No, seriously

This is what we've been doing since the last healthy post, however many millions of years ago that was.

There have been occurrences that only involved chicken soup (which we've had for dinner all week) and sneezing and coughing and body fluids peripherally... I think... maybe?

But then again, maybe not.

Today, our beloved special skills therapist showed up. Apparently she had called on Monday to reschedule to today because SHE was sick. I was at a doctor's appointment at the time, making sure the 2 boys had not caught the Devil's strep throat and other creeping crud, and although I vaguely recall being told she had canceled, I'm morally certain I didn't know she was coming today, because SHE WAS NOT ON THE CALENDAR. And as we all know, if it is NOT ON THE CALENDAR, it is NOT HAPPENING IN THIS HOUSE.

Fortunately, after one look at James zonked on the couch, a lovely view of the Devil's Coxsackie tongue and Herpe finger (What? It's only one finger!) through the screen door (sensible woman), and a brief appraisal of my unwashed, unbrushed hair and pajamas-as-daywear look, she was happy to reschedule to next week, and hightail it down the front walk while her immune system was relatively intact.

I'd be concerned about whether she'll ever be foolish brave enough to come back, but she is ON THE CALENDAR for next week, so I KNOW she will.
Uh huh.

I know it.

I - what were we talking about it? Naps?

ON IT!

Hold, Please

This blog has been interrupted by an outbreak of strep/flu/wild Botswanian Monkey rash that has rendered your faithful blogger even more insensate than usual.

A blog entry WAS, in fact, in progress on Friday, but unfortunately your faithful blogger was swept away in a mucus tsunami (You think it sounds bad? Try swimming in it!) and has only just been washed up on Strep Beach. The Devil With a Used Box of Tissues is with her, and they think they see Jamesy and Number One Son on the horizon, making gamely for shore by aiming themselves at land and coughing repeatedly.

We will rejoin Friday's blog, already in progress, when the meds have kicked in sufficiently to ensure an actual command of the English language, and an attention span to go with it.

Until then...

NAP TIME!!!

DISCLAIMER: This isn't actually about James

...but I DO mention him. Does that count?

I am hereby exercising my editorial right to hijack my own blog for the purpose of venting, thereby preventing the premature death and/or dismemberment of any number of my cohabitants here in this ever-shrinking space we call "how long till we can move?"

So. Had a nice day. Karen came, did special skills therapy with James (<--- MENTION! See it? Right there. AND details. So I'm not so bad after all. Well... until you read the rest...) And I got a play table that has been mine since childhood repainted for my daughter (because the Devil insists on fresh paint, dontcha know), and my house is as clean as it is ever going to be until I no longer inhabit it.

(WANT. TO. MOVE. NOWWWWWWWWW!!!!)

We had some nifty weird thunderstorm-ish weather that looked like it was going to be a lot worse than it was, and then a beautiful sunset, and a fine dinner prepared...

..and then Number One Son announced that he didn't feel well. Now, I am Mommy, hear me go into denial - and I am wily to the ways of 8-yr-olds presented with unwanted peas and pork chops. So he was instructed to sit down anyway, and sip his drink, and "see how he felt". He declined to eat. He asked if he could go to bed. HE TURNED DOWN A POPSICLE. Either the kid has developed a mean poker face, or he's genuinely ill.

Now while this was going on, Jamesy and the Devil were in their chairs, and Jamesy was merely picking at his food, as well. I don't know if his ear has cleared up or not, but he began whining in a way that I associate with him being in distress of some sort (versus merely being ticked off at the crappy service in this restaurant, for instance, or the quality of the news reporting on Fox), so he was dosed with children's Tylenol (GENERIC, forgawdsakes, yes I know about the recall, calm yourselves!) and finally, he nodded off in his chair.

While I tended to Number One's various needs - ginger ale, a pot in his bed (don't ask) and could he have a snuggle? - Dad was left with a James who would rouse himself long enough to cry piteously, then eventually fall back into a fitful sleep that HAD to occur on Dad or else woe unto us all. (The same Jamesy, I would like to add, who is currently jumping on the couch, giggling, and jabbering at Kai Lan. Apparently, a full recovery has been made.)

And then came American Idol.

