll shout it to the rooftops.

And that, dear readers, is why I'm panicked about gaining weight while I quit smoking. It's not totally rational, but I hope this makes it a bit more understandable.

Just Stuff

First, I've been tagged to do a meme by Babs. Topic? TANSTAAFL, or in other words, There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch.

I must cogitate.

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And trying to think about how I'm to do justice to that particular topic is a bit difficult at this point, because I took my first Chantix today and it appears to have fried my brain. The good news is that I'm not wanting to smoke as much even now, which I'm sure isn't due to the Chantix because a) I felt like this before I popped my little pill (yay!), and b) the stuff really hasn't had enough time to build up in my body anyway.

But still, it's definitely a good thing.

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In the realm of "not such a good thing," or perhaps, "too much of a good thing," I ate too much for lunch. That wasn't bright. I've spent almost a year scraping these forty pounds off my formerly-ever-widening-ass, and the last thing I need to do is pile them back on again. Yeah, yeah, one meal won't kill me, I know. It's the cumulative effect of overeating that'll do me in.

Since I'm quitting smoking, though, and am on Chantix, I have this lively horror that I'm going to pack the pounds right back on. I like how I look now, and am working on dropping a few more pounds (5'-7", 160 lbs, small bone structure... yep, still need to lose a few). I know how to make it work. I just need to continue obsessively calorie-counting and diary-ing my food, and make sure to stay within certain limits.

But it's really got me freaked out a bit.

I Can Has Chantix?

Well, the Chantix came home with me today. Happy belated birthday, dear husband of mine! Here's to many, MANY more years before us, free from these nasty little cancer sticks.

Sad thing is, I can call them "cancer sticks," I know they're bad for me, I hate the stench, I hate what they do to me, but I still. Freaking. Want. Them.

What led to the Great Chantix Experiment is that I found a very old, stale, nearly full pack of cigarettes in our kitchen. Yipes!

My husband and I looked at them. And looked at them.

Himself: They're stale.

Me: I know.

Himself: We've gone more than two days.

Me: I know.

Himself: We can do this.

Me: I know.

Me, five minutes later, firing one up in the back yard... sigh. Guilty bliss.

I went to Himself, thrust the pack into his hands and said, "Get rid of these. I can't take it. Make them go away."

Dude took me at my word. I came home yesterday and went to the garage to get something out of the chest freezer. The first thing that hit me was the distinctive smell of stale cigarette smoke.

"You've been smoking!"

"I've only smoked some butts out of my ashtray."

"Uh huh. Then why is the pack I gave you to make 'go away' half empty?"

Himself hung his head.

We finished them off that night. With great glee, I might add.

I hate this addiction. I hate how I still like smoking.

Ergo, the Chantix. We sincerely do want to quit smoking, but apparently are unable to do it on our own. We're hoping the Chantix will help kill off the "Gosh, smoking's FUN!" feeling and get us on the more realistic path of "And I want to suck smoke into my lungs because why???" frame of mind.

Here we go. Life is and will be GOOD!

Chantix

Whine, whine... the good news is that at least I'm self aware about my whining as well as my ability to quit smoking without a bit more assistance.

I went to my GP today, who is also conveniently my husband's GP. After he nearly threw his back out doing the happy dance because Himself and I are serious about quitting smoking, the Very Nice M.D. wrote us both prescriptions for Chantix.

Actually, he did the prescriptions on this little PDA which fired them directly off to our pharmacy. Cool, huh? So, Chantix, here we come!

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In other news, Angel has posted pictures of the two of us from the HP7 release. The first one, she looks great. I'm grinning so widely though that my cheeks are trying to cover up my eyes and I appear to have developed some weird side-dimples.

On the plus side, as Angel pointed out, it's a good shot of the rack. Magazine rack, of course, is what I mean.

The third picture shows off my nice yellow nicotine-stained teeth. I think I'll use that for motivation in addition to my other stuff.

But we had a blast at the release, and hopefully I'll get my pictures off my camera someday so I can post a few of my own. Those of you who've been waiting for more of my vacation pictures know how long that can take...

Blast it.

It's gonna have to be Chantix.

Why? Because I'm a total wimp. And apparently, so is my husband, aka He of the Will of Iron (not to be confused with Forging Iron Man, because, cute as Scott is? So not my husband, LOL).

So, we're wimps. Fortunately, our family doctor (my GP) is next door to my office. I'll be making a call in the morning and I'll see what he can do for us.

I'm tired of smoking. Even still.

