And so we finally returned from the pediatric cardiologist…

There’s a reason she plays doctor better than most.

Today has been…crazy. The highs. The lows. A truly wild ride. Something of a rollercoaster. Yeah. That’s my day and it’s only three in the afternoon.

See, this morning started with Super Doubles. For a couponer, it’s my version of the Olympics. I have been busily and strategically planning for this since the rumors began a week ago. In the past year and a half, I’ve discovered it’s more of a marathon than a sprint. I woke at five and laced up my sneakers. Just kidding. I wore flip flops. And yesterday’s outfit. Don’t judge. I showered after the grocery store. I had to take Kenna with me. Luckily, she woke on her own. So I gave her the first of her three daily doses of Viagra for her heart condition, dressed her, passed her a granola bar and we were on our way.

As sometimes happens, the store was understaffed and I returned from my wildly successful shopping trip a lot later than expected due to understaffing at the checkout. I put away as much as I could, then rushed to shower. It had been a morning of rushing…until 9:45am when we arrived at the pediatric cardiologist. Then it was all about waiting. Really, it almost felt good to wait, to sit, to breathe, to slow down.

Kenna and I sat at the teeny tiny toddler table to color. Sadly, I wasn’t uncomfortable. After all, at five feet tall, I’m fun sized. Then we were ushered back to be weighed and measured. Kenna is now a whopping 37.5 inches tall and weighs roughly 27lbs. She’s huge…compared to where she started. She now only weighs 5lbs less than her two year old nephew. We’ll call it progress.

Oh, and there was even more progress. She held it together for the arm hug. You may know it as a blood pressure check. Kenna didn’t even whimper when they checked her O2 saturation forever…first on her forefinger, then her thumb, and finally found a new sat monitor to get an accurate reading. She lost it a little over the EKG. Who can blame her? Shoot, she even managed to survive the Echo with barely a whimper. This was HUGE. Last time I had to sit on the table with her and pin her down.

We always see the doctor twice, before and after the Echo. This time was no different. Ah, but the wait was. In fact, he was so far behind, we had to get moved back into another exam room until he could come speak with us. This part never scares me, never bothers me. This doctor and his staff are like family. The ultrasound tech and the doctor have been taking care of Kenna since she was in the NICU. We go way back. Four years of regular visits. Four years of watching her grow.

Up until now, it has always surprised me the way the doctor would marvel over her progress, her growth, her energy and abilities. Now, after our discussion, I have a better understanding of why. He came back in and wore the same serious face he always did after seeing the images and calculating the results.

doctor: Well, the pressure in her heart is essentially the same, roughly 60. We’d like to see the ratio to the other side at 50%, but it’s more like 2/3.

So I started asking him some of the questions that had been nagging at me.

me: Okay, well Kenna recently had an ABR, and because I’m a terrible mother, I forgot to give her the heart meds before the procedure and the anesthesiologist commented that studies had shown it didn’t work anyway. (I took a breath.) Should we consider trying some other medication? You had mentioned before there were other options.

The moment he took a breath before talking, I knew it wasn’t that simple.

Apparently, the other meds are intravenous and would require a pump. You can imagine how well Kenna would receive this. Most of all, before we could even consider using them, they’d need to do a heart catheterization, which means putting her under and running the cath up her leg. They don’t rush into these procedures, as you might imagine. So we have to wait to see if her heart gets worse before we cross that bridge. Even more, the heart cath will tell us if her heart would respond to the intravenous meds. If not, there’s nothing they can do.

me: So, Sam has been wondering if this is the kind of condition where she may need a heart transplant.

This breath may have been deeper than the last.

doctor: Well, she’d need a heart and lungs transplant. The survival rate is terrible.

I’m pretty sure a wrecking ball nailed me in the chest then. This was where I began struggling to process everything.

me: Lungs? But she only sees her pulmonologist once a year now. I thought they were all better.

Suffice to say, her O2 sats are awesome. Her lungs are great. It’s the arteries in her lungs causing the high pressures in her heart. This is why if her heart function decreases, a new heart won’t fix the problem. It all started with the lungs.

So what do we do? For now…nothing. We’re supposed to continue on, business as usual. Only now I understand why he watches her so closely. While I’ve always been a little protective where Kenna is concerned, I’ll now be watching her more closely too.

It’s hard. Already I find myself facing the same struggles as all the other mothers of medically fragile children. Life is always about finding the balance, but this balance is different. While the biggest part of parenting is always about keeping little ones safe, now it’s more so. My previous concerns are validated and I don’t feel good about it. I’ve always worried over her salt intake, her hydration, her sleep, getting overexcited or overexerting herself…now even more reason for my fears. Sure, it would be easy to let her have her way, to spoil the hell out of her, but it would be a huge disservice to everyone, Kenna included. Despite all the worries, we need to keep living, keep behaving like everything is normal. Sadly, this is our normal.

Ever since Kenna was born, I’ve lived in the present, never planning too far into the future. It seemed too precarious. After all, even her NICU release was delayed three times. While other families are already thinking about what their toddler may be when he or she grows up, we just want to see her grow up.

There are no predictions. The doctor can’t even guess. He told us her pressures may go down. They may get worse. Her heart may function fine despite them. This may just be her life. Or not. For the planner in me, the goal oriented highly driven woman I am, this is agonizing. We’ve always joked Kenna was here to teach me to slow down, to help me work on patience. Obviously, I’m still learning.

Sam: What does this mean for her quality of life? Of does this shorten her life altogether?

I understand his fears. It’s all the little things. While we live our life as a rollercoaster, there’s a distinct possibility Kenna may never be able to ride a real one. Our germaphobia has become a way of life. The fear that grips me when she sleeps through the night in her own bed may never go away.

doctor: Let her be a little wild child as long as she can handle.

This after Kenna has been running laps in the office and hopping from one colored square on the floor to the next. So I’ll resist my urge to stick her in a giant bubble to keep her safe. I’ll talk Sam through it and help him understand. When that doesn’t work, I’ll probably resort to cursing. Most of all, I’ll love Kenna through it, the only way I know to balance out the fear. We’ll hug her, kiss her, and cuddle her, grateful for every minute while hoping for many more.

The countdown begins…

On November 2nd, 1997, I had finished watching a football game at home. Thirty weeks pregnant, I realized not only was I exhausted, but I hadn’t felt the baby move in some time. It was getting late on a Sunday night and though I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, the doctor insisted I go to the hospital.

Dr. Duchin: With anyone else, I’d see them in the morning. You, I’ll meet you at the hospital.

So I left the now ex-husband at home to care for the Rachel, then three and a half, and drove myself to the hospital. Soon enough, we discovered I was in premature labor, the baby of indeterminate gender was in distress, and I’d be taking an ambulance and a ferry to Vermont. At  some ridiculous time like 3:42am, I had an emergency c-section. I was beyond exhausted. I’d had a boy, which shocked me. And it wasn’t until the shift change and a new nurse arrived around 9am that I learned he’d survived.

