Rest

No more pain, no more counting up the tumors, no more giggles and working on his tennis skills. Little Benjamin is gone.

Dear Lord...

Ho Ho Ho

I'm just waiting for Q's meds to kick in before heading off to bed, thought I'd drop a few lines here.

We saw Santa last night. It's been a yearly occurrence since G was 5 mos old. I almost quit after life blew up, but decided that the (Herculean) effort was necessary. The kids were losing so much that was familiar, I didn't want them to look back and see that that year, along with losing their family, every little thing went off the rails.

So last year, when picking Q up off Santa's lap, Santa, tearing up, commented on how lovely a family we were, how clearly and greatly Q was loved. I smiled and said thank you and even managed to walk away instead of falling to the ground sobbing, as it sometimes feels like I'm about to when we get compliments on our lovely family. (Call me crazy, but the irony of a compliment on the sweetness of our obviously incomplete group sometimes seems nearly too much to overcome. It feels a little too much like an O. Henry story gone wrong. Shudder.)

When I announced we were going, G announced that he didn't want to do it this year, crying foul because I'd told him last year that he wouldn't have to do this again. It's true. I did. Then E got out Grandma's Santa pics and well, I changed my mind. I told him so, he wanted to argue. I called him over to where I was feeding Q and told him to remember that this isn't about him. Some things aren't. He giggled (he still does, sometimes). I said, "I have just one question for you. What are you going to say when Q demands to know why there aren't any more Santa pictures after 2007?" G said not a word, but returned a few minutes later wearing clean, less than usually rumpled clothes (he's that age and I'm not dying on that hill). I told all the big kids that they could wear whatever they wanted, but it had to be clean and not clashing (this part turns out to be open to interpretation). So they weren't dressed up (not dying on that hill either). I wanted happy faces.

Over the years, one comes to expect the unexpected in such undertakings. We've had cranky elves, way too happy elves, lines that lasted more than two hours, and no queue at all. Last night's line wasn't too bad. About half an hour of chatting, window shopping, and a change of Q's drooled upon sweater we were ready to roll. Santa was great, except for the minor numbness he seemed to be experiencing in his left arm. I'm still wondering if he went on to end his evening with a heart attack. But I digress.

Q couldn't take his eyes off Santa. In 2006, we solved that problem by having everyone look at Santa and all his rosy red and whiteness. This year, though, the photo people were determined, and Santa cracked jokes while they worked. We ended up with a decent shot of Q looking off to the side, at me. Snort. Santa did the requisite asking after Christmas wishes and we humored him. (S had said she didn't want to go because he was just a fake Santa and no one's seen the real Santa in several hundred years -- since he threw dowries down chimneys. Her older sibs talked her into compliance. Snort.)

We thanked the nice man and headed off to look at our nice pictures, Q draped over my arm. The lady came out with the package I'd ordered and showed me the sweet faces. She handed it to me. As I was turning to ask the kids to hand me my purse from Q's chair, she said, so quietly, "And it's on us." I was stunned. I'd seen the elves watching us while we were in line and wondered about what I thought might have been the pursing of their little candy cane-stained mouths. I may have actually said to her, "No way." I know I managed to whisper a shocked but emphatic thank you and turn around before beginning to sniffle. I'm pretty sure the kids noticed me wiping tears, but they didn't say anything.

What does one say? Sometimes, when coming from a preschool evaluation (more on that later), when tired beyond words, when working to repress being heartsick still at the implications of certain realities, it's just an awesome thing to have a little bit of a Christmas miracle with the mall Santa.

"Kiss those babies." --Dy

"And the one you made 'em with." --me

G'night.

Happy Wednesday!

Well. About court. The end of January we go back, then. Don't know what to say about that.

Got the kids in to the pediatrician late Monday and got all of 'em listened to. G and Q have antibiotics. Hallelujah. Both are having nebs. The other night was very bad for sleep, but neither have looked like they're desaturating, so there's that anyway. I called Tuesday afternoon when K was coughing more and saying that it hurt now. She started her round before bed. E was coughing more as she headed for bed. So there's another phone call for the morning.

Now. About the sleep I'm ready to have. I somehow need to help the punkinheads to stay in their beds. I love to snuggle their soft and sweet little selves up, but actual sleep becomes somewhat difficult (for me) when there's no room in the bed for my arms. Or legs. Or head. Interesting that they sleep really well when piled up like puppies. I find myself waking constantly to make sure they all have adequate ventilation.

Between their upcoming visit and not feeling great, they're not resting very easily. I'm sure they'll have fun with dad, as always, but there's always a bit of anxiety in transitions, isn't there?

You know, as I was on my way home this evening, I was trying to remember the whirlwind of the last several days and found I couldn't place all the details in their proper spots. Perhaps it's time to place an IV for more direct delivery of caffeine.

Q got his new glasses today, S had her second round of fillings (we're cursed with "sticky plaque" here), G had OT, we had an easier time with our Spanish program (Yay! Thanks, M. And where's my IT guy? Hellooooo?), and all are sleeping hard, adequately medicated, and I'm heading off too. The light of day will bring piano and violin lessons, more carschooling while they rotate in and out of said lessons, and Q's SpEd eval. Among other things.

Sweet dreams.

XO

PS -- Barbara. I laughed out loud at your comment. I used to refer to mine, flagrantly bragging, as my "Studly MD Hubby." You got it, flaunt it. ;o)

Head-banging fun

$*#&.

It's Pulmicort season. Q's front and center in the celebrations. There goes my head on the keyboard again. Bam, bam, bam. I feel like my eyeballs are being scooped out. Wah. The upside of this is that it could provide reason to have him classified as medically fragile and thereby eligible for pre-school services coming from the school district to the house. I don't know yet if that's good or not.

That pretty much exhausts that topic. So on to other things, then.

Have you noticed how nice it is to be you? I've heard lately from just about everyone (female) I know that things are good where they are, at least in terms of self-acceptance and erm, lustiness. Before I embarrass myself entirely (blushing), let's just acknowledge that this age, stage, whatever it is, is not what most of us expected and we're pretty happy about, um, certain parts of that. Other parts, perhaps not so much, but our physical selves? It's good. Gentlemen? If you're out there? And looking? Skip over the twenty-somethings (unless you're married to one) and go court a middler-aged female person (especially if she's your wife -- smack -- what're you doing here anyway?). She's got life pretty well together by now, is still full of surprises, and it only gets better from here. Or so I'm told. Maybe it's the whole long-term monogamy thing that has the collective us so happy... Hmm. There's a thought. In which case, I don't know what to tell you. Perhaps it explains itself.

Back to the eyeballs being scooped out. Big day tomorrow and we've been running pretty hard all week, and sick at that. I'm heading for bed, or at least a more horizontal position, since the Q is out (thank God).

Hope your weekend is lovely and includes (yawn) lots of R and R. If your "R" happens to be past PG-13? Yay for you. Don't tell me about it anymore, though, m'kay? I'm maxed out on those conversations for awhile.

XO