Sorry for the "Smoking is BAD" theme, y'all. Not meaning to go there, seriously. Just spewing. If you're still smoking, I have nothing to say about it. Honestly. Been there. Still there, in so many MANY ways. So... no worries, y'all.

Nerd Test

Well, I took the nerd test I found over in the sidebar at Scott's blog:



Heh. And why yes, yes I'm finding things to do to occupy myself rather than smoke. Why do you ask?

By the way, Scott, welcome to my blogroll*. May God have mercy upon your soul.

*(You'll show up as soon as Blogrolling stops dragging its feet...)

Edited to add: My husband took the test. Same score. Hee.

Thank You Note

Forty-eight hours and no one's dead yet. This is definitely an accomplishment.

On the other hand, I've been doing some reading on withdrawal from nicotine addiction, and now firmly believe that whoever thought of calling this first week off nicotine "Glory Week" seriously needs to be shot.

At any rate, as my mother always told me it was only polite to express one's thanks via written form:

Babs and AD, I'm going to look into Chantix. I know it's very easy to lapse (see my fine print), so I figure I need all the tools in my arsenal I can get. Actually, I'd heard of the new medication but could only remember it started with a "C", so the reminder was quite timely (and most appreciated)! Now I just have to get off my duff and call my GP, who said he'd prescribe it for me the moment I asked him to.

Bless that man.

Awesome Mom, thank you for your hopes that we make it through this without killing each other. We happen to share that hope, although there are doubts of the outcome at certain times. Currently Himself is voted most likely to be the victim of any capital crime, primarily because his method of dealing with stress is to be an outward ass. Mine is to be an inward bitch, which is much harder for him to catch.

Okay, I just read that to him and he says it's not hard for him to catch at all, so perhaps the stakes are somewhat more even than I'd thought.

Monkeygirl, I had to laugh at what you said. The office is currently trembling in fear. Well, they're trembling when they're not laughing behind my back as the withdrawal is making me incredibly ditzy. I have my moments of dopiness here in blogland, but at work I'm usually damn sharp. This week? Not so much.

Thanks for the waves of support -- I can definitely use 'em!

Maui, I've heard it can be like that (where a cigarette will smell good for a moment even decades after quitting). My father and mother quit over 30 years ago, and they still have that urge occasionally. I just need to get far enough along that I'm not seriously tempted to torch one up. Way to go for you on 25 years!

{{{{{Angel}}}}} Thank you! Just think, I won't have to sneak out of the restaurant when we finally have lunch to go fire one up :) And I don't know how hard the Lyrica withdrawal was. I remember reading about it in the backposts of your blog, and I think it's probably equally hard, just with different difficulties in different places. For me, it's both the nicotine addiction (which I'm helping with the gum) and the physical habit, like, "Gosh, I'm sitting at the computer... now where is that danged cancer stick anyway?"

Judy, I didn't know about your husband, and I'm so sorry to hear about it. Thank you for your support and for sharing what's going on in your life {{{{}}}}.

Felicity, thanks, and LOL on the "breaking up with your husband," part. It doesn't sound quite right, but I know exactly what you mean by it so it's all good.

Besides, it made me giggle and that's totally welcome at anytime, especially at this moment!

TZ, thanks for pulling for me! And here's hoping you and AD are right on this. I know my family history is bad, but who knows, I could have been dealt some incredible combination of genes that will make this all work out.

Even if not, I've still done some good. If not as much for me, but for my kids.

And fishwithoutbicycle, thank you for dropping by and the well-wishes!

All of you are very much appreciated. I'm going to find a pencil to gnaw now. One of my hugest fears is putting the weight I've lost back on.

On the plus side, I can always re-lose the weight. I hear it's a bit harder to recover from death.

Breaking Up

Oh so many layers upon layers of meaning in that title today. I swear I'm about to snap. But actually there's a very good reason for my "on the edge" feeling... good in both the "valid" and good as in the "positive life decision" aspects:

My husband and I quit smoking.

Last night we sat and sucked down all the cigarettes we had left in the house; we woke up this morning smoke-free. Oh happiness, joy and freedom!

Well, not quite the happiness yet.

I swear, it took me three pieces of Nicorette before I quit wanting to kill someone this morning. My husband, on the other hand, was subsisting on bubblegum and other munchies when I called to check on him around noon, and appeared to be doing fine. However, I did tell him that if he happened to be in a foul enough mood this evening I was going to pry open his jaws and forcibly feed him the Nicorette.

I got home around 6:40 p.m. He'd run out of munchies around 4:00.