Born at a whopping 2lbs 10oz, Keenan became the little boy I never knew I always wanted. Over time, I shortened the nickname until he became simply: the boy. We still call him that.

Really, I’d always believed I was meant to be a girl mom. I’m not really into sports. I like bows and nail polish. I love pastels and purple. What the heck would I do with a little boy? (Rumor had it, they liked none of these things.)

Two weeks into his hospital stay, Keenan ended up with some mystery ailment that caused him to stop breathing twenty-eight times in one day. The doctors warned that though they had taken blood cultures, they might not be able to determine what was wrong with him before it was too late. I cried, of course, then I dried my tears and decided I wasn’t losing another baby. He’d stop breathing and I’d say his name and stir him to life again. The doctors and nurses were amazed. Obviously, he lived.

Not only did he live, but he grew and thrived. He taught me how to be a boy mom. It was easy since he was so laid back. Nothing stressful about being around him. While Rachel is the life of the party, the center of attention, Keenan is quiet, reserved. So much so, I worried he’d disappear as the middle child, suffer some secret jealousy. That never happened. Instead, he and Kenna have this special affection that warms me. Once very small, he’s now huge, towering over me.  Huge may be misleading. I’ve tried to fatten the boy up, but he may still have to go to fat camp before starting the Marines on September 12th.

I’m not sure if it’s age or reality setting in, but I’ve become very sentimental. Just the other day, tears pricked my eyes as I watched him graduate from high school. It was quite the feat. The boy suffers from being smart and lazy. It’s a horrible debilitating combination that often leads to low grades and free time spent hiding in his room while playing video games. I don’t buy them. He has a father and now a job for that. PS. I’d like to thank his girlfriend, Kristen, without whom he might have no reason to leave his room. We love you, girl!

Don’t get me wrong, Keenan is one of a kind. He’s the best combination of boy I could ever imagine. I tried to keep him on the right path. I refused to let him have toy guns because I always believed there was nothing to imagine with them, but death. Keenan showed me. He’s joining the military so he can play with all the guns. Lesson learned.

Really, I should’ve seen it coming. The boy has always been incredibly loving, caring, and as he aged, super protective. He still hugs me and tells me he loves me…almost as much as he loves our kitties and his little sister. I’ll take it. At the age of six, Keenan pulled me aside and we had this conversation.

Keenan: Mom, do you think I’ll be a good husband some day?

Honestly, how could he not? Clearly this was something that mattered to him. Ah, but I worried in the tween years when Rachel teased him about juggling girlfriends. Then high school. And Kristen. I love watching them together. I love the balance they have, the way they are so different, but the same. I love the way he loves her. She’s pretty special, too, the way she shares him with Kenna.

So you really can’t blame me for worrying about his departure, wondering when we’ll see him again, and struggling to make sure he’s prepared all while squeezing as many memories in as possible. We’ve had our last family vacation, celebrated his last prom, stockpiled everything he may need for…years. I’ve been snapping pictures left and right.

The boy has tolerated every moment of it, maybe even embraced it some. At the moment, I feel pretty good about things. I’m so proud of the man Keenan is becoming. It’s not just about who he is when I’m watching, it’s about how he acts when I’m not. Sure, he swears like a sailor when he thinks I’m not listening. I can live with that. Yes, he kisses his mother with that mouth. Ah, but he has a kind heart and a gentle way with everything smaller than him.

We used to call him the animal whisperer. It wasn’t uncommon to come home and discover some rogue lizard had found its way into the house and onto Keenan’s lap while he watched television. The kitties LOVE him. Poor Pepper is going to be broken hearted when he leaves. We’ll comfort each other, if she lets me. Oh, and Kenna. Most of all, I hope Kristen doesn’t become a stranger. I’d love it if she were more like the rest of my girl. I about have to peel off Kenna and Rachel.

The boy filled a hole in my life. His departure will leave a hole in my heart. First with the thirteen weeks without a visit. Thirteen. Whole. Weeks. Then, he could be anywhere. What will happen to us? He’s not one for phone calls. They are all business, clear, concise, and to the point. The same for his text messages.

Hopefully our relationship will evolve. I’m trusting in this, in the strength of our bond which began long before he was born. I’m believing the sound of my voice will still stir in him the strength he needs to survive. And I’m holding fast to the family ties which are about more than blood and biology.

Go out into the world, boy. We’ll be here, loving you, ready and waiting, filled with pride in your accomplishments. You’ve served our family for years. We’ll gladly share you with the rest of the country. Never forget where you came from, or that you always have a home. May your career path be everything you’ve searched for. May you find great fulfillment and never have to jump out of a helicopter. (Seriously, who does that?!) Go make the world a better place with your brand of magic. Thank you for being you. You changed me in all the very best ways…except my stomach. You owe me a tummy tuck. Kidding. Mostly. Ah but most of all…a quote from one of your favorite books:

I’ll like you forever. I’ll love you for always. As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.

Keenan, I hope you know the best part of my life has been raising you (and your sisters). I’m so honored to have been your mom. The worst part of my life is learning to let you go. Be patient with me. I’ve spent years trying to keep you alive, safe, healthy, happy, and secure. This is hard for me. I watch you and know you’re doing the right thing. Go be awesome.

We survived.

Last day of school picture! My how she has grown.

Yesterday was the last day of school. It may be the last ever for Keenan, who will be graduating on Monday. For Kenna, she has barely begun.

Still, yesterday was different, which wasn’t easy on my incredibly structured preschooler. Kenna thrives on routine. She suffers greatly when it is altered for any reason. Even starting school last fall rocked her little world.

See, in the past, she has managed to survive anything as long as I was there with her. Kenna made it through the NICU with my touch and the sound of my voice pushing her through. This isn’t simply my belief, it’s more of a fact. She thrived when we were together. The numbers on the machines proved it.

So imagine how stressful it was for both of us when we had to be separated three whole school days a week. On the one hand, I knew it was essential to her growth, just as I understood while she was in the NICU for 183 days, she was where she needed to be. No lies…both situations were hard to accept. Ah, but I pasted a smile on my face and never let her see me cry. Either place.

I can absolutely count on one hand the number of times I dropped Kenna off and she didn’t cry. There are literally four times I can recall. Luckily, today was one of them. She ever so stoically stood there and stared at me as I slowly backed out of the room after reminding her what an amazing day she’d be having.

After forty long weeks, I breathed a sigh of relief last night while doing laundry. (Yes, I lead a wildly glamorous life.) I’d wondered what I’d write about this school year. I agonized over how to adequately share it, this huge milestone. The first thought that came to mind…we survived. We did. Both of us, apart yet together in this change, this incredible adjustment.

It was good for us. We can be independently codependent.

You see…Kenna was my solution for empty nest syndrome. If not for her, we’d be alone come fall. Just me, Sam, and a couple of cats. (Shoot, without her, we probably wouldn’t have them either.) If not for Kenna, I’d sleep more, work uninterrupted, forget about cooking meals, travel frequently, and exercise daily. Maybe.

