the decision.

{This post was written a few weeks ago and is the first in a line of “we choose meds” posts that I’ve been writing since. ¬†We wanted to get through the initial stages of medication privately before we told anyone. Without spoiling the ending ūüėČ I can tell you our life is forever, fabulously changed.}

 

This time last ¬†year, as we sat down with the professionals at Jordan’s school and learned their take on his “setbacks,” the first words out of my mouth were, “We will pursue all lines of help possible, but we will not be drugging our kid so don’t even bother going there.”

Last night, at 5:45 pm we sat in our pediatrician’s office and said, “Yes. ¬†We feel like it’s time to look into the medications that could help him.” ¬†It’s as simple as that. ¬†It’s time.

I won’t be publishing this post for quite a while, if ever, but I do want to write it today. ¬†It’s important I write it now both for me and so that eventually, if I do decide to share this, it will be the way I actually felt all the way through it. ¬†Today, as he takes his first 18 mg dose and heads out the door for school, I feel like a nervous wreck. ¬†He knows he’s taking special medicine that might help him slow his engine down and make it easier to listen to his teacher. ¬†He also knows it might make him feel funny, which Mommy needs to know about right away. ¬†He knows his heart might feel like it’s beating really fast and he needs to tell his teacher.

What he doesn’t know, is that Mommy is praying her face off that this special medicine only gives him all the benefits and none of the side effects. ¬†Is that too much to ask? ¬†I honestly don’t think so. ¬†I don’t want him to get a nervous tic or to begin stuttering worse than he ever has. ¬†And that’s just the beginning. ¬†I don’t want him to have heart¬†palpitations¬†or fits of aggression. ¬†I just want him to have a good day.

I just want him to be able to sit in his chair and complete a worksheet that kids half his age can do without a problem. ¬†I want him to be able to sit on the floor with the rest of his friends during carpet time rather than in a chair next to the teacher to keep him from rolling around on the floor. ¬†I want him to walk down the hallway rather than jump and fall and roll down the hallway. ¬†I want him to learn to read and understand that numbers are more than just a symbol on the page but they mean the same thing as the blocks he has stacked up in front of him. ¬†These may seem like silly things to care about. ¬†But they aren’t.

They aren’t silly because that’s what’s important to the seven year old giant child that crawls up on my lap and tells me that today he wants to put the plastic bag on his head and stop breathing because he’s stupid. ¬†There’s nothing silly about feeling so different and so stupid than everyone else around you that you just want to give up.

And that’s why, at 5:45 pm I sat across from our doctor and told him that yes, we are ready. We choose meds. ¬†Not because I’m a lazy parent that just wants the meds to turn my kid into the perfect child without me doing any of the work. ¬†Not because I want to appease the teachers that expect too much of little boys these days and don’t let them be “boys.” Because in 2013 society expects seven year old little boys to be able to read and count to 100. ¬†And 85% of seven year old boys do know how to do that without any problem. ¬†And trust me, seven year old boys know if they can’t do something that “everyone else” can do, and it makes them feel stupid and for some of them, it makes them depressed at times.

We aren’t telling anyone other than his teachers about our decision right now. ¬†Someday we will, but he certainly doesn’t need the added pressure of being in a fishbowl as it gets figured out right now. It’s time he’s just allowed to be a seven year old little boy.

 

should i make a pencil bouquet or a xanax cocktail?

This time next week, I will have just tucked my kids into bed in preparation for their first day of school.  This time next week, I will be an emotional wreck.

As internet friends all over the country have been sending their babes off to school this week, I have been watching closely. ¬†I’ve been reading their posts and emails about feelings on loosening the cord and saying goodbye for seven hours a day. ¬†I’ve also been reading article after article about easing the transition and offering the right kinds of support to the people we are sending off. ¬†Some might say I’m working myself up over nothing. ¬†I say, I’m arming myself for the battle. ¬†“What the hell is so stinking bad about sending your kid to school?” you ask. ¬†Nothing, I guess. ¬†For most moms.

