Proceeding As Per Usual

(I don’t even know if that title makes any sense. It just sounds official and stuff.)

So, first off, clarifications:

1. I do NOT actually have a new job. The “boss” is D. Apparently, I need to work on making my humor actually, you know, HUMOROUS and not so deadpan. Or, I just need to write more clearly.

2. I blog “anonymously” so that my parents, siblings, and random acquaintances don’t Google my name and end up here. Anon, I realize that you most likely had my best interests at heart with your comment, but anyone who really needs to get in touch with me is fairly able to find me. Figuring out that I live in the fourth largest city in the U.S. doesn’t exactly mean you can knock on my door. I mean, I guess you could go around knocking on every door here and yell out things like “WG!” “D!” and “Zoloft!” and see if people react or if they just start calling the police, but I’m SURE that you have better ways to spend your time.

3. Holy crap, where have all my clients gone? I mean, I realize that if I had work I would not actually have time to do it, but it would be nice to have the choice, you know? I keep smiling and telling people, Oh, yes, I’m cutting WAY BACK on my work so I can focus on D. People, I want to focus on MONEY. As in, if I don’t freaking earn some soon, I may have to give up electricity.

4. Please read the brief paragraph below which details an exchange between WG and Heath the Overstock Representative, and answer the questions that follow.


Chat Information: Welcome to Overstock.com Customer Service, you are now chatting with Heath.

Heath: Thanks for visiting Overstock.com, this is Heath, how can I help you?

WG: Hi, I just received an order that I placed a few days ago -- I ordered a king size quit and sham set.
WG: When I opened the box, the quilt says full/queen.
WG: I have not yet even taken it out of the plastic wrap.

Heath: I am sorry to hear that, however, I'll be glad to help you with that.
Heath: To help you better, Can I have the order number or the email address registered with Overstock.com?

WG: sure -- the email addy is [email] and the order number is...
WG: [number]

Heath: Thank you for providing the order number and the email address.
Heath: For security purposes, can you please verify the name and billing address on the account?

WG: The name is [name] and the billing address is [address]. I can tell you that on the outside of the plastic wrap there is a sticker that says king size, but the large insert just inside the plastic wrap says full/queen, and like I said, I haven't taken it out of the plastic wrap yet.

(WG notices that if she moves the plastic wrap around a bit, she can see that on the insert it ALSO says KING and there is A CHECK MARK next to the word King. WG swears loudly.)

WG: You know what? I am a moron and it is the right size, so I'm sorry about that!

Heath: That's great to know.

Questions:

1. Which of the following phrases MOST CLOSELY defines what Heath means when he says, “That’s great to know.”?

A. WG, You are a moron.
B. Holy God I hate my job.
C. Seriously, could people be any more stupid?
D. Is my shift over yet?

2. What the hell kind of person names a kid Heath?

A. Someone who hates children.
B. Someone who names her other children Lancelot and Nimrod.
C. No really. Did you read King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table or the Bible? Those guys are NOT the heroes.
D. And Heath just sounds pretentious.

3. What possesses WG to email customer service before taking the time to check her purchase closely?

A. She is really, really tired.
B. And not all that bright, apparently.
C. She knew it would make good blog posting fodder.
D. Seriously, Heath?

Working Woman

So, I have this new job. Personal Assistant. Only, I didn't check the details too closely before I started, and it turns out that was a mistake.

My boss has appointments every day of the week and expects me to drive him to them. He also insists that I prepare his meals and snacks. He has no sense of personal boundaries -- I'm working nights, weekends, all day, every day, whatever. Dude, he basically expects me to WIPE HIS ASS after he poops.

There aren't many perks to the job, but the few that do exist? Are HUGE. Like, this guy will drop everything to tell me loves me and give me a hug. Yes, I realize that in some workplaces, that might be grounds for sexual harassment, but we're making it work.

Ha ha. Anyway, sorry for the silence. It's just been crazy busy for a while, and then it was Shavuot, and then today I had some free time, so I got a manicure, pedicure, and eyebrow wax. And believe me, I desperately needed all of them.

So. I'm spending all my time driving D. to his appointments and stuff, but it's all good, and I hope to be back to a more regular posting schedule next week.

Still More D. Doings, Plus Redecorating Fun!

The School, via its associated therapy center, offers

an intervention program designed to increase the social-communication skills of young children with their peers and family. Children in these groups typically exhibit social-emotional difficulties secondary to developmental issues such as high functioning Pervasive Developmental Disorder (PDD), Asperger’s Syndrome, and forms of communication delay. The behavioral strategies introduced are designed for this population. Common presenting issues include children who struggle with impulsivity, frustration tolerance, social confidence, and the ability to pay attention.

