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I’ve Got Candy

Hey, hey you!!!  Come over here and tell me what you think.
Please do not stop by if you are proposing marriage or some other business.  I’m not interested.
I’m still fixing the place up, but it might be a keeper.  Things are just getting a little weird around here.
***Note: Antonella asked and so I will answer: You do not have to be a member to leave a message on my blog–you just need to Click the button next to the word Other or anonymous.  It’s right under the word verification thingy***
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She Punts

What She Wore: Grey t-shirt from my old school; blue jean capris; black, strappy sandals.  I had on something much cuter, but I just wasn’t feeling it–some days the post-baby bulge just gets to you.

Well. . . I’ve not run into the sorority girl again, so that’s been put off.  In the meantime, another girl that I know e-mailed me about a playdate.  I’m sure she’s at least partly aware of Charlie’s medical issues, so I said yes being sure to mention that he is behind other kids his age.  So, I punted for now.  I’m doing the whole playdate thing–I’m just taking it slow.
And, just because I’m a dork, here’s my boy looking super-cute:
PS: I have been getting a LOT more traffic on my blog–and a lot more friend requests from strange men.  Is my blog being listed somewhere or something???
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How to Go About It

What She Wore: navy blue shirt with black velvet accents, slightly capped sleeves, and a v-neck–it’s kind of hard to describe, actually, but really cute; blue jeans, black strappy sandals.

Yesterday, against my better judgement, I went to a wine and cheese party for alumna of my college sorority.  I was never an uber-sorority girl, so the whole thing sort of reeked of awkwardness.  In the end, I found myself having a good time, mingling with some people who are my age and interesting, and generally participating in adult conversation.
Only one little problem.
Ineveitably it will come up that I have a son named Charlie who was born in June. 
I don’t want to get into the whole freakin’ saga with some women I just met–I was supposed to be enjoying myself, not going to group therapy.  So, I glossed over the situation, just mentioning that he’d spent some time in the hospital because he had a bad heart.  I left out the life support/stroke/doctors told us he was brain dead/calling the minister/doctors were wrong/feeding tube/hydrocephalus/shunt/bad eye sight part.  That kind of stuff tends to bring a party down. 
There was another girl there who’d just had her teeny, tiny perfect bundle in July.  Those of you who have kids can see where this is going. . .
"We should have a playdate!"  All smiles and excitement. 
[Insert four letter word beginning with S here]
She’s making a career change towards education and had some bitchin’ shoes on, so I’m sure we’d get along.   It would be perfect if the circumstances were only slightly different, and she, of course, is completely excited–and why shouldn’t she be?   So the question is. . .
How do I go about this? Avoidance?  Brutal honesty?  Somewhere in between?  And what about the next time?  I’m not sure hermiting myself from the rest of the child-bearing universe is the way to go.  Even if Charlie is behind developmentally, having him around other children would probably be good for him.  Actually, there’s even research to suggest that this is true.   I’m going to have to get the hell over it eventually. 
But how, exactly? 
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My plans

What Whe Wore: black, pin-tucked, short-sleeve shirt with some kind of collar (I’m going to have to look it up); olive green, wide-leg capris; black, strappy sandals.

Well, someone asked a while ago, so I thought I’d share my plans with regards to my career/school/etc.
I’ve decided that in the long-run I definitely want to be in-charge in a school setting.  I have specific ideas about what makes a school work, and I’d love a chance to share them with others or use them myself.  This is, however, a long-term goal.  Short-term, I think that being a regular classroom teacher would be better for a girl with a family.  In a dream world, I’d get my Master’s Degree at the University of New Orleans in Urban Studies.  The degree as listed is very flexible, and I’d love to focus on urban schools, specifically what works with regards to discipline, leadership, and whether certain types of Charter schools are more successful in the urban enviroment.  I have no idea whether or they’d actually let me do this–right now it’s just a pipe dream.
Pipe dream or no, it’s my dream, but one that I’d like to devote myself to completely.  Right now, I’m not quite ready to do that, so I’m sticking it on the shelf for the time being.
In it’s place, I’m inserting a more frivilous interest.  I’m taking a drawing class.  Me.  Drawing. 
I haven’t done it since high school, so this will be interesting.  I’m going to have to enroll at the local community college, and quite frankly, the entrace requirement have got me giggling a bit.  Since I have not taken an English or Math class in the last three years, I will be required to take an aptitude test in English, Reading, and Math.   I’ve taught Reading, Math, and English in the last three years, so I’m not really worried about it–just entertained, really.
I’m also hatching another plot to make a little pocket change and keep teaching is a sense. . .but I’ll save that for my next blog.
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What She Wore: Black and white houndshooth blouse with short sleeve and a petite ruffle down the front (not like a pirate, I promise); black capris; black and white houndshooth flats.  The Hub took me out for a real dinner!  I got to wear adult clothes!  Alert the freakin’ media.

