Yesterday, however (make that Sunday), I actually heard something that made my problems matter much less, to me, at least for a little while. See, apparently there’s a family — husband, wife, four kids, wife expecting in November — who made aliyah with Nefesh b’Nefesh a few weeks ago — and the husband was promptly arrested and put in military jail for… something about which he had no idea. I don’t want to say too much because I don’t know that many details — but I know enough to say oh. My. Freaking. GOD. Too hellish to imagine. It’s like a horror movie. All kinds of highly connected people, including one of my most favorite people ever who is busting himself ragged working on this, are trying all kinds of things to get him out, but in the meantime, there he is. And when my friend who was telling me about this asked me “So, how are you doing?” all I could say was “Who cares? My husband isn’t in jail.” And I meant it.

Wow.

The girls finally start school on Tuesday. Then, they have off on Wednesday — and of course, Thursday, Friday, etc. until Monday. Why are they starting on Tuesday, just so they can have one day of school before they break for a week? I have no idea. Apparently it’s some unwritten law somewhere that you CANNOT start school before Labor Day. At least these two schools. My son’s school started last week.

I just ordered about $45.00 worth of snacks from Amazon.com. Nut-free, not packaged in a nut facility. PHEW. Gluten-free too, but the school doesn’t have rules about that (yet). My kids had BETTER freaking like these things. Packing their snacks is the bane of our existence. Ok, it isn’t as bad as homework, but WHAT a pain in the neck. If they like these things, our job will be a whole lot easier.

On Shabbos I looked at G and said “Ok, here’s how it’s going to work from now on. I’m going to complain all day and all night. I’m never, ever going to stop. Every time I open my mouth, I’m going to complain, and do nothing else.” He, of course, had the gall to suggest that this would not be such a change from what’s been taking place for the past several months, but I assured him he’s mistaken. It’s just third-trimester discomfort, that’s all. All I could think about when the third trimester started was how excited I was that it’s almost over — until my body caught up. Now all I can think about is that I still have weeks and weeks left, and that I’ll never survive. I did abandon my complaining policy, however (my new one, I mean; the old one is still in force), because I discovered it wasn’t helping. So I just complain as much as I did before, and no more.

Something so cute took place yesterday (again, that would be Sunday). My girls held their first ever lemonade stand outside on the front lawn. I didn’t take a picture, because my phone was missing for part of the time (the Boy got hold of it and shut it off, and I had no idea where he left it), and once I got it back, it needed to charge. But it was SO cute. At first I was mortified by the very idea, and I wanted nothing to do with it, and I couldn’t believe G was going along with it — buying lemons, helping set up, etc. — but once it was all set up, I found that I thought it was adorable, and not embarrassing at all, and I actually sat out there with them for a long time, chatting in a friendly manner with the beaming neighbors who came by and purchased plastic cups of lemonade (real lemonade, fresh-squeezed) for five cents a cup. And the weird thing was, G was the one who was too embarrassed to be anywhere near it. What a switch. Oddly, some of the neighbors gave more than five cents and refused change. Now why would they do that? Oh right; because my kids were so cute. The weather was stunning, too, and I had a great time being out there with them, until the plastic chair and I started to have some insurmountable disagreements, and I was forced to waddle inside and plant myself (back) on the couch. Feh. But I realized something. If I can do that — sit out there with them, beaming my head off while they have a lemonade stand — then I can totally have a yard sale. The only reason I haven’t had one all these years (believe me, it is not because I don’t have a house full o’ kaka that needs getting rid of) is because the idea makes me squirm. But after this? Squirm, shmirm. I can do anything. We’ll have to wait until next spring, of course, because when I say I can do anything, what I mean is “anything except walk or stand up or use my arms in particular fashions” (don’t ask), but all of that is going to change once this baby is born. BOY will it change. Just you watch.

On the list of things we don’t want to think about, last year at this time (on the Jewish calendar, that is), R was in the hospital after having big gigantic tics while at school. Fourth day (I think?) of second grade, she was taken to the hospital by ambulance, and all I could think was that of COURSE she was having another stroke. Duh; what else could it be? I almost whacked the ER doc when he said they weren’t giving her TPA because it wasn’t presenting like a stroke. He-llo? Kid (because, you know, he was like 24)? Don’t you try to tell ME when my child is having a stroke. We’ve been waiting for this since July. Of course she’s having a stroke. Now start TPA or you’re going to find yourself lying in that bed right next to her.