To accomplish the goals for DBB, children are brought together in small groups to participate in activities and transitions that would be required in a typical preschool classroom. It is the philosophy of DBB that the relationship between a child and his or her parent is the key to changing and maximizing development. Therefore, initially parents are asked to attend class so that they learn how to encourage communication, attune to the emotional temperament of their child, and manage difficult behaviors in the home setting. Children later attend class independently to help generalize their growing skills to a typical preschool environment.

Next week, I’ll take D. in for an intake session with the woman who runs the program. She’ll try to match him into a group for June and July, the summer session. They meet twice weekly, 1 hour and 15 minutes/session, for the bargain price of $100/session.

The goal is basically to get D. to understand that The School is a safe place, that he does not have to lose his mind if we take him there, and that he might even like it. My plan is to work towards reapplying in October. I have no idea what anyone else’s plan is, but that’s mine.

I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, but I actually have three other neglected children. I just redid my daughters’ bedroom in the last few days. Until now, they had their own rooms, but we’ve now moved them in together. We considered purchasing a full bedroom set, but in the end, we went with a MUCH cheaper solution – we bought used rails and box springs off Craigslist for a GRAND TOTAL of $30. For no particular reason. NOT AT ALL brought on by the prospect of spending $200/week ON TOP OF camp and everything else. Ahem.

Then I went to Target and got the quilts, sheets, and dust ruffles. I also got new pulls for the bathroom cabinets. And I replaced the closet door – which was full of nail holes and had no doorknob – with this funky curtain.

Mr. WG needs to install the pretty shades I bought for the windows and the pretty hooks for in the bathroom. But even so, I’m very happy with the way it turned out. And so are the girls. And the total cost is about $300.

I’ll start on the boys’ room soon.

Anyway, I realize that these “after” pictures would be more impressive if I had bothered to take “before” pictures, but oh, well.

Even more about D. and The School

Because I feel like we haven't really talked about this sitch. Ha, ha.

It's like this. Think of a typical 3-year-old child. In particular, think of the SIZE of a typical 3-year-old child. If that child arrives at school sobbing, the teacher picks him up and carries him around for 20 minutes or so until the child calms down.

With D., the teacher might make a valiant effort, but unless she is over 6 feet tall and able to hold onto 60 pounds of flailing, kicking, sobbing child, she's kind of out of luck. I can't pick up D. with one arm and accomplish anything while I'm holding him. It takes two hands and all my effort.

And regardless of his age, it is scary to see a kid D's size have a tantrum. It's scary for the other kids, and it's scary for the caregivers who need to make sure he doesn't hurt himself, them, or the other students.

You should know, I have bruises EVERYWHERE thanks to D. It's not that he's violent -- when I carry him, he sometimes just tries to reposition himself and inadvertently kicks me. Hard. Or he'll come take my arm and pull me somewhere and knock me down in the process. He's REALLY strong.

So, while I am not happy about The School's decision, I understand it.

Now then, there are some groups The School runs that D. can join even if he is not enrolled. One in particular should be very helpful, so we are looking into that. And I will, of course, keep you posted.

In the meantime, thank you all for your comments and emails. I can't imagine getting through this without you.

How It All Went Down

So. I got a call from The School mid-morning. One of the director’s assistants said that the director wanted her to schedule a meeting with us for next week.

“Does that mean that D. was accepted?” I asked.

“I’m not privy to that information,” she replied.

“OK, well, can you tell me what the meeting is about?”

“No, she just said she wants to meet with you.”

O-kay. So, I get Mr. WG’s attention and we decide on Monday, deciding in the process that D. will miss his school trip. Fine. But after the phone call ends, Mr. WG says, “I want to know what the meeting is about before we go.”

I called The School. “Can I speak with the director?”

“Um, she’s in a meeting.”

“OK, well, I need to know if my son has been accepted.”

“Well, hold on a moment.” I wait. She comes back and tells me that she just spoke with the other assistant who is surprised that I am calling and asking questions since she already scheduled a Monday meeting with me.

“Yes,” I say, “but she couldn’t even tell me what the meeting was about. So, I would like to know WHY we are meeting, and I would like to know whether D. has been accepted.”

“Oh. Well, I can certainly have the director call you.”

Shortly after lunch, I took D. to speech therapy, at The School. I figured the therapist would tell me what the decision was, even if she had to do it off the record. Well, I got there, and she points out the director and someone else making their way towards us. They sat in on the first part of the session to talk with me.