I; however, am not most moms. ¬†Among a myriad of personal issues too neurotic to name, I’m also a mom of a kid with Sensory Processing Disorder. ¬†You may be wondering what SPD is. ¬†You may be rolling your eyes and guffawing that another mom is buying into another “disorder” to make excuses for their bad parenting. ¬†I know there’s plenty of people in my life happy to have that same response.

For those of you eager to pass judgement, save it. ¬†Just save it and keep moving on. ¬†For those of you wondering what SPD is, it’s a neurological condition that makes¬†it difficult to process and act upon information received through the senses, thereby creating challenges in performing countless everyday tasks. ¬†To the average person, the child may look like an incredibly shy introvert that hides under her mom’s skirt and refuses to play at recess, or he may look like a wild maniac that bounces off the walls, runs over the other children and refuses to settle down and obey even the most basic classroom rules. ¬†(Some children that look like this, simply are those things, and some children aren’t. ¬†It’s up to parents to investigate and decide what category their children are in, and I’d happily support all parents in their decisions.)

Just like thousands of other parents in my position, I’m anxious about many things as the beginning of the school year approaches. ¬†Have I been too lax this summer and created a monster for his teacher? ¬†Will he be able to grasp a new routine, new rules, new environment that is different from last year’s? ¬†Will the support the school has promised in order to help him succeed truly be there? ¬†Will he come home every day with sad faces on a report regarding his classroom behavior? ¬†Will his report cards hold all ones and twos or will he be on “grade level” threes and fours? ¬†How the hell am I going to do this? ¬†Am I a failure as a mom? ¬†And a thousand more questions just like these. ¬†On a loop. ¬†In my head.

More than anything right now, I hear these words: “Do not let that school put a label on your son. It’s not worth it. ¬†You know he’s a good kid. ¬†He’s just a little boy. ¬†Don’t you dare let them label him.” ¬†As much as I have struggled with the decision, I have let them label him. ¬†Do you know why? ¬†Because I’m not too proud to let my son get the help he will desperately need to succeed throughout school. ¬†Do you know what the label means for¬†my son? ¬†The label means the difference between him growing up to be a tow truck driver or an engineer if he wants to. ¬†(Not that I would have a problem if he wanted to grow up to be a tow-truck driver. ¬†God bless the tow-truck drivers. ¬†But if he wants to be an engineer, then he should have that opportunity.) ¬†As much as I know in my gut that I have made the right decision, because I know my son, the people in my ear that don’t agree with it, wear me down and make me question myself. ¬†I’m not proud of it, but it’s true.

And then I remind myself: that label, those extra classes and the special seat he gets in the classroom? ¬†Those are the difference between success and failure. ¬†The therapy he receives? ¬†That’s the difference between learning to read fluently by the end of the year, and it taking until fifth grade to read at a first grade level. ¬†That file? The one that they keep in the office that says my son has special needs? ¬†That file doesn’t mean shit to me, except that¬†my son, the one that¬†I am responsible for, he gets to have his best shot at life.

I cannot wrap my mind around stubbornly refusing my son his best shot at life just because I am too proud to let someone evaluate him and put a label on him. ¬†If every time he ran around the track in PE he turned blue and couldn’t breathe, would I refuse to let a doctor check him for asthma? ¬†If they found he had asthma and I refused to let him have medication to treat it, would I be a good mom because I wasn’t letting someone label my son as an asthmatic? ¬†Would I be teaching him a special kind of discipline that would turn him into an Olympic sprinter later in life or would I be hamstringing him for the sake of my own pride? ¬†Does that make any sense whatsoever?

This year, I will be entering new waters. ¬†In the four earlier years I’ve had children in school, I’ve never been the mom that had to attend IEP meetings or therapy sessions. ¬†I’ve just been the mom with the smart kid and the cute kindergartener. ¬†Now I’m the mom that decided not to take that great job so I could be the mom that goes to school and helps with the hard days. ¬†I’m the mom that packs the special bag and does the extra work to make sure things go smoothly. ¬†I’m the mom that makes sure the label doesn’t mean he gets stuck in the seat in the corner, but gets all the special help he needs to be the brilliant kid that proves you wrong. ¬†I’m that mom. ¬†And I’m bad ass.