But of course, she wasn’t having a stroke (thank God), nor was she showing signs of “an unrelated tic disorder” (excuse me while I beat the pediatric neurology attending senseless), and not that the tender young ER doc knew this or anything, but TPA actually could have killed her. Heh. We found that out months later, however. That hospital visit was the one wherein it became clear as day that we were no longer going to rely on regular pediatric neurologists for R’s stroke care (especially one who, for all her clinical brilliance, happens to be the Wicked Witch of the Northeast), and sitting there with R on Erev Rosh Hashanah while we waited for the discharge, I got on my computer and investigated some rumors I’d heard, and lo and behold, SuperStroke, USA — aka a pediatric stroke program that was not in Columbus or San Francisco, though my husband, whose Google skills leave much to be desired, had us all believing that those were the only two pediatric stroke programs in the country. Heh. Close, but not quite. There’s another one — a better one — much, much closer to us, and I left two messages that day, and I emailed them, and I heard back from them on what I believe was the next business day. Something like that. And we eventually managed to wring R’s medical records out of the other hospital and get them sent to the stroke people, and they made us an appointment for December 14, only then they called and changed it to November 23, and now R still might die (God forbid) or something similar (God forbid), but you know what? She has the right kind of care. She is in the right hands. And the tics were not unrelated (take that, Wicked Witch).

Of course, dealing with the Wicked Witch was almost nothing compared to these idiotic battles I have to fight with the Board of Ed. Hey, Board of Ed! You know that legally binding document you signed in March and have been ignoring ever since? How would you like to fulfill your obligations to my daughter, before I get hold of YOUR brain arteries and show you what happens when the blood can’t get through? I finally got the attention of the Chief Jackdonkey, who was gleefully ignoring my emails — until such time as I pulled out the secret weapon that my friend told me about months ago but which I’d been saving for a special occasion, and I suggested (heh) to the Jackdonkey that the Board of Ed was violating R’s IEP. Heeheehee. Which they freaking ARE, of course. And you know what? Someone suddenly learned how to hit “reply” on his computer! Boy, was he peeved. Heh. But he don’t scare me. Not anymore. Because I’m right, and I have the law on my side, and they screwed my daughter over and they have no justification for it, and now that we’ve already engaged in the initial hostilities via email, the idea of actually calling him on the phone only makes me hyperventilate, rather than making me catatonic. Progress.

That’s enough of that. Been randomly adding to this post for two days. The girls got off ok this morning — I actually did manage to wake up and get them going, and then deal with the Boy until his ride came — but for me, it did not go well at all. I’m not recovered yet. I have no idea how this is supposed to work for the next, um, three months. And we’re going to stop there, lest we begin complaining again.

כתיבה וחתימה טובה. Let’s try for all good news this year.

Wednesday was my birthday. I would have posted the night before about how I wasn’t 36 yet, but I didn’t really care. Ever since I turned 35, I’ve figured I’m pretty much 40 already. G and I didn’t go out this year (my kids did bake me a chocolate cake, however ), partly because we’re broke, and partly because I don’t enjoy going out. I’m too uncomfortable, see. In fact, I’m too uncomfortable to enjoy doing much, except drugging up on my sleeping pill at night, because when it kicks in it gives me a really fun woozy feeling that always makes me giggle. Of course, I have to learn not to send emails or texts after I’ve taken it, because I’m not really coherent at that point, and several times I’ve woken up in the morning and discovered that I’d sent texts and emails of which I had NO recollection at ALL. Shudder. Thankfully, they’ve mostly been to BFFD, which erases any potential damage, but still. It’s creepy to discover that you’ve done things you don’t remember doing. Thankfully, I have yet to email the Board of Ed jackdonkeys when I’m in that state. Heh.

So instead of going out to dinner with my husband, I celebrated my birthday by waking up at 6:45 so G and I could get to an 8:30 meeting with the Board of Ed, about one of the things we had pending for R. Bizarrely, we hadn’t been in the room for more than 30 seconds before the woman informed us she was going to give us what we wanted, “because I had a stroke too, so I know what it’s about.”

???

Is it me, or is that a sort of strange reason to spend the Dept of Ed’s money? It seems like she didn’t examine the case at all, but that as soon as she saw the word “stroke,” she immediately went to the “yes” button. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not going to complain. I’m also not going to say what it was she gave us. And hey, if the Dept of Ed wants to employ people who give stuff to kids because they, themselves, have had strokes, well, that’s their business, isn’t it? But the whole thing was sort of surprising and surreal. And once again, I am very grateful to Hashem, and will be even more so if it actually works out this time .

Last Friday I experienced one of those pregnancy days wherein I woke up and nothing that had fit me the day before still seemed to fit. I remember that happening, literally overnight, the last three times also. So, enter size large maternity clothes. Yippee. Of course, the constant tendon pain, the even-worse heartburn, and the near constant difficulty breathing all began at the same time. And I have many many weeks left. And there was much rejoicing.

Speaking of Wednesday (my birthday, you know), the Boy started his toddler program on Wednesday. The relief of having him taken care of all day is so overwhelming that I don’t even have any head space left to wax wistful and nostalgic about how little and how big he is, and how he’s my baby, and how he’s never been away from me before, and blah blah blah. I’m sure I’m feeling all of that on some level, but the week since G started work has been such a nightmare, what with me being unable to care for the Boy and most people who can babysit not being available, that all I can feel about him starting school is that a very large burden has been lifted. Luckily, he appears to love going, so there’s that.