If not for Kenna, I’d have no why. She became my reason for everything. Everything I’ve become in the last four years is because of her. She’s the reason I learned to make a career of writing and promoting. She’s the reason I’m still smiling and silly, instead of old and stodgy. She keeps me young. Though she only stayed inside me for twenty-four short weeks, Kenna is still part of me.

Our time apart was a period of growth for both of us. While I started the year dreading it on more levels than you can imagine, I’ve since grown to appreciate the time to work on my projects, meet friends for lunch, get a haircut without someone freaking out. (Yeah, Kenna’s not a fan of salons.) Most of all, because I miss her, I enjoy our time together more.

In turn, Kenna has come to enjoy learning from others, participating in experiences she wouldn’t have with me. I probably wouldn’t let her roll around in wood chips on the playground or smear glue all over her neck, or sprinkle glitter in her hair. These are the benefits of going to school. She gets to make new friends and adjust to life on her own, away from me. She doesn’t have me as a buffer, which is sometimes a good thing even though I imagined the worse.

At least she’s sitting on the potty!

And now we begin the long and arduous task of potty training. You have no idea how long it’s taking me to accomplish anything because getting her out of diapers is everything. It seems throughout her short life, nothing has come easily to her, been simple, or a natural transition. No, Kenna faces life with her heels dug in. She wasn’t supposed to make it out of me alive after two weeks with no amniotic fluid. She wasn’t supposed to survive because given what the doctors had experienced, it wasn’t possible.

So Kenna has learned to breathe, and graduated from an oscillator, a ventilator, CPAP, high flow O2, low flow O2, and now no O2 at all. She learned to eat at the age of two and a half in only three short days. She graduated from IV fluids, to an NG tube, a g-tube and overcame an oral aversion to finally eating by mouth and being able to brush her teeth. Seriously, she can do this. She can graduate from diapers and learn to go on the big girl potty. We can do this. I see pictures of her and am constantly reminded of how far she has come. It’s hope.

Days like this when we’ve already blown through panties and pull-ups and had numerous fails, I have to remember all the positive. (Like I’m positive my husband better bring home some wine and chocolate when he’s done work.) Mostly, I’m positive that a few years from now, this will be a distant memory, another struggle we overcame.

Have an awesome day.

Long time, no talk.

At the NICU picnic.

Yes, it has been a while. I’m sorry. I’m doing the best I can, really. I’ve wanted to write. I’ve started roughly five different posts over the past few months and simply haven’t published them. None of them sounded like me, or the version of me I felt comfortable sharing.

There was the whiny one where I lamented how tired I am. Seriously, you’ve all heard this before. No need to beat a dead horse. I don’t get as much sleep as I’d like, but I get enough to survive. See? Still kicking.

There was the angry one where I grumbled about the help I’m not getting. Of course, I knew what I was getting into when I married Sam. I knew he’d always mean well, be incredibly needy, think he does more than he actually does, and would be wonderfully, wildly inconsistent. I’m still here. So is he.

There was one where I just gushed joyously and oozed happiness. It might have been okay, but then, as often happens, life nailed me and I was back to reality where I’m more content and comfortable than sappy.

She’s worn out too. :)

So here I am. The real me. The one who is gloriously grounded in reality. It’s a good thing because if nothing else, my life is real.

As I write, Kenna is napping. (Hallelujah!) Sam is running errands. Keenan left for work. And I’m done answering questions for the moment. Maybe.

This is the last week of school. Kenna survived. Barely. She still cries every day when I drop her off and breaks my heart. We both recover quickly and I work my tail off in her absence while she learns and plays and grows. Those three days a week have been better than I imagined and more needed than I could have guessed. Still, I’ll treasure our summer, aside from the potty training, and look forward to five days a week of heartbreak in the fall.

There have been so many changes since January, I can scarecely remember what life was like before. January was when I started Love Kissed Book Bargains, which has grown exponentially in every way imaginable. By February, I had branched out and started offering promotions. Just one at first, then two, and now I’m up to four or more promotions a month. Finally, by helping others achieve their goals, I’m achieving mine. (Or I’m much closer than I was before.) I’m still writing, but not as much. Maybe I can change this over the summer. Fingers crossed.

Physical therapy.

Kenna has four therapy sessions outside of school three days a week. So we make the long hike uptown. Mondays half a day is spent between the drive, physical therapy, and occupational therapy. It’s exhausting for both of us, but so worthwhile. You can’t imagine the changes I’ve seen in her since she started. I’m so stinking proud of her. She’s talking more. She’s getting stronger, moving better, and developing her fine motor skills.

As the school year ends, she can count to twenty, count backwards from ten, recognize and label those numbers, shapes, and colors. She can even spell her name. It’s really cute. We’ll chalk all of this up to progress.

Her teacher is confident in her abilities and though we still have her in a special needs classroom for her last year of preschool, she’ll be mainstreamed part of the day. We’re going to push her in the areas of greatest need: socialization. With her sensory issues, kids can easily overwhelm her. Kenna sometimes covers her ears and announces, “Ow! Loud!” Other times, I watch her shrink in her shell like a turtle, simply shutdown because it’s too much. At the same time, she has come so far.

It’s the little things, like now hugging her nephew. It’s the big things, like assembling three word phrases. It’s everything, like the daily joy of watching her develop and grow.

So, forgive me if I don’t post often. I’m so very busy living. We’re beyond survival mode and are well on our way to thriving. There are still occasional road blocks, and stumbling blocks, even a few wooden blocks, but mostly we face our challenges as we always have, loving each other through it. I’ll try to be better with sharing it. No doubt I’ll be reaching out during the next leg of our journey: potty training. (Hold me.) We’ll be starting on Friday. There will be pull ups, and potty chairs, and wine. (Hey, I’m human.)

Happy summer! Go be awesome.

 

 

It’s a constant fight…

So…I really wanted to write a happy post today, but I’m a little frustrated. Instead, I’m going to vent.

There’s a reason so many families with special needs children end up divorced or in therapy or both. Marriage is hard enough, but add in a child who needs extra attention and loads of medical and therapeutic intervention and the challenge multiplies. It’s not just the obvious stuff.

Sure, some of it is. The husband feels financial pressures from being the bread winner because sometimes the mother can’t work outside the home. Kenna came home from the hospital on oxygen, a heart monitor, and a feeding pump. She wasn’t going to any day care. She didn’t need a babysitter or a nanny. She needed a nurse.

Luckily, I was able to supplement our income as an author. Then I saved money by learning to market my books, and other authors started hiring me to help them too. It worked enough. Over time, with the fluctuations in the market, my income has increased and decreased, but it’s getting better again. I’ve found my groove. I think. I hope.