*I feel badly that I didn’t add this earlier, but I also want to make clear that my husband is also¬†that dad. ¬†He supports every decision and makes every hard sacrifice right along side me. ¬†When one of us has lost our focus and determination to give Jordan his best shot, the other is there to remind us why we’re doing this. ¬†He lovingly watches me devour books and articles and try crazy-brained ideas to help ease life around here. ¬†He sacrifices for all of us. ¬†And he is most definitely bad. ass. :)*

a successful day…

Today was a successful day in the land of “impropers.” Well, successful for the most part. ¬†I still have around a half ton of dirty laundry to reason with, but lately, that is of no consequence to me. ¬†I am immune to the piles. ¬†Unless, of course, no one can find underwear. ¬†Then, there’s a problem. ¬†So…I better get on that.

I woke up to two snuggly kiddos on either side of me, giggling as they tried to sneak in and steal some time on a rare morning that daddy was already gone and they woke before mommy.  After a few minutes, we thought we better get moving.  I hopped in the shower and called Jordan to get in right as I was getting out so I could wash him up.  He got in right away and there were no problems in getting ready for school.  He moved quickly and without incident.

Jordan jumped off the bus when he got home and showed me his daily report from his teacher – the third day in a row this week that he got all smiley faces for his focus and behavior during class. ¬†He worked on homework, had a healthy snack, and then went outside to play with friends. ¬†It’s dinner time and he just kindly asked for ten more minutes of play before he has to come in. ¬†So I said yes. ¬†Because he asked nicely and without a fit.

Why are some days so easy and without incident where others are ridiculously like all of us are trudging through quick sand to get the basics done, and even that is asking too much. ¬†I swear there is not one thing that I do differently. ¬†I know there is supposedly nothing but the “pistons in the brain firing differently” from day to day, but that just doesn’t do it for me. ¬†I need a miracle formula that makes for days like this every day. ¬†Do they sell those on eBay?

Please don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. ¬† I love days/weeks that things are so darn easy. ¬†I just wish I knew how to replicate them.

a mother’s work…

I read a quote recently that I assume is about three quotes rolled into one as only a sleep deprived, scatter-brained and desperate mommy is capable of. ¬†It went something like, “a mother’s work is never done; from sun up to sun down, and more if you have a son.” ¬†I would like to lend a hearty amen to that. ¬†Actually, I may have actually made that up. ¬†I can’t even remember anymore, because let’s face it, my brain is like oatmeal 75% of the time these days. ¬†In addition to the usual mommy and wifey tasks I have on my plate, I have a new obsession. ¬†It’s called “name that disorder.”

I say “disorder” very lightly at this point because I really don’t think I like that word for our situation. ¬†At least, I’m not ready to say it yet. ¬†Have you ever been in a position with your kids (or dogs or significant others for that matter) where you know something is up, something big that is going to require a major change in the way you do things, but aren’t ready to really say it out loud? ¬†It’s probably safe to say that’s where I am today.

We recently had school conferences for our little man who is nearing the end of Kindergarten. ¬†This is a conference I have not been looking forward to. ¬†I knew what was going to happen. ¬†I knew the words “not ready to move forward” were going to be said. ¬†I knew the school’s learning counselor was going to be there. ¬†I knew because I invited her. ¬†I invited her because I knew we were at a point where I needed help.

Let me tell you some things about the little man. ¬†He is six and the size of an eight or nine year old. ¬†Seriously. ¬†He is the most sensitive, loving and kind-hearted little guy you’d have the¬†privilege¬†of knowing, even if you weren’t his mother.

He has also been referred to as the following things:¬†“destructo boy,” “mr. destructicon,” “aaaalllll BOY,” “three boys in one,” “just a typical little boy with lots of energy. LOTS of energy,” “rambunctious,”¬†and oh so many more. ¬†Are you catching my drift here?

He’s also known as a tender-hearted sweetheart,” ¬†“Mommy’s little boy” (aka: Keli totally babies that kid and coddles him) and “the baby” of our family.