Tonight at dinner my fortune read, "try to channel excess energies into rejuvenation."
I couldn’t have put it better myself.
Somehow, I have to figure out this new direction that life has taken me.  I have to stop obsessing over Charlie’s development–whatever will be will be, as they say.  Stressing myself out over it will not change a thing.  I am doing everything I can to help him, and I have to give myself permission to accept that.  I have to allow myself to love my son without trying to "fix" him or worrying about what other people will think.
Objectively, I am very hopeful.  His limbs all move, he loves music and giggles at his daddy’s antics, he’s working very hard to get his head under control, and he’s an accompished thumb sucker.  He’s a little charmer who can have brain surgery and smile the next day.  He wows the nurses that work with him because of his laid-back demeanor, and, in my unbiased opinion, he’s a real cutie.
It can be hard to be objective, though.  Hard not to wish for a crystal ball that will show be the future.  Hard not to feel like I failed my child at the starting gate. 
And especially hard to know where I fit in now that I’ve shed my identity as "teacher."
I feel certain that I will figure it out, but it’s going to take some time.  As cliche as it sounds, I’m going to volunteer, try new recipes, decorate my new home (on a teeny budget), and try to figure out this new version of me–whoever that is.  I’m going to rejuvinate or maybe even re-invent the girl I used to know.  Wish me luck!
PS: Anyone else notice how Spaces now lets us inbed our photos?  I’ve been having a little too much fun with that feature. 
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Nurse Meanie

What She Wore: you know what?  I’m not telling you.  It’s been kind of crazy around here, and I look like crap–just imagine me in something fabulous.

Ok, so everyone wants to know why the nurse yelled at my mother.  It takes a little explaining, but suffice to say it made an already stressful day a whole lot worse–and isn’t that what healthcare professionals are for?
I should back up and say that the nurse was a male ICU nurse.  Charlie was not in ICU; he was in a recovery unit.  For the uninitiated, ICU is for those in critical condition and recovery units are for people who should be healing nicely, but need to be monitored in some way.  Charlie was receiving mega-doses of intraveneous anti-biotics to help stave off any infections.  The other main difference between ICU and a recovery unit is the amount of responsibility placed on the nurses.  In ICU, the nurses are responsible for everything and parents are just visitors.  In recovery units, parents handle things like feedings and diaper changes, and sometimes even the administration of oral medications. 
Well, Charlie had an IV in his ankle of all places.  Every time he flexed his foot it would mess with the IV.  He had little pricks all over his hands, wrists, and feet, so I know they tried to find a better place, but it can be hard on a little guy like him. 
In the middle of the night Charlie started to fuss, so my mother got up to feed him.  I had BEGGED my mother to stay with me because I hate staying in the hospital by myself.  After she fed him, he began pumping his legs up and down like he had gas, so my mom picked him up to burp him.  At this point, she realizes that the bed is all wet.  She calls the nurse in to show him.  Apparently, the IV had come out and Charlie’s antibiotics were being pumped into the bed linens rather than his veins. 
He turns to my mother and says, "That’s why we don’t pick them up."
Never mind that the IV should be taped down to prevent that kind of crap.
Never mind that an IV in a baby’s ankle is a horrible idea.
Never mind that no one told me not to pick up MY OWN CHILD.
Never mind that we were already stressed out and last thing we need is some nurse yelling at us.
Never mind that yelling at her would not, in fact, magically get the IV back into his body.
My mom burst into tears and hid in the bathroom from the nurse until he left.  She then called my dad to pick her up at around three in the morning. 
Add to this the fact that the nurse shushed me when I was talking and I was hopping mad.  Lucky for the nurse, I was more tired than mad.
Still. . . the last thing I needed was all that drama.

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