Even now, I couldn’t go back to work if I wanted to. There’s no way I could make enough for it to be worthwhile, for one. And what employer would offer me the flexibility I need, for the other. This is one of the many things Sam doesn’t consider. Three days a week she has school and I have to drop her off at 7:15am and pick her up at 2:30pm. There’s no busing for her. She couldn’t handle it with her sensory issues. I carry her into the building every day. She gets freaked out and refuses to walk. Then there are all the doctor appointments. Sooooo manyyyyy appointmentssss! Now we’re adding in therapy with OT and PT on Mondays and we’re not sure which other days, plural, for speech. Suffice to say, on Mondays, I’ll leave the house at 9:30 and probably not return until close to 12:30 or 1pm. There’s half a day right there.

Smiling, happy Kenna. <3

Ah, but aside from the money arguments and your basic who does more and works harder argument, for which he doesn’t have a leg to stand on because if he goes to work and comes home and I do everything else…it’s me, there’s also the rearing of the child. See, raising a special needs child is different. Discipline is different. Expectations must be adjusted. One of us isn’t so good with that and teeters between frustration and over-indulgence. *raises hand* Not it. Yeah, I spend a lot of time trying to teach him how to parent. It’s a good thing I get roughly four hours sleep a night.

Most of all…there’s that. Kenna’s meds have stopped working. We had a glorious three month run. Sam, whose sleep is not impacted at all from her being up from 3:30am on, argues with me on a daily basis. I’m tired of hearing about it.

Sam: You need to go back to the sleep doctor.

me: We already have an appointment.

Sam: Well, it’s probably not even the right diagnosis.

me: We had a sleep study. It’s the right diagnosis.

Sam: The meds aren’t working.

me: Obviously. We’re going to have to increase her dose.

Sam: No. They need to give her something different.

My blood is boiling by now. I go to all the appointments. I meet with all the therapists and doctors. That he doesn’t understand isn’t because I don’t share with him, but because he mostly doesn’t want to be bothered with things he believes I’m handling. So…let me handle it. I don’t need to be micromanaged. It irks me. And I say this because I’m normally too polite to say it pisses me the fuck off. Only now, with little sleep…I’m starting to slip. My normally refined and controlled demeanor is cracking and my edit button is on the fritz. Because this is how the rest of the conversation went down the first night of the argument.

me: Do you have any idea how many meds there are to treat her?

Sam: No, but they need to try something else.

me: Two. There are two meds.

Sam: There has to be something more. They can just give her something more.

me: We’ll be changing the dosage.

At this point he began talking over me and continually repeating himself while I was trying to get Kenna to sleep. It just kinda slipped out…and yet I meant it completely.

me: Shut the fuck up, Sam.

See, I added a curse word, his name, and the phrase I never use and raised my kids to believe was horribly mean. I’m going to hell. Oh, but he stopped talking. I think it was the shock. I think he realized how strongly I felt about the situation. And the shock and silence lasted for all of one night. Because the next few nights we’ve had the same argument and I don’t even respond because I’m not only tired of listening to him spew the same non-sensical, uninformed crap on a nightly basis, I’m tired of trying to counter it with reason, logic, and information. What do I know? Um, pretty much everything when it comes to caring for Kenna in every way, shape, and form. I’m in the trenches.

Luckily, I think the fight finally came to a head this morning before he left for work. He started the same argument again when I mentioned I’d been up since 3:30am. It’s not all bad. You have no idea how much I can accomplish once she falls back to sleep around 5:30am. I managed to get in a workout (three days in a row), and do some of my social media sharing. I invoiced authors. I picked graphics for projects. And now, I’m writing a blog post. I’m an animal.

Sam: She needs a different medicine.

me: There’s only one other medicine.

Sam: Well, she needs to be on that then. They need to try something else.

me: Stop. Enough. You don’t know what you’re talking about.

Sam: Will you just listen to me?

me: Sure. Then will you listen to me?

Sam: Fine. So…they need to try different meds. Maybe Lunesta, or Ambien, or Clonidine.

At this point he’s naming off all the meds he’s ever been on to treat his undiagnosed sleep disorder. Very helpful.

me: Are you done?

Sam: Yes.

me: Good. She can’t be on Clonidine. It’s meant to lower blood pressure and she has a heart condition. They need to be careful of drug interactions. The other two are meant for adults. They don’t give kids all the same meds as adults.

Sam: They can try a small amount. Just cut a bit off a pill and try it.

me: Really? *sighs loudly* The FDA has to approve meds for use.

We went through this with Kenna in the NICU. The doctors had to get FDA approval before they could give Kenna some medicine that escapes me. And I remember thinking how strange it was that the FDA would have to decide if my baby could have what she needed to live. Scary stuff. Yet at the same time, necessary. I get it.

Thus, I’m frustrated. He doesn’t understand the system. It feels like he doesn’t understand Kenna. And often, I wonder if he’s not questioning my ability to handle the situation. Still, I’m not backing down. I’ve got this. Sleep doctor on April 15th. We’ll get Kenna’s sleep figured out. Maybe I’ll get back to holding my tongue. It could happen. As for Sam, he’s gonna have to figure it out. I can’t do it for him. I’m being as patient as my sleep deprived, overwhelmed self can be.

So what’s my blessing? It has and always will be Kenna. She’s worth the sleeplessness, the stress, the fights, the appointments which force me to wear something other than yoga pants, and all the rest. Kenna.

Have you ever noticed how it’s everything at once?

So this. And pretty much more of this.

Once again I have failed to maintain frequent posting habits. I’m waving my white flag because I’m seriously surrendering to my life.

It has been totes cray cray on all fronts. Whoa. People don’t even say that anymore. This is how out of touch I am. Forgive me? See, I have big real stuff going on.

The boy moved back in and while I love having him, it’s a change. He comes and goes. He forgets to flush. He eats and I shop more. He hasn’t embraced our laundry schedule so…there’s more of that too. Still, he gives me hugs and snuggles with me and Kenna on the couch during the day while Sam works. His little sister lights up at the sight of him. It all balances out.

Then there’s the ongoing saga of our switch to Verizon. If you’re considering it…don’t. I mean it. Walk away now. Hell, run! Remember the adage about if something seeming to be too good to be true, it usually is. That. All of that and then some.

We started our switch on January 31st because Sam needed to add a work line and we were supposed to get this discount because his company is a preferred partner or some jazz and it would be cheaper. Check your calendars, people. The drama from this has lasted longer than some of my relationships. There’s a fun fact for you. We started it at 5:45 on a Sunday evening, thinking we’d have plenty of time since the store closed at 7pm and we’d have time for family dinner at a restaurant. It went badly…like we didn’t leave the store for the final time until 9:15pm. I even left and took Kenna to eat around the corner after this little exchange with the woman working with us.

me: Are we close to being done? It’s 7:30 and I need to feed her before bed.

woman: What time did you get here?

(Please note, I didn’t get an actual response to the question.)