For all intents and purposes, Jordan is “normal.” ¬†He really is a rambunctious little guy that is all boy full of energy. ¬†He’s a boy that likes to run and jump and climb and play. ¬†He’s a little boy that likes to be good at stuff. ¬†He likes to be praised and be told he’s doing well. ¬†He likes rewards and stickers and routine. ¬†He is also a little boy that learned to throw himself out of his crib before he could even crawl all that well and one that we had to lock in his completely bare room at night in order to keep him safe because of what an expert “house explorer” he was. ¬†Trust me, once you find your toddler sitting on top of the stove attempting to turn on the burners, locking him in a completely empty (except for a bed) and child-proofed room at night no longer seems like child abuse and just seems damn smart.

Before this year, we tried Preschool twice with Jordan. ¬†Both attempts were very unsuccessful. ¬†Both attempts ended with us removing him from the class and saying we’d “try again next year.” ¬†We also had him in a formal daycare situation for a year and a half. ¬†You’ve probably heard me refer to this as the time from hell, and the reason I became a home daycare provider. ¬†All this time, I secretly wondered if there was just a little more going on with Jordan than met the eye. ¬†I always waited for someone to tell me that he had some sort of a “disorder.” Each doctor visit I waited for someone to say “autism” or “aspergers” or¬†something. ¬†Each time no one did, I was relieved, but left with lingering wonderment.

Beginning Kindergarten this year, I knew at some point there would be a “conversation.” ¬†You know what I’m talking about. ¬†That moment when the teacher or counselor comes to you and says the combination of some dreaded letter formation that means my kid is labeled for the rest of his life. ¬†I was on guard. ¬†I was scared. ¬†I was hopeful. ¬†Hopeful that it would be the beginning of some sort of answers to questions I haven’t dared to even utter out loud. ¬† Questions I knew I would be judged for asking and questions I didn’t want to be thinking. ¬†Questions like, “what if Jordan isn’t just ‘all boy’ and has something special going on inside of him?”

Part of me feels like a coward for not asking those questions out loud much sooner. ¬†And part of me knows I’m a coward for not wanting to face the opposition that I feared would come from some people around us, saying once again that “Keli is a dramatic, over-reacting attention-seeker.” ¬† Could Jordan be having a far more successful Kindergarten year if I’d asked someone if there was something special going on and would they have even listened? ¬†I know I’ll never know the answer to that. ¬†And it’s stupid to even ask it, since it really doesn’t matter at all.

The point is, I am asking questions now. ¬†I have started down the road of finding out if there’s something I can do to help my little man learn how to read, learn how to sit still when it’s carpet time and he doesn’t like sitting there in that completely unstructured circle listening to sounds that have nothing to do with story time, and learn that no matter what, he’s smart- probably even too smart. ¬†We are letting someone that knows far more than we do take a look at the way he thinks and learns and reacts and responds to see if there’s something more there than “a typical little boy that needs more discipline and less coddling.” ¬†There may be, and there may not be. ¬†I’m completely open to whatever it is we find out. ¬†I know no matter what, we will all benefit from this experience, we already are.

But, the more I read about a little something called Sensory Processing Disorder, the more I know, deep in my gut, that I have finally stumbled onto something that may make my baby’s life so much less frustrating and so much more “right.” ¬† My mother-in-law always tells me that God gives us the kids we need in order to make us the kind of people he wants us to be. ¬†Never more than in this time has that statement been so true for me. ¬†I love my kids more than anything in this world, and I will do all I can to be the mom they need. ¬†I’m not perfect, but I think that’s what makes me such a good mom.

I know I’ll be processing my way through this experience on my blog. ¬†I know it’s not what many of you expect when you log on, and I’m sorry if this is just not for you. ¬†But, as always, this is where I get my crazy out. ¬†And right now, my crazy pretty much revolves around this. ¬†I hope you’ll stick through it with me. ¬†Or not. ¬†I can appreciate that too. ¬†I also want to apologize for my absolutely¬†non¬†politically-correct or proper verbiage when I talk about these things. ¬†I know calling a kid “normal” is frowned upon. I know there are better words to use than “special” or whatever. ¬†I don’t care. ¬†This, for now, is me exploring a world that is foreign. ¬†I don’t mean to offend or be off-putting to anyone.¬† ¬†I just need to get the crazy out.

mean girls

Being a mom is my biggest challenge in life. ¬†I’m decent at being a wife. ¬†I’m decent at cooking and cleaning and making sure things run smoothly around here. I’m also a good mom. ¬†It’s the one thing I work really hard at. ¬†When I say it’s my biggest challenge I don’t mean it’s the hardest thing, although it might be. ¬†I mean it’s the thing I work at the most. ¬†I have to- it’s constantly right in front of me, staring me in the face and asking for a cookie.