There was no jaw-prying necessary because he snatched the packet out of my hand and practically crammed the entire thing, foil and all, into his mouth.

He's only slightly less homicidal right now.

I keep reaching for cigarettes that aren't there. Pa-THE-TIC!

What I'm not going to miss is the god-awful stench, the nicotine stains on my fingers, the funky "ate-up" feeling in my mouth, the breath, and the knowledge that each and every time I fire up, I'm definitely (not just possibly) knocking more time off my life.

My great-uncle died from emphysema. My grandfather died from early complications of lung cancer. My grandmother had COPD, and now so does my mother.

It's too late for me even now, in a sense. Looking at my genetics, I've likely already caused my lungs permanent damage. But at least by stopping now, hopefully it will stave off more damage.

That said, if someone handed me a cigarette right now? I'd look at it, feel disappointed in myself, and fire that sucker up.

Dammit.

Yep, breaking up is hard to do.

Blonde

My husband and I are watching Legally Blonde this afternoon, which led to the following conversation:

Me: Did you notice your wife is slowly going blonde?

Himself: Yeah, I did. And what's that all about anyway?

Me: Uhm... I'm having fun?

Himself: You do realize you lose 25 IQ points when you do that.

Me: Stealth intelligence, sweetheart. They'll never see me coming.

Grocery List

This conversation took place after several hours worth of disjointed "We really should get [insert item here]" notices by each of us, re: the grocery store.

Himself: We need eggs, too.

Me: Okay, when we stop by the grocery store on the way home from lunch tomorrow, you and I can both try to remember everything we need.

Himself: Somebody should write it all down.

Me: Yes, somebody should.

Himself: :looking pointedly in my direction:

Me: :looking pointedly at Himself: So, you're going to write it down, right?

Himself: Me?

Me: Yes, you.

Himself: Huh. I'm supposed to write it all down. Alrightie then.

(Somehow I suspect no one will write anything down, and we'll end up at the grocery store rattling our brains in the hopes that a relevant memory will somehow make its way down the chute...)

Perspectives

In case anyone's missed it, there is a great collaborative story about an automobile accident told from the perspectives of a law enforcement officer, a paramedic, and an ER nurse up on Matt G's blog, AD's blog, and Babs RN's blog.

Have a look. It was worth the wait.

What Would You Do?

Warning -- this is not my usual type of cheerful or humorously ranting post. Contains disturbing material. Read on at your own risk.

If one of your children sexually assaulted his two younger siblings, would you bring that child home pending his entrance into an alternative facility?

Well, down here in our fine area of the state, a mother was forced to do exactly that.

Dusty, the mother in the article, was told she could be arrested and charged with neglect if she failed to pick up her eldest son after his release from a juvenile facility. The judge said he didn't think she'd be charged, but he could make no promises and that CPS would become involved at a minimum if she failed to get her son.

Of course, they'll likely also become involved because she did pick him up.

Great.

So, let's see...

Don't pick up son who you personally believe to have raped his two younger brothers?

Potentially get charged with neglect.

Pick up son who you personally believe to have raped his two younger brothers?

Potentially get charged with failure to protect on behalf of the younger children.

Oh, and any attempts to confine the eldest child in his room pending his entrance into the alternate living facility could result in "false imprisonment" charges.

Leaving the younger kids with family members while their elder brother was in the home could potentially be construed as abandoment. Besides, these children did nothing wrong. Why should they have their lives uprooted for a brother who raped them?

Why is there nothing in place to keep an underage sexual offender out of the very home where he committed his crimes?

The only possible recourse I see for this mother is for her to keep her eldest son under constant surveillance, which would require multiple adults in the house, each taking a shift watching the boy so he wouldn't have an opportunity to repeat his crime. And even assuming she has those resources, that still leaves open the door for potentially exposing her younger children to a known danger.

Lest anyone think I'm overstating matters regarding this case, please remember I used to work in the system. Both law firms I worked for handled child dependency (CPS) cases. I will absolutely grant you that there are cases where the children are better off outside the family home, and in those instances relative or foster care is the only option.

But I have sat on the phone with case workers and have them lie to me regarding the firms' clients' activities. Why do I know the case workers were lying rather than the clients? Because these same caseworkers lied about not receiving the messages I left for them (which I logged in the case file each and every time).

The attorneys I have worked for have come back from court having gone through the same thing, and have watched the case workers backpedal when the call logs were brought out. I have had investigators for the state refuse to make proper requests through the clients' attorneys, continuing to badger the clients at home and at their place of employment.