Sam: Quarter of.

woman: Oh, you’ve only been here forty-five minutes. That’s not bad.

me: Quarter of six. We’ve been here an hour and forty-five minutes.

woman: Oh.

Then I picked up Kenna and left. Sam was supposed to meet us. He did. Long enough to order a drink and realize the new phones weren’t working. Then he left. We ate. And when we caught up with him again and finally left, 9:15. No working phones.

I could give you the long version of what has since transpired, but ain’t nobody got time for that.  So, the condensed version involves me making roughly a dozen phone calls to various numbers provided online and in their paperwork over the next six weeks with breaks while I waited for them to process various items and get back in touch. Their entire phone system is designed to hang up on you if you don’t use one of their options. If you do use their options, chances of speaking to an actual person is about the same as winning a Powerball Lottery Jackpot. In fact, when you do get a human, it feels much like winning, until you realize you actually know more about the trade-in/switch process than the person employed by Verizon.  Suffice to say, it has been a complete nightmare. No one who works for them knows how to do ANYTHING. The trade in department helped me to complete the trade in online…incorrectly. They have one job! The number I called to remedy that told me I’d called the wrong department and proceeded to give me the same number I had dialed to speak with them. I can’t make this stuff up. Oh, and I had to email the final bill AGAIN and they never responded. I had to call five days later to make sure they had received it. This brings us to last night.

guy: What email did you send it to?

me: The longest email in the history of emails.

guy: Well, then you sent it to the right one.

While we were talking, Kenna dumped her new bubble mower on the couch. Bubble juice…everywhere.

me: Oh my word!  Kenna!

guy: (chuckles)

me: Trust me, this is only funny because you don’t have to clean it up. Now can we check to see if this is fixed before I lose it? Trying to switch to Verizon has become an actual job for me.

So this may be fixed. Finally. We just have to mail in our old phones. To say I’m skerd is a gross understatement. There are so many ways this can go wrong, as Verizon has effectively proven.

Mostly, I don’t have time for this because Kenna has roughly three to five therapies a week on top of preschool three times a week. I’m now spending all my time driving her everywhere. I hate driving. I’m bordering on anti-social. Hell, half the time I no longer care if I leave the house. This is what three years of holing up every winter to keep her healthy has done to me. The anti-social comes from raising a special needs child. People have no idea. They don’t understand. And they are quick to judge what they know nothing about.

Her future’s so bright, she has to wear shades.

Take yesterday. Leaving preschool. Kenna managed to walk out of the classroom with a Peppa Pig book that belonged to the school. The teacher took it from her before she left the building. Now picture it. Kenna’s literally the first child to leave out of five preschool classes with roughly ten to fifteen kids per class. Lots of kids. Lots of parents. For a child with sensory issues, this can be challenging to begin with. Add in the confusion of why she couldn’t have the book along with her inability to communicate it, and we have a code red volatile situation on our hands.

I’m picking her up and walking away while she first whimpers, then cries, then explodes into a full blown tantrum in my arms while people are watching and I’m trying to keep her from hurtling herself out of my arms onto the gravely tarmac. Good times. Getting her board stiff self into a car seat, even better.

me: Kenna, the book belongs to the school. It has to stay there so all the kids can read it. You have lots of books at home. You can read the book again tomorrow.

Oh, and when that didn’t work.

me: Pull it together, girl, or no french fries.

Yes, this is her after school treat. We pass a McDonald’s on the way home. For fries, she’ll do almost anything. In this case, she dried her tears, and offered a half smile.

Kenna: French fries.

All was well with her world. And when she’s well, everything is so much better with mine. We’ll get through this. Soon this Verizon crap will be a distant memory while I count down the days until we can go back to AT&T. Soon Kenna will be all caught up and we’ll forget how hard we worked to get her there. I look forward to this and cling to this imagined future because right now, reality is kicking my butt. (Don’t worry, we all need a good butt kicking now and then. It keeps us alive and focused and reminds us what matters.)

Most of all, I feel guilty for complaining at all. Our reality is a million times better than what could’ve been. Kenna is worth it. I’d rather be running her all over the city than visiting a grave and staring across the hall to an empty bedroom. I’ll take my crowded bed with her cold feet at 5 every morning with no Sundays or holidays off. I wouldn’t know what to do with all that extra space on the couch. I treasure my life, even if it is equal parts crazy and overwhelming because all of that is overshadowed by the love.

I’m going to take a breath and get back to work. May your days be filled with enough crazy for you to appreciate the peace and enough love and friendship to take the pain away.

Take time to appreciate the wonder in your life.

This post brought to you by the letter ‘T’ and fear and loathing

Sam’s convinced we’re about to live Idiocracy. It’s a comedy…or a cautionary tale.

We watch a lot of preschool programming in our house. Still, every night, we turn off the kid shows in time to watch the news. Sam’s a huge fan of ABC World News Tonight. For years, I avoided the news and we’d argue about it.

Sam: Don’t you want to know what’s going on in the world?

me: No. It’s mostly depressing and ugly. I don’t want to be sad.

The argument would continue, with him completely confounded as to how someone with my education and intelligence could want to live such an insular life. This is an election year and I wish I’d held strong and maintained my original stance. The coverage is mostly comprised of Donald Trump rallies. In turn, I’m mostly depressed and sad.

Sam: Why don’t you say something? Why don’t you do something?

Ah, yes, because everything falls on me. Now I’m supposed to somehow fix the world’s problems. He has such faith in me, like my little blog is going to change the world and everyone’s opinions as they read. I’m pretty confident The Donald is blissfully unaware of my existence. I’m equally certain that if we knew each other, we wouldn’t be friends. I’m not one of these people who is easy swayed by celebrity or money. I like my people with substance, intelligence, and common sense. In lieu of intelligence, I’ll take a good heart. I gravitate towards those who do good.

All of this should explain why The Donald isn’t getting my vote. At the same time, I wonder why anyone would give him their vote. Seriously, why?

Forget for a moment that he behaves like a school yard bully, insulting everyone who opposes him. Hell, if he knew me he’d be telling me to go home to my mommy right now in his most condescending voice and mannerisms. I’m okay with that. Visiting my mom, not an insult. She’s awesome. She’s loving and caring and is always there for me. If it weren’t a sixteen hour drive, I’d see her more often.  Me, I’ve never liked bullies. I’ve always told up to them, toe to toe, and refused to back down. I don’t scare easily. In this, Trump and I are alike. We can both make people cry by using our words. Only my words aren’t insults. I don’t resort to name calling. Anyone with an ounce of intelligence doesn’t have to. What does that say about Trump? Now, I’m not calling him an idiot, but I’m certainly insinuating that the next POTUS should be able to carry on a conversation that most closely resembles one heard in halls of congress, than one from an elementary school yard.

Ugh. Trump is pathetic. PS. Danny has a new fan.