Just when I think things are running smoothly, something else comes up that we have to maneuver and find our way through. ¬†And damn it if this child raising stuff didn’t come with a map of any kind. ¬†Having one girl and one boy is it’s own set of problems. ¬†What works on one definitely doesn’t work on the other and none of it makes any real sense whatsoever anyway. ¬†Having a boy is physically exhausting, but having a girl is emotionally and mentally the most life-sucking task in the history of forever. ¬†God made girls last because he knew it was going to take it out of him for a while. ¬†That’s why.

So the little diva is eight. ¬†Mostly, I don’t care for this age, but I think I get off pretty lucky because my kid is pretty awesome no matter what her age. ¬†BUT, girls in general… not easy! (We covered that already.) ¬†If it were just us in a bubble I think it’d be cake, but add in all the outside influences and crap and it’s just not. ¬†Our most recent struggle and one that I fear will be a long-term pain in our collective butts: the mean girl. ¬†How in the holy hell does The Mean Girl rear her ugly head this early on? ¬†You just try dealing with pint size mean girls. It’s the worst! ¬†And try raising a girl that can overcome the mean girl without actually becoming the mean girl. ¬†GAH!

This started for Sis last year and even though we’re in a new school and it’s SO much better, there are still days. ¬†Oh man are there days. ¬†Yesterday we had one. ¬†I can’t even say it was a Mean Girl episode because I don’t even know. ¬†I do know that my girl ran from the bus and into my arms crying and wanting to crawl into her jacket and hide (her words.) ¬†I know I still don’t know what all happened because she starts sobbing when she talks about it. ¬†I know I almost didn’t get her to school this morning and then as soon as her spelling test was over she called and said her stomach is hurting so bad she’s going to throw up and I need to come now. ¬†(She’s already on meds for acid reflux and basically an ulcer because she’s an internalizer like her mother.) ¬†So I went and got her. ¬†Who needs this crap? ¬†We’re going to cozy up on the couch and watch girl shows and enjoy the fact that she’s a good kid. ¬†Tomorrow we’ll talk again about being strong in the face of the mean girl. ¬†Today I will do the mom version of taking a hurting friend out for drinks and a night of dancing to forget the crap. ¬†That’s ice cream and making glittery crafts in front of a marathon of Victorious followed by reading “The Hunger Games” together. ¬†Dude, I told you I’m Mother of the Year. ¬†Don’t try to take my title. ¬†The only reason I’m here right now is because she’s eating lunch and told me she wants some time alone before we start our date.

And in case you think I don’t give meaningful advice, last night I wrote her a long email about friendship and reminding her that she is a good person and so on and so on. ¬†This is basically what we talk about every time this situation comes up. ¬†I just decided to write it all out so she can refer back to it in her “Emails from Mom” (where I give all my best nuggets of motherly advice and she usually loves them.) ¬†This time she responded back with “This email is to long, to long, to long, TO LONG.” ¬†To which I responded, “we need to talk about the difference between to/too/and two again.”

If you have any great motherly advice for traversing the shark infested waters of raising little divas, I’d be ALL for it! ¬†Okay, better run… she’s finished with lunch and ready for some ice cream. ¬†(Yes, I realize it’s only 11:30 am. Shut up.)

 

 

boy: a noise with dirt on it.

I’m going to warn you now that as I write this I am weepy. ¬†I know I am more than a tad hormonal. ¬†And stressed. ¬†Those two things basically equal disaster for me in the sanity department. ¬†So, I weep. ¬†Today, I weep the sappy mommy weep. ¬†It’s okay. ūüôā

I was just chatting with Jordan’s (6) very first (and most favoritest) daycare teacher about him as a 2-3 year old. ¬†And suddenly it hit me, I miss my baby. ¬†Now, I know, I have these moments a lot lately. ¬†A friend was just teasing me about how I really should not have stopped having babies. ¬†(Trust me, if time and money were in unlimited supply, I’d be adopting those little suckers like there was a shortage.) ¬†But, truth be told, I don’t want more babies. ¬†I just want to relive some of the years with my babies, especially Jordan. ¬†(Well, today it’s Jordan. ¬†A couple of weeks ago it was Elle. ¬†So don’t listen to me.)