(Here comes the real point of this post. Those with weak stomachs or who expect any discretion whatsoever in their blogger's TV viewing habits should stop reading here.)

Yes, yes, I'm pathetic and pitiable and quite possibly contemptible and almost certainly utterly bereft of taste but, dammit, I LIKE Idol. I particularly like Big Mike, and if the truth is to be told (and it IS, oh baby, IT IS), I have been waiting all week to watch his performance tonight. Granted, it's 3 minutes of pure cheese, but...

... it's 3 minutes I missed.

3 fripping minutes out of an ENTIRE FLIPPING WEEK and, no, sorry, you must be too busy catering to loud small people who fall miraculously silent ONE BRAIN-FRYING SECOND after the performance ends!

Did they cry over the judges' endless blather? (Sorry, Ellen; I promise yours is the only stuff I care to hear. I meant THEM.) Negative.

Did they cry during the wretched filler interlude with Frank Sinatra's relatives? Of course not.

Did they, in fact, make any noise whatsoever during ANY OTHER PERFORMANCE? No. No, they did not.

And so, I find myself in the ludicrous position of being PISSED (no, I mean P.I.S.S.E.D PISSED) with my beloved offspring - who are small and helpless and possibly plague-bearing, let us recall - because I missed a performance which, let's face it, who cares? And also, have you never heard of Hulu? The interwebz? BING?? It's not like I can't see the damn performance in about 354 million places the nanosecond it's done airing; but I am bent all to shit because I missed Michael singiiiiing *whine* and why can't I eeeevvver have a minute for meeeeee *bitchmoan* and oh it's so unfaaaaiiiir *teen angst flashback*

So.. um.. yeah. I had to confess. Thank you all for bearing witness to my depravity. Clearly I should be immediately taken away from my children (for their safety!) and put someplace quiet. Preferably someplace with a hot tub, blender full of margaritas, and scantily-clad serving boy with epic abs. For therapeutic purposes, of course.

What? What??

Kites and Kiddie Pools and Pals, O My!

My, what a lovely weekend we had.

Seriously.

Sunshine in abundance on Saturday, a kite festival at which James not only held the kite string (well, for a second or two, anyway), but also ate and drank and ran around and PLAYED CATCH WITH US (<--- See those caps? They mean possible milestone alert!) with an inflatable beachball and giggled and scampered and generally had a blast. Wheee!

And then Sunday, we had chillin' in the new kiddie pool, and despite the fact that if you so much as touch his feet to bathwater, he shrieks like you're dipping him in lava, he got in that pool voluntarily and stomped and sloshed and played and didn't even make a peep when his sister 'mistakenly' (this is the Devil, after all) got him in the face with a full cup of water. In point of fact, after a long pause after which we expected to hear air-raid siren-quality howling, he instead simply licked the water drips off his nose, grinned, and went about his splashy business. Much fun had by all!

Which is good, because this scheduling evals and therapists in between earaches (his), pediatricians (theirs), and dentists (ours) grows tedious already. And of course, when not blathering on nonsensically to one blog or another, I have also become one of THOSE people... You know the ones: I sit at the computer, scouring Google (and now Bing) for autism links, alternately finding myself all superior and dismissive and HAH!-I-already-knew-so-much-more-about-this-than-you,-and-I-don't-even HAVE-an-autism-website,-what's-wrong-with-you?? and then also overwhelmed and confused and panicked and worried about not happening to find the exact right combo of therapies for my non-verbal but otherwise quite bright and engaged child and dooming him to an adulthood of sub-par group home life because I'm old and stoopid and feeling a tad incoherent myself these days and I can't Google properly or even stop a run-on sentence and, oh hey! Squirrel!

Yeah.

One of them.

So the good news is, I have the coolest, most knowledgeable, supportive, wonderful group of friends EVER. Some are fellow moms, some have special needs kids, some are professionals in the field, some are just smart and concerned and funny, and all of them are keeping me - hey, I almost said "sane"! HAH! I'm such a kidder, I slay myself - focused and able to get up every day psyched to have another day with my beautiful Jamesy and to handle whatever that entails.

So, as they say in my beloved Wayne's World, I say to you all:
I love you, man!

I have no idea what this road will look like when I look back on it in 20 years, but I damn sure know who will have been on it with me. Thank you.