As I’m subjected to the news coverage, I grow increasingly frustrated that anyone would consider electing this man without a plan. Yes, Trump is a man without a plan. I saw a meme the other day. It was this quote from a Trump interview where he basically circled around the topic, blathered on for a moment, and then deflected to talk about some guy’s hat. He never answered the question, never said anything. He was the quintessential kid who didn’t prepare for the debate or do his homework, faking it and ending with words to excite the crowd. Seriously? One on one. Let me talk to him. Let’s discuss how you think you’re going to get Mexico to pay for the wall, Mr. Trump. You remind me of those parents who get all made and make these outrageous edicts like, ‘You’re grounded until you graduate’ even though graduation is three years away.  Oh, hey, or my personal favorite: you’re in big trouble!  Really?  Tell me more about this trouble of which you speak. So when Mexico refuses to pay for the wall you insist we build, what happens then? Is that whole country in big trouble? Are you going to go punch someone in the face? This seems to be the whole of your strategy when met with anyone who goes against you.

You talk a big game, but I watched you cower behind the podium, Mr. Trump, when it was rushed the other night. Then you stood tall and claimed you were all ready to take care of business. I’m gonna call bullshit because you looked more ready to mess your pants and go home to your mommy. What happens when a day comes where the police and secret service can’t protect you from the ramifications of your loose lips? Seriously, the only reason you get away with saying what you say is because of this country you live in. You spout lies and call them truths, constantly. You refuse to back down even when you’re wrong. You have no diplomacy skills whatsoever. How long before you have every other country ready to blow us off the map?

I watch these rallies and see how you have divided a nation. Just imagine what you could do to the world? As I recall, there is at least one Saudi Prince gunning for you if you become president.   Will America be forced into never-ending conflicts because of you running off at the mouth and insulting people? Do you think theses countries aren’t watching as you encourage violence while you parade your ego across the stage?

What does it say about my fellow Americans, that so many of us aren’t able to wade through your bullshit to realize you have said nothing? ISIS is bad. ISIS must be stopped. Sure, we all agree with that. How do you propose we do this? It’s not like the military, FBI, and CIA haven’t been trying for years. How is your plan so much better?

Oh, but you don’t have a plan, do you? How are you going to balance our budget when you can’t even keep all your business afloat? Those bankruptcies have contributed to our national debt. Don’t you feel even the least bit guilty thinking you are good enough, smart enough, forward thinking enough to run this nation? Because I don’t think you are.

These are educated objections to you candidacy. Now, let me address a more personal area. I don’t like you. There. I said it. I mean it too. I don’t like you, Mr. Trump. (And the ‘mister’ is far more respect than you deserve.) I’ve watched you insult immigrants, while you married two. I’ve watched you make fun of people with disabilities, which makes you the lowest kind of person to walk the planet. I’ve seen your racist behavior while you claim to not understand why the Ku Klux Klan would endorse you. (Duh. You’re their kind of people, which is why you could never be mine. Sorry not sorry.)  When you quoted Mussolini and were called out, you decided to bastardize a Gandhi quote instead. (I’m certain Gandhi wouldn’t have liked you. In this campaign alone, you’ve pretty much committed all of his seven social sins. Quite the feat. You must be so proud!)

Suffice to say, I don’t respect Trump. I don’t endorse him, support him, or like him. I wish more people felt the same way.

The balance was completely off.

Let me begin by telling you about this uncanny ability I discovered while I was pregnant for my first child some twenty-two years ago. Or more. I remember watching Rescue 911 with my mother. For those of you who aren’t a million years old, it was this television show where they would re-enact 911 calls. Now, I was pregnant. I had no business watching it to begin with. All the emotions.  So many tears. Eventually, I wised up and stopped, but not before I discovered I could see what was going to happen.

It was an episode where the mom was mopping the floor. The phone rang, she left the bucket on the floor while she went to answer it. Her crawling baby was playing in another room. I remember looking over at my mom.

me: That baby is gonna drown in the bucket.

mom: We don’t know that. Did you see a preview?

me: No, but we know something bad happens and I’m telling you, it’s a baby in a bucket of mop water.

Sure enough, minutes later, the mom is freaking out because she turned to discover her baby drowning in the mop bucket. It was terrible. Really really painful to watch. After my own babies were born, this ability was only heightened. Through the years, it has prevented many injuries while frustrating both my husbands. (Not at the same time. This is marriage number two, remember?)

Fast forward to yesterday.

Sam came home from work early, showing up around four in the afternoon with DD’s. For those of you not from Charlotte, these are the best chicken wings in the whole wide world, even if I do question the reasoning behind tucking celery under the wings to cook before I can get to it in their styrofoam containers. Let’s focus on the positive: he brought home dinner! I didn’t have to cook! No dishes!

We ate an early dinner and I cleaned up while Sam and Kenna played. Soon enough, she had dragged him to her shoes.

Kenna: Shoes on!

Sam: You want your shoes on?

Kenna: Uh huh.

Sam: You want to go outside.

Kenna: Uh huh. Uh huh!

me: She’s only going to want to wear her fancy black ones. The sneakers represent school for her.

I don’t know if he didn’t believe me, or he simply wanted to see for himself, but he held up the two pairs of shoes and let her pick. Naturally, she went with her fancy black shoes. Who knew? They disappeared outside and I took advantage of the quiet to feed and water the kitties, clean the litter box. A few minutes later, I walked outside to throw away the bag of poo only to find Kenna on the swing in the front yard.

Instantly, I froze. See, I’ve played on this swing with Kenna. I keep two hands on her ALWAYS because she has this tendency to forget what she’s doing and let go. Sam…only had a hand on her back.

Sam: Look! She’s doing great.

me: She might let go…

Sam: I’ve got her.

It was like watching a train wreck. I couldn’t avert my eyes. I could already see it happening in my head, the way she’d slide off the swing and slip out of his grasp. In my mind, she even lost consciousness. In real life, she only made a loud thud as she hit the ground. He had her…sort of. He caught her back and butt with his one hand, but her head and neck caught the brunt of the fall.

I know it’s hard being a dad, tempering the thrill of rough housing with caution. Trust me when I say it’s even harder to be a mom and watch it, anticipate the worst and balance the need for caution with the desire to not annoy the crap out of the husband and thereby earn the killjoy label. Normally, we’re in complete agreement about Kenna. Raising a child is a constant balancing act of holding on and letting go. It hurts when our balance is off.

Neither of us spoke at first as he scooped her up off the ground. Kenna’s eyes were wide in shock in fear. She seemed afraid to move in his arms.

me: I’ll meet you in the house.

He rushed inside while I threw out the bag and quickly followed. By the time I made it inside, there were tears, but not much crying. Kenna reached for me because…I’m mom. We cuddled a moment while Sam and I checked her out. It took a moment to pick all the dirt and twigs from her hair. We laid her on the couch to finish the examination.

Sam: I mostly caught her.

me: Listen, it could happen to anyone. It was an accident. I’m not blaming you. I just want to know she’s okay. She landed hard on her head and neck.

Sam: I know. I want to make sure she’s okay too.

