Friday, September 25, 2009

putting a name on the secret

Dudes.

I'm a guinea pig.

It began with that secret I told you about, and swiftly (well, you know, for a dermatologist) turned into a trip to a dermatologist and allergy testing.

When we had the appointment on Wednesday, the Doctor was very animated, indicating she thought that I would be an 'excellent case' and very well may result in her publishing the results. Awesome! I'm gonna be famous!!!

I thought we were talking about 10 or 15 test spots. We were actually talking about more than 125. And surgical tape from my shoulders to my waistband. Meanwhile, I'll be here until Monday with my entire back looking like the result of an alien attack, and trying to bathe without getting it wet.

Short of the bugs'n'honey diet, I'm beginning to feel much in common with John the Baptist and his hair shirt.

In short, it's not nice. It's a little too warm, very, very itchy, and a constant reminder of my evil deeds through shopping.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

updates...

So Wednesday night we met with the only other care provider we were offered. It was a this or nothing situation, so we really, really, really hoped it would work.

We walked in, and it was good. She was relaxed, and relaxing. MlleL was equally at ease, which is a good sign too - her being sorta a canary of stress.

We talked for a bit, and went to see the playroom in the basement (also very cool - not at all basementy and awful like they can be) and sat the three of us adults on the couch as we discussed the details of the care and watched the kids play.

Something about the way she said 'association' confirmed my suspicions without a doubt, and I lean in and asked her if she spoke Tagalog to the kids.

She leaned around me to look at Husband and said "I thought that's who you were - you look so much like your mother!! Is your dad feeling better?"

heh.

She really is all powerful, that Lola. And now?

If the new care provider crosses us, she will be forced to face the substantial wrath of my mother-in-law.

Drop offs at two separate care providers is going to be tricky, but we're back in business, and protected by the avenging angel.

Now if I only passed that interview today.... Third time's the charm, right?

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

ceeerap.

Worst day in a long time.

Drop off at the brand new day care provider went badly, as when the coordinator confirmed the details of the bus stop for MlleL's first day of school next Tuesday, the care provider announced that it was 'too far' for her to walk. Not about to leave my kid somewhere she doesn't know temporarily, I took MlleL back to the care provider we just said goodbye to on Friday.

And the bus route is 'frozen until the end of the month.' ie - no changes. And the centre that is supposed to bus to MlleL's school doesn't have 'any kindergarten kids that don't go to Prince of Peace, so we'd really have to consider making changes for one student if a space became available.'

So what the hell am I supposed to do now? Do I actually tell my kid that she can't go to school this year because we can't find child-care to support her? I'm not sure we can afford to keep paying for two full-time spots for a whole additional year.

So what do I do? Go pick up MasterP, I guess, who's tummy has chosen today for a revolt. Of a revolting nature, apparently.

So there. Great start to the week.

Friday, September 4, 2009

my friend....

So I have this colleague at work who I've never been able to put my finger on just who it was he reminded me of, until I passed him in the hall, doing a 'hop-think.'

Heh.

http://myfriendrabbit.treehousetv.com/

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Homesick

I have heard a constant inner complaint for years - a half forgotten recurring dream.

As I'm walking to the bathroom at the office, I'll hear the sigh "I need to get out of here; I want to go home." "But," I tell it, "We like this new job. We really just need to finish the note. We'll go home when it's time. Concentrate."

Running up the stairs to the kids' bedroom, I hear "I wanna go home." "umm," I point out, "we are?"

It's an index card that pops up during times of mental inactivity. We are home, I tell it. We live here. I don't understand.

Janey wrote a love note to her quasi-hometown a while ago. While trying to think of what I would say of the place I spent part of my summer vacation running through, I just felt anger. Sure, we'd been going there since I was young, but it's so buried in resentment now, I have a hard time feeling the joys and freedoms we had as kids - running free for a week with spending money, eating all the egg rolls, ice cream and candy we wanted.

You're too young, they said twenty years ago. When you were a baby, and we went to BigBrother's kindergarten graduation, you cried from the noise. University would overwhelm you. You will come with us, and go to grade 13. In a year, you'll be older, and go to the University we've chosen. They accept grade 13 as University courses.

Fresh from the defeat of running past the cemetery (twice) and up hill both ways for 10 miles, through a community of people who do not recognize me, I hit the wall of why I could not write a love note to this place I have lived, on and off, for 25 years.

It is my prison. My tower. I have struggled for years to get past the feeling of being spirited away to a place not of my choosing (fat lot of good that did - just like Rapunzel, I found my own trouble). I have not.

And I don't think if you asked Rapunzel to write a love note she could either. Even if she loved the witch very much, and was happy with the way things turned out in the end, and used up her vacation time to return with her children every summer so that they could all be together as a family.

"Finally," said the voice, as I stood on the beach in South Haven and looked at the lighthouse, "You wouldn't listen."

"I couldn't," I said, as I drove away.