That said, I have also witnessed parents regaining custody of their children after successfully defeating the problems they were facing that legitimately resulted in their children's removal. I have also seen children go from miserable situations into stable situations where they have thrived... only to be thrown back into the same unstable situation that resulted in their removal in the first place.

Sigh.

So if I sound sickened, disgusted, and depressed over these situations and this one in particular, it's because I am. CPS can do good, and in some cases does. In too many cases, though, it's a flat-out failure of the system.

As I've heard it said in so many places of late: I love my country, but I fear my government.

And CPS.

Vertigo Update

Remember the lovely case of vertigo I got back when I was driving up through Georgia? Well, it hit me again today.

Yuck.

Actually, looking back, it had come in yesterday and also had made its unwelcome appearance a couple of weeks ago as well. The latter event was back at Orientation for my elder son's third grade year. I hadn't had much sleep the night before, so I thought my lagginess was just due to being overtired, but when we turned around quickly in a hallway my vision narrowed down to a pinpoint until I got my bearings back. If I'd had more time to think I would have been a bit freaked out by it, but as I was trying to get through all the school hoopla and move myself toward work in a reasonable amount of time, I just shook it off and chalked it up to exhaustion. I think I survived Orientation okay, and I managed to make it through the day at work.

Yesterday I was also feeling crummy, but I blamed it on my being somewhat under the weather due to this stupid cold I can't shake. My head kept feeling weirder and weirder though... congested, but different from my standard sinus-y congestion.

I popped a Drixoral and went to bed after attending Open House at the elder's school.

Today, though... ugh. I just felt "off," yanno? And then finally it hit me... this was the same weird dizziness I felt when I was having the twenty-two day period from hell. I put that together with how I felt when I was trying to keep my bearings driving on tiny back roads in Georgia (I again apologize to that entire state for my horrendous driving that day)... and it clicked. It probably would have clicked sooner if I'd had to deal with heights or something, but I avoid those like the plague anymore and am greatly assisted in that endeavor by the fact that I live in a very flat state.

Anyway, the verdict? Same. Damned. Thing. Which my GP diagnosed as an inner ear thingie after the first event. That would explain the odd congested feeling.

Whew. I'm weirdly relieved, because that whole dizziness issue and panicking over embankments episode really freaked me out. Now I know it's definitely all in my head, but at least it's not a psychological issue. It's strictly physiological (okay, the anxiety is psychological, but at least there was an underlying cause for this particular event). I just have to get in a phone call to my GP and find out the name of the medication he recommended last time I was in (it's OTC... starts with an M, I think?) and I'll be set.

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On another note, while researching vertigo awhile back (I've come to the realization I've been having this off and on since late last fall) I found the website of an ENT which linked to his personal, primarily non-med blog, Balls and Walnuts.

Dude's a hoot, and apparently it's a very popular blog. Check it out!

AaaaCHOO!!

Can anyone tell me just why my cats insist on congregating in my bedroom at night when they have the run of the entire house?

Usually the wee beasties aren't permitted in the master bedroom. However, someone who shall not be named (koff... the spousal unit... koff) left the bedroom door open when he came to bed last night.

I woke up around 3:00 a.m. to see Miss Emily batting my toothbrush around in the sink, Daniel staring intently into the bathroom, and Patrick purring on my chest.

Remember those cat allergies I have? Yep. So of course Patrick picked the allergy-afflicted one as his bed.

I practically boiled my toothbrush this morning. I know exactly where Emmy's paws have been, and it ain't pretty.

Anyway, I managed to herd the cats out and was almost asleep again when my husband, for reasons known only to himself, decided to get up.

He went out of the bedroom and shut the door. I went back to sleep.

I woke up at 5:00 a.m. to three cats piled on top of me, and our bedroom door once again open.

Someone who isn't me may be sleeping on the couch tonight.

With all three cats.

Meet Amanda, TechnoGeek Extraordinaire

Well, regarding the title, not really... but I faked it well.

Our normal in-house IT guy is on vacation this week. Of course, this week was also when the digital recorders and accompanying software arrived.

Guess who got to do the install? Yep. Ms. IT-Degree-Dropout-who-Calls-Computer-Related-Parts-"Doohickies"-and-"Whatchamajiggers".

First, the DSS reader program didn't want to install fully. Then when I installed the recorders at the USB ports, the USB ports didn't want to recognize that they were even there.

Of course, once the computers saw the recorders were, yes, indeed there, did they want to recognize there was a test recording (made by yours truly) on them?

No, they did not.