He didn’t need me to make him feel badly. This was his baby girl. He already did. Minutes later, we had concluded she seemed fine. Slowly, she started moving and walked over to the television for Team Umi Zoomi. We watched her and as time passed felt better. She had a shower, where we finished getting the dirt out of her hair. Then we read books, did some puzzles, and snuggled.

Around 6:30pm, she started screaming out of the blue. We gave her Tylenol and tried to comfort her unsuccessfully. While I held her, I pulled up WebMd on the phone.

me: I think we need to go to the urgicare.

Sam: I think it’s just a bump on the head.

me: Well, it could be a concussion. She’s not acting right. This isn’t normal.

He agreed. So we rushed off to the urgicare. I had hoped to avoid the ER, thinking the urgicare would be a quicker option. Sam parked and rushed inside to check us in while I hauled Kenna out of the vehicle. When I walked inside, he was having some difficulty explaining things to the woman at the desk.

me: Listen, she’s essentially non-verbal, so we can’t tell if she’s slurring her speech. She has a nissen, so she can’t throw up. She has hypotonic cerebral palsy, so her balance is always a little off. She landed on her head and neck so she needs to be seen.

Yeah. I put my foot down, completely undeterred by the predicted two hour wait. Less than five minutes later, a nurse had pulled us back to talk to us. Head injuries trump everything else going on there. The doctor saw us and directed us to the ER.

doctor: We don’t want to play around with a head injury. She needs to be seen.

So we hopped in the car and drove to Kenna’s hospital.

Sam: We should’ve gone there to begin with.

me: I thought the urgicare would be faster. *grinning* In my defense, we did get out of there in record time.

Stickers. Kenna’s version of a Bandaid. They make everything better.

The ER was packed. I was frustrated by the lack of urgency I saw. We went through triage and were sent back out to the waiting room…where we waited and waited.

Sam: She has a head injury. I’m about to say something.

me: You saw me at the restaurant the other day. I’ve got this.

Kenna was restless. I stood with her on my hip.

Sam: Sit.

me: Nope. If the next room isn’t hers, I’m going up there. They triage for a reason. This isn’t a deli. It’s not first come, first served. This is the children’s emergency room. Do you see anyone holding their chest, having difficulty breathing? No? Then what’s more important than a head injury? The problem here is everyone is treating this place like a damn doctor’s office instead of an emergency department.

After looking around, he nodded. And…we were given the next room. I posted a picture of Kenna and Sam snuggling. Friends reached out to ask how she was. I think this response says it all.

convo

We left without ever seeing a doctor. Guess it’s time to send the boy to med school. Finally, a PA came in and we decided against a CT scan. No ibuprofen. Only Tylenol. Watch her for 24 hours. She should be completely better in 5-7 days. Me? It may take a bit longer. My heart was in my throat. Even now, I find I’m swallowing my worry, watching her like a hawk.

Today, her speech is normal. Her balance is better. So is ours.

This is why I’m tired…

The boy and Kenna. These two. So much love.

While I hoped to be super awesome at posting this year, it hasn’t turned out that way. The reason, in all honesty, is because I’m putting what energy I have into my money making ventures like publishing and promotions. Ah, but the bulk of my energy has and always will go to my family. There are big changes afoot in our home.

For one, by the end of the month, the boy will be living with us again. I’m thrilled. He’s a senior, has a vehicle, and will be able to drive himself to school and work. Still, having a new mouth to feed, another person in residence…is a change. As he moves, a box here and a box there, I get more excited. He’s easy to be around and he adores his little sister. He’s months from Marine boot camp. The boy makes me proud every day.

Then there are other changes, bigger ones, that have me crushed under the weight of them. It’s all about Kenna. Ten days ago, we had the latest hearing test which suggested she might have a mild hearing loss. Since we couldn’t get a definitive answer, the next course of action was to schedule an ABR, which apparently translates to a hearing test under anesthesia where electrodes are stuck to her head to determine the results we can’t achieve given her short attention span and propensity to frustrate and shut down. That same Friday afternoon, I missed a call. Since we recently switched phone carriers, which is a long story in and of itself, I hadn’t set up my voicemail yet. I called back too late, but learned it was for a rehabilitation center and assumed Kenna would finally be set up for her services. We’d only been waiting six months.

So I left a message, went about my business, and was pleasantly surprised to have a return phone call on Monday morning. By the time the call ended, Kenna had evaluations set up for Wednesday and Thursday of the same week, which was last week, with her final evaluation for speech being set up on St. Patrick’s Day. I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, all the fighting, the phone calls, the follow ups, the arguments with her pediatrician…had paid off.

Waiting for OT. It was pajama day at school. Don’t judge.

Wednesday afternoon, I picked her up after school, armed with her meds and a snack, then we drove to uptown Charlotte for her appointment. The occupational therapist was lovely. She and Kenna meshed well. We went over her history. Apparently, the audiology referral from six months ago was supposed to go through them, but I had pushed and started the process with her EENT. (Pushing. This is what I do.)  Now pay attention…

OT: So I’m not sure if she’s not following the directions because of her hearing or listening.

me: We often wonder this ourselves.

OT: Well, let me connect you with our guy for scheduling. We’ll get that hearing referral taken care of.

me: She has already had four tests in the last two months. We’re supposed to do an ABR now. I’m waiting on the call back.

OT: I’m still going to set you up with our guy. He may be able to help.

She brought us to the waiting room, disappeared, and then returned with this man who listened to me give the recent hearing test history. Suddenly, a light dawned on his face.

the guy: Come with me.

Kenna and I follow him to his office where I shut the door behind us because she is quiet and stealthy like a preschool ninja, also prone to disappearing and I needed to concentrate. He opens his cupboard and pulls out a referral. It’s for Kenna. They were supposed to schedule the ABR. That was the call I had missed.

Let me spell it out.

If I hadn’t pushed for Kenna to get the hearing test with the EENT, not knowing I was supposed to be waiting for the rehabilitation center to call, we’d still be waiting on EVERYTHING.  I accidentally scheduled services, which no one will take away from us. It was a series of misunderstandings, a comedy of errors, which has resulted in Kenna finally getting the help she needs…all because I fight for her…and didn’t set up my voicemail.

Riding the tricycle during PT. PS. See? She does own clothes.

So there will be drives uptown many times a week as we see the PT, OT, and Speech therapist for multiple sessions. There will be one last chance at a hearing test on March 15th. After spending four hours dealing with glasses yesterday…more if we count drive time…Kenna has an updated prescription. Speaking of prescriptions…on Saturday she was diagnosed with yet another ear infection at the local children’s urgicare. (More stories, but I only have time today for this one.)

Taking care of her, meeting her needs, advocating for her, adjusting my parenting skills for her special needs, and constantly adapting life for her…is mentally exhausting. At the same time, I wouldn’t change our life for anything. Sure, there are times and ways I wish it were easier, but the reality is...maybe we appreciate more because of… Click To Tweet Maybe we find joy in small victories others would fail to appreciate. Maybe we are blessed with a life full of silver linings. We face a life flooded with rain sometimes, but we’re learning to dance in it. Plus, when the rain ends…there are rainbows, like this one from this morning.