I missed out on a lot of little moments with Jordan. ¬†I was there for every one, but due to the nature of life at that time, there was so much that I wasn’t there¬†for. ¬†I was depressed, then I was psycho, then I was working, then I was caring for other people’s kids. ¬†Now that I’m focused on my family, I miss the parts I missed. ¬†I can’t help it.

Sometimes it’s more of a challenge for me to think of the amazing qualities my son has, because he is also… a boy. ¬†It’s more obvious for me to think about the shenanigans he is up to and the numerous bonks and scratches and bruises and broken bones. ¬†It’s easy for me to concentrate on the fact that it takes him twice as long to learn things than it did his sister: talking, writing his name (and various other “school” related things) and let’s just be real here, wiping his own butt (although, CONQUERED! Thank God!) ¬†There is but one simple fact about Jordan that stands out more than anything in the world to me: He Is A Boy to the very core of himself and then back again. ¬†He is a boy times ten. ¬†And I love him for every single quality that is boy. ¬†Even though it’s easier to worry and focus on the things that I just can’t even keep up with, it’s so gratifying to stop and realize all that those things mean.

He is constantly dirty. ¬†He cares way more about discovering what is in the bottom of that mud puddle and how far he can splash it than he does about whether or not his shoes… or pants, shirt and hair for that matter… are clean for school. He devours bagels and toast and eggs without regard to how much of it is smeared across his face. ¬†He enjoys the meal to it’s fullest and forgets the rest, even if that means he’ll be displaying his breakfast for all the bus stop to see. ¬†You see, Mommy would wipe it off but she’s too busy chasing behind him with dropped shoes and a backpack and her hair standing on end to even notice.

He is always making noise. ¬†He loves the sound of his own voice. ¬†He loves the sound of his feet tapping out a beat to music only he can hear. ¬†He loves the sound of chewing as loudly as possible for everyone else to enjoy the delicious meal he’s consuming. ¬†He loves the sound of talking as loudly as he can so no one misses one single important thing he has to say.

He loves running and walking backward and sideways and jumping over things rather than walking around them. ¬†He loves bouncing balls and shooting guns and flying kites. ¬†He loves jumping in the deep end without a life jacket even though he doesn’t even know how to swim. ¬†He loves riding fast and jumping curbs and giving me heart attacks when bones are broken and multiple surgeries are required to repair said bones. ¬†He loves defying odds and growth charts and statistics.

He loves socializing. ¬†He loves playing after school with friends. ¬†He will play with a child that treats him like crap and bosses him around if that means he has someone to share his joy for life with. ¬†He loves children that are smaller than he is (let’s face it, most of them are.) and caring for them. ¬†He loves babies and toddlers and kids that are two years older than he is. ¬†He doesn’t care. ¬†As long as someone treats him with a tiny bit of kindness, he will overlook the rest of it and spend every waking minute devising a plan of how they can meet for a playdate every minute of every day.

If he knocks someone down in the middle of the basketball court, he will stop the game and go back to make sure they are okay.  He loves people.  He truly, deeply cares about them.

And he loves his Mom. ¬†I have never felt more love from one single person or a group of people as I do my son. ¬†I know my Elle loves me and we have such a special mother/daughter bond. ¬†I know Jimmie adores me and would do absolutely anything within his power to show me that. ¬†But the love from that boy is unmatched by anyone on this earth. ¬†It just is. ¬†I can’t explain it, I can’t rationalize it, and I can’t measure it.

When my mom found out I was having a boy, she asked me to make sure I didn’t spoil him rotten as most mothers do with their sons. ¬†“Don’t baby him and treat him like he’s special just because he’s a boy.” ¬†Well, oops. ¬†I guess I’m failing because he is special. ¬†He is my boy and I cherish him. ¬†He drives me batty and I have to punish him twice as much as his sister to make sure he doesn’t turn out to be a criminal, but he is absolutely 100% special and I will treat him that way every single day of his life.