However, many restarts later (many, many, MANY... numbering well into the double-digits), the system worked.

Now I just have to get the program and recorder installed in our remote office. THAT should be fun.

I think I might possibly call in our contracted emergency back-up IT guys on that one.

Addendum to Previous Post

Eventually, the elder offspring was able to focus enough to determine that Josh had 9 marbles total.

And I did not burst out and say, "Kid, he has 3 green and 6 red! Three plus six equals nine! Come ON!!!!" even though my brain was shrieking it. Because I know what it's like to have words and numbers flung together seemingly willy-nilly and have no clue what to do with the ungodly spawn thereof. For me, it created a disconnect between reading (fun) and math (dull) and probably screwed with left- and right-brain functions as well.

It's like learning to play the piano. First you learn how to use the right hand, then the left, then you put them both together. Musically, it was usually no biggie (although don't fling any of J. S. Bach's Inventions at me -- I am halfway convinced he was possessed when he put those nasty little compositions together), but for math it was quite another story.

I had a terrible time with math starting when I was around my elder son's age (8), and it continued until sometime between my sophomore and senior years in high school when it finally just clicked, that math is just another language. Learn the vocabulary, grammar, and mechanics, and yes, you too, can survive math class!

I don't know what sparked this transition for me. It could have been the consistent use of language in geometry in tenth grade that did it. It could have been the poor idiot student teacher in eleventh grade Algebra II, who couldn't teach let alone control a classroom to save her life who spurred me on out of a desire for GPA preservation. Or it could have been both of those plus my most awesome trigonometry/ analytical geometry teacher my senior year who finally made it gel.

Regardless, I survived, and survived to make A's in Calculus I and II on the college level as well.

The boy can do it. It just depends on the "click".

And on him managing to keep from flinging himself about in frustration long enough to pay attention. Oish.

(Note: He did apologize for being rude, lest anyone think I raised a total brat.)

Ah, Normalcy

I've finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, so life can get back to normal around here and on my blog. All I'll say is that it didn't end up being burned. Heh.

Yes, all you non-HP-fans can now breathe a sigh of relief (until the release-night recap).

Everything's pretty standard this evening. Shorter kidlet's in bed, and taller kidlet's grumping over his homework. So am I, for that matter. I remember word problems back when I was in school and how they boggled my mind. Apparently, it's genetic... the mind-boggling-ness of word problems, that is.

I don't know what it is about word problems. In early elementary we got used to 1 + 1 = 2, and even worked our way up to 345 + 987 = 1,332. But toss those numbers into a paragraph? Oy gevalt.

My elder son is painfully bright. I hear rumors that I, too, was bright, before I reproduced and my brains leaked out with the afterbirth. But one problem with bright kids is that they can be so freaking accustomed to getting everything in a snap, that when they encounter a hurdle? Zero coping skills. And I mean NONE.

I remember sitting with my father at the kitchen counter as he'd try and try to help me understand the problems. I'd grit my teeth and squinch my face up, "But I don't get it!!!!" He'd keep on explaining it to me patiently.

It's a wonder the poor man isn't bald.

Tonight? It's my turn to rip my hair out. Homework went something like this:

"Okay honey, if Bob gives Josh 6 red marbles and 3 green marbles, how many marbles does Josh have?"

Huffy breath, exasperated sigh, "I don't kkknnnnoooowwwww!!!!!!!"

"Honey, let's look at the problem. Okay, what is the main idea of what this is saying?"

Leg flail, wiggle, roll eyes back in head, tooth grindage (that last one was me), "I don't knnnoooowwwww!!!!!"

"Okay, stop. Look at the paper. Look at it. Now. Read. The. Problem. To. Me."

"Uh!!!" After another leg flail and mumble, finally he grits out the sentence.

"So, what do you need to find out?"

"Grimblemurffle."

"I'm sorry, I couldn't understand you."

"How many marbles does Josh have!!!!"

"Son you will use your polite voice with me or I will let you finish this by yourself." Enter the Mom Look of Impending Doom. "Are we clear?"

"Yes."

"Good. And you're right. The problem asks how many marbles Josh has. Now, how would you figure that out?"

Huff, puff, "I don't knowwwwww!!!!!"

*headdesk*

This Comment NOT Spoiler-Free

This is a spoiler warning. Not here on the main page, but I warned about possible spoilage in the comments (see below). First comments contain possible spoilers. DO NOT CLICK on comments if you don't want to be spoiled!

HP 7 Page 606

Best Moment EVER.

That's all I'm saying. Stupid teary eyes.