Kenna: Good morning!

me: Morning, Kenna. Ready to have your medicine and get dressed?

Kenna: Okay!

It may not seem like much to you, but we’re starting to have conversations. She’s speaking. It’s not something to be taken for granted. Four years ago we weren’t sure if she would be able to even breathe on her own. There was talk of a tracheotomy and oxygen dependency, but now she walks, talks, runs, falls, eats, speaks, and breathes. Kenna is amazing. It simply takes her a little while  to catch up. Life is a journey. Apparently, we're off-roading. Click To Tweet

Don’t worry, I’ll let you know how next week goes. I can’t seem to help myself.

Proceed with caution: the potty training post

potty chair

Kenna’s throne. It’s empty in every sense.

I love my husband. It’s a good thing I love him because most of the time I’m convinced no one else would. It take a special kind of temperament to deal with someone who truly believes he is king of the castle and lords over our life. He likes to think he’s in charge, but really Kenna runs the house.

Sunday morning, Kenna climbed into bed with us at six in the morning. I asked if he could keep her, since I was planning on grocery shopping at seven.  It’s Super Doubles at Harris Teeter, which is my version of the Olympics…if the Olympics only lasted three days and was all about shopping and saving massive amounts of money. Still, there is a skill level involved, a great deal of planning, preparation, and training. A comparison can be made. Oh, but no. Sam grunted. He had only had a meager eleven hours of sleep. How could he possibly function and be expected to care for an exuberant toddler? So, I packed her up and took her with me to not one, but two grocery stores since I couldn’t find everything I needed at the first.

Good times. Oh, and they only became better because during the first stop, I picked up Dora Pull Ups. They were originally $11.99, but with a sale and coupons, I picked them up for $4.99. Yes, Kenna is four and still not potty trained. It has become a battle of wills no one is winning. Oh, maybe Sam. He’s at work. Ah, but don’t worry. He still manages to run our lives. After all, I’ve only potty trained two kids to his none. What do I know about potty training? Hell, I even managed to potty train one boy and one girl so you’d think that would give me extra cred, but apparently it doesn’t.

Not quite two years ago we began the slow descent into hell with the potty chair purchase. It’s a super special potty, with sensors…and sings when/if she tinkles. She has used it in the past, but that was closing in on two years ago while we were getting her off the feeding tube. I had trouble managing eating and potty training at the same time. I can only have so many fights in the day.  I’m sure plenty of women would feel the same way. At no point in time did I look at the choice to get her to eat by mouth before potty training her as a failing. Now, however, I’m wondering if I shouldn’t have powered through. Water under the bridge…and pee all over the floor. At least that’s how this morning began.

Oh, but I’m jumping ahead. In the past year, we’ve tried the three day potty training method which mostly had her in tears. I declared the misery not worth it. Wouldn’t want to damage her psyche while trying to potty train her. Then we tried to build in a reward system. Stickers. Kit Kats. Nothing worked. Built in a punishment system. No television until she goes on the potty. (This is why she’s lying on the couch face down right now kicking her feet. After all, how could I expect her to play with her room full of toys and books when there’s no ambient television sound?)

A month ago, at Sam’s urging, I sat Kenna on the potty one morning and waited for her to make magic on the potty for TWO HOURS while he went off to work. There were videos on my phone and books and then I started to get hungry and she wanted to get up. She can hold it because the minute I put the diaper back on…she peed. Clearly, this is a choice. We’ve tried lots of different things. Oh, and by we, I mean me. At that point, I had a very grown up discussion with him where I pointed out she wasn’t ready yet, we couldn’t simply do this on a whim, it took planning and preparation and…time.  My suggestion was that we wait for summer when she was home with me seven days a week instead of having our potty training broken up by preschool. At the time he agreed, but I suppose I can’t expect him to remember this discussion forever, or even four weeks. And I suppose it is partly my fault because I try to keep him happy. I’m an idiot. A miserable freaking idiot.

So yesterday afternoon…around five…practically evening, he decided it was time to potty train again. He laid down this edict from his throne. It looks remarkable like the couch, but whatevs. There would be no more more diapers. (Good thing we picked up an entire box from Sam’s Club last weekend and have used roughly one quarter of it.) Pull Ups only. She would sit on the potty every twenty minutes. I was in charge of timing it, of course. I couldn’t expect him to follow through since it was his big dumb idea at almost dinner time, right?

PS. I was already sour because after I went to two grocery stores, picked up a movie, unloaded the car, put everything away, showered, did Love Kissed Book Bargains, ran to Sam’s Club as a family, fed Kenna lunch, clipped coupons, researched my posts for Monday, managed to get her down for a nap, and ran to Walmart with him, he had the nerve to carry in three bags of his purchases and unlock the door while proclaiming himself ‘Daddy Do It All.” In my mind, I may have altered it slightly. Daddy Do Nothing had a nice ring to it as did Daddy Know it All. There may have even been one or two more colorful nicknames, but just one or two.

By dinner, which he made (chicken wings in the fryer), Kenna had peed in her Dora Pull Up and brought us a diaper. Then she had pooped in her new Pull Up and taken it off. Sam discovered her and the mess in our bedroom. I was at the table working when the screaming began.

Sam: Nickiiiiiiiiiii! Niiiiiiick! There’s poop everywhere!

Yeah. That’ll motivate me to come rushing to his aid. Sure, part of me thought King Do It All should just…you know, handle it. Then the sensible side remembered he had no idea what doing it all entailed and clearly wasn’t cut out for it anyway. So, I calmly swooped in and had Kenna cleaning up her own mess in no time.

By bedtime, I mostly liked him again. Kenna slept in a diaper. It was dry this morning. We popped her on the potty. She refused to sit, or use it. And an hour later, after researching what methods to use on ‘potty training stubborn girls’ (This is an actual search in Google. it’s not just me!) I was pretty pissy and then…pissed on as Kenna wet all over the floor while standing next to me and spraying me in the process.

I don’t have time for this now. I’m sure one could argue if I have time to write a grumpy fourteen hundred word post, I have time to potty train, but honestly, when I’m this aggravated…the words flow, dripping in snark. Obviously. Whereas the pee…may flow on my floor, but not in the potty. Today, the blog tour for my new release begins. And I have more groceries to buy. Don’t judge. It’s stock up on a dime time. And Kenna just filled her Pull Up.

Summer. This is a job for summer when my work slows down and I’m less stressed, when school’s out and I don’t have a crazy schedule, when she can run around half naked outside and pee in the grass and I’m not left to wash every square inch of the floor every twenty minutes on my hands and knees. This summer…potty training will happen. Mommy has spoken. My foot is down. Thus endeth his reign…and my rant. You’re welcome.