“My assistant told me that she had set a meeting with you for Monday but that you were very anxious to know our decision and that you requested that meeting be moved up to right now,” said the director.

“Um, no, that’s not exactly what I said.” I relayed the conversation.

“Well, the meeting is to discuss our decision. I’m sorry that was unclear.” You know how sometimes people say they’re sorry, but what they mean is “I’m sorry you’re A MORON”? Yeah, that was the kind of apology she offered. But anyway.

“So, at the meeting,” she says, “we had many people present.” She names them all – which was just plain weird, since she prefaces most of the names with “You’ve never met so-and-so” – whatever. “And we just feel that the ratio, ten children in the classroom, that’s a lot for D. right now.”

I pretty much stopped listening after that. She babbled on about behavior therapy groups and maybe we could try again in a few months and we aren’t closing the door, and have I looked into the special needs program at the JCC?

Oh, you mean the one FOR AUTISTIC CHILDREN???

“Oh, really? The children are all autistic? I didn’t realize what children it served.”

So, she thought it would be a good fit based on the fact that we are Jewish? What IS that?

OK. So. After she left, the speech therapist made it clear that she felt the decision was the wrong one, and she strongly encouraged that we work towards reapplying in October.

And then I came home and fought with my husband, who apparently thinks I should NOT homeschool, who thinks we should put D. at the DaySchool with the other kids and hire a full-time shadow for him. Apparently, he also thinks we have become very wealthy. (We have not, in case you were wondering.)

In any case, I am most appreciative of all of your kind comments and notes and I am SO TIRED, and I will try hard to finish this story tomorrow, but realistically it may have to wait until Sunday.

They Said No.

Pins and Needles

Today we should find out whether D. has been accepted to The School for next year. Yesterday, Mr. WG asked me, "What will you do if he's not?"

"I'll be really upset."

"And when you're done with that?"

I thought about it, and eventually I said, "I think I would have to homeschool him for the year and supplement with therapy." Mr. WG agreed that a custom curriculum was probably the best choice. He pointed out, though, that it would be incredibly draining for me. So let's just all keep our fingers crossed that D. gets into The School.

Where is my bag of swag?

Dude. How is it that some people start blogging and are immediately catapulted to levels of fame and glory that I can only dream of. And I do dream of those levels of fame and glory. Because, yes, of course it's the thought of helping other parents of kids with Sotos blogging is cathartic and it's really good for me to get all this crap out of my head and have a normal real life while appearing somewhat insane on the Interweb, but let's face it. We all, on some level, do this for the fame. The glory. THE BAG OF SWAG, dammit.

So. What exactly do I have to do to get my blog to be one of those blogs that everyone knows? Or at the very least, one of those blogs where once an entry is posted, it is quickly filled with at least double-digit comments? Is this going to be like high school, where I was doomed to forever stay on the sidelines and make snide remarks like, "Well, I didn't want to sit at their table anyway," while cartoon-like flashing LIAR signs blazed over my head?

Crap.

Sometimes I Hate the Park

So we’re at the park. DevilChild is there, playing in the rocks. With buckets that belong to someone else. DevilChild and D. have the same bike. DevilChild’s bike is off to the side. D’s bike is in our garage. D. sees DevilChild’s bike and gets on it. “Is that OK, DevilChild?” I ask, seeing the look on his face.

“No,” he says.

“You won’t let D. ride your bike, DevilChild?” I ask, hoping to catch the attention of his mother who is sitting RIGHT NEXT TO ME.

“No,” he says.

“D, I’m sorry,” I say. “DevilChild doesn’t want to share his bike.” D. is unhappy. DevilChild continues playing with the buckets that are not his. His mother continues to be oblivious.

“DevilChild won’t let D. ride his bike,” I finally say to her.

“Oh, really? DevilChild, can D. ride your bike?”

“No.”

She looks at me helplessly. “Sorry.”

A bit later, Baby J. is playing with the buckets when GrabbyBoy – also not the owner of the buckets -- takes them all away. Baby J. protests angrily. “No! These are for the moon,” says the boy. (I don’t know what it means, either.) I look around, but GrabbyBoy’s mother is deep in conversation and cannot be bothered to watch her children.

“Maybe Baby J. could use one of the buckets,” I say.

“No!” says GrabbyBoy. “I need them BOTH.”

“Well, that’s not very nice,” I say. “You need to share one with Baby J.”

“I don’t want to,” he says, and I debate whether I can simply grab it from him, but instead opt to take my children back home where they can not share with each other.