Elle often tells me, “I’m Daddy’s Princess and Jordan is your special boy.” ¬†She doesn’t mind. ¬†She will openly admit Daddy is her favorite and I’m second fiddle. ¬†And I love every single moment of it. ¬†Because I know she’s secure in our relationship and that she knows her daddy cherishes her.

Jordan will wrestle with his dad for hours every single day if he can. ¬†He will annoy his sister and get into trouble six ways till Sunday. ¬†But when I walk into a room, he melts. ¬†And so therefore, I must melt too. ¬†It’s simply impossible not to.

i never claimed to be ‘average’

This morning my littlest bug had what’s apparently a run of the mill surgical procedure, removing the metal plate that was attached to the femur at the beginning of the summer. ¬†You might remember me freaking out that the babe somehow broke his femur just days before we were scheduled to move. ¬†It made for an interesting summer and moving process, but he took it like a champ and today was months¬†ahead of when we were initially told the removal procedure would happen.

He went in like a champ and only got a little teary and nervous that last minute when they took him from pre-op to the OR and mommy wasn’t allowed to go. ¬†We were then escorted to the waiting room where I’d spend the next couple of hours, and well… send myself into a panic attack and state of overall emotional wreckage as only I can. ¬†I don’t know what’s wrong with me that I always dwell on the WCS (worst case scenario, for those of you not currently undergoing dozens of hours of therapy,) but I do. ¬†I sat there thinking about how they were working so dangerously close to his femoral artery and it would be so easy to slip and ohmygod I don’t even want to think about it. ¬†We were in the day surgery area which isn’t completely attached to the hospital. ¬†Which got me thinking if an actual emergency did occur it would probably take too long to get to the actual hospital in order to actually save a person’s life. ¬†So that was disconcerting.

I sat in a seat that enabled me to look back into the pre and post op areas, just feet from the OR. ¬†I figured if there was something bad going on, I’d definitely be able to see the nurses and emergency type people scurrying around back there looking for crash carts and screaming “CODE BLUE, ROOM TWO, STAT!” ¬†I wish I could tell you I casually peeked through the frosted window panes occasionally, but in all actuality, my eyes were glued to those windows all 127 minutes I sat in that room, just watching for someone to look a little concerned. ¬†Every time the door to my area opened, I accosted the nurse with my jedi mind tricks to ensure they weren’t hiding anything from me. ¬†I’m confident they all started to wonder if I was nuts.

Then, when the doctor came out to tell me all was well, I confirmed all of their suspicions that not only was that freaky ass mother in the waiting room possibly crazy, but someone should call Psych a freaking sap and get her admitted.  Because, you see, as the doc was talking so calmly and reassuringly about how well things went, I freaking burst into tears.

Now, I have had an interesting couple of days. ¬†I have a lot of… emotions, if you will, running about just under the surface of sanity. ¬†So, I’m not sure it was 100% nerves about the surgery that I was letting out. ¬†But I released what some might consider a metric shit ton of emotion. ¬†And made a complete ass of myself. ¬†Everyone was quite reassuring, telling me it was nice to see a mother that cared so much about their child and blah de blah blah. ¬†But I saw them running around the post-op, making sure all the sharp objects were properly stored. ¬† Jimmie could barely contain his laughter as he watched me. ¬†Oh sure, he was hugging me and telling me what a great mom I am, but I saw that twinkly glint in his eye that tells me he’s mentally going over the checklist of padded room necessities. ¬†I know inside he was trying not to laugh and what a loon toon we all know I am.

Then we went back to post-op. ¬†And the PA was telling us all the particulars of recovery. ¬†And at the end, I winked at him. ¬†I don’t know why. ¬†It just happened. ¬†My left eye closed in a definite winkish sort of way. ¬†And I wanted to crawl under the bed. ¬†But when he came back, he winked at me!¬† So I think we have a date now.

And Jordan is fine.  Watching Batman cartoons and sipping on a vanilla milkshake.  Enjoying the benefits of Vicodin.  Wonder if he would consider sharing.