Sigh.

Speaking of burdens, G said to me the other night, “Did you know you have a large appendage attached to your body?” Funny guy.

I’m sure there are other things to write about. But I’m too cranky and tense. What can I tell you; this is how it’s been lately. But 25% of you said you wanted to hear me complain, so there you are. I aim to please.

Shabbat shalom.

Want to know what I learned about Ramirez, before I heard another nurse go into the waiting room and call MY name? I learned she was supposed to have her anatomical scan today. Luckily I figured out my mixup before I learned anything else. Hope her scan went well.

Maybe I should use this itty bitty bit of time to fill in more stuff about my vacation, such as things about the awesome Tennessee Aquarium, the boat ride in Tennessee that would have been awesome if my son hadn’t been mysteriously possessed by the devil, the rather un-awesome Hermitage (plenty of offense intended to President Jackson), awesome St. Louis, un-awesome St. Louis heat wave and the things we had to do to compensate for it (swim at my parents’ friends’ house, mostly, and hit a bunch of indoor gyms), and awesome Columbus, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, and AWESOME AWESOME Hershey Park.

Ok, I just did.

Remember the genetic testing they did on me, just because I’m a Jew? Remember how I’m a carrier for some stupid disease, and so they said they had to test G for it also? Remember how I thought the whole thing was a bunch of stupid alarmist waste of time crap? Well, next time I think that about something, remind me not to do it. Because apparently we have to pay some kind of percentage of the cost of the testing. And since G was tested also (he’s NOT a carrier; you can all relax now, since I know you were way more worked up about this than I was), we have to pay double. Do you know what we have to pay, total?

Well, I don’t think I should say, since for some reason anything relating to finances is supposedly more sacredly private than anything else in the world, and I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. But it’s a LOT, even by the standards of people who have not been unemployed for two years and are not trying to pay some meager percentage of yeshiva tuition. I’m telling you, I feel like Scarlett O’Hara when she found out about the tax money. I don’t have any besotted storekeepers to trick into marrying me, though, so I’m not sure where this money is supposed to come from.

If I may momentarily engage in a somewhat uncharacteristic sort of rant, why do things work this way? How and why on earth did I sign a consent for something to be done that I didn’t even really approve of and wasn’t really interested in, and how and why did G go do the same thing, with neither of us realizing that it was going to cost us… um… a lot of money? Instead of just signing sheets they stuck in front of me, I should have looked at the list of things they were going to screen for, and then not let them test for the things they tested me for already. You know, during one of my THREE previous pregnancies, when I also just signed stuff they stuck in front of me. Then, I should have researched the rest of the things they wanted to test for, and determined if there was any practical reason whatsoever to have those particular tests done. You know what? There would not have been. At least for the dumb disease I carry, there is NO practical reason to screen for it while pregnant, because there is NO risk to the mother if the child has that disease, there is NO in-utero intervention of any kind that can be done for the child if it has that disease, and NO medical benefit to be gained by the doctors knowing, immediately upon birth, that the child has the disease.

In other words, the sole reason to screen for this disease appears to be so the mother can decide if she would prefer to terminate the pregnancy rather than have a child with this disease. As far as I know, this is the case with the majority of the things they screen for (not all, but most).

Guess what? I wouldn’t terminate the pregnancy. So why did I do this? Why did I sign stuff and let them suck out my blood, and send G to sign stuff and suck out his blood, when I don’t even believe in what they’re doing, and without knowing that it was going to cost me… um… ten million dollars? There is something SO wrong with this picture. I am so tempted to just not pay it, and let the collections people come after me. Just wait; when they get here, I’ll tell them my name is Ramirez. But there’s no way out of this, because we did sign the consent, and we did choose to have it done. We can’t blame the lab for our own ignorance.

Feh.

The girls start school in… two weeks. Heh. G started work… um… today. Double heh. I’m largely incapacitated much of the time, in particular when it comes to needing to do things for my son (this was brought into sharp relief yesterday at the OB, but I won’t bore you with my pathetic stories). Babysitter Allison is only very erratically available, and very unpredictably, what with her mother being in the midst of chemo and her brother being severely disabled. My sister no longer lives here, and any potential babysitters have started school already, or start next week, i.e. before my kids. This leaves us, um, up a large creek? In moderate trouble? Something like that. The good news is that my son starts his toddler program in one week, not two. This doesn’t help with the girls, who obviously can’t be left home alone, but it does somewhat relax the desperate nature of the situation.

The individual at the Board of Ed (don’t get me started) who controls my daughter’s future and her potential for success and happiness (don’t get me started) and who said in July that he would “expedite” one of the things we have pending (don’t get me started) finally emailed at the crack of dawn this morning and said we have a meeting scheduled. This after only two calls from the principal (don’t get me started). The meeting is at one of the worst times of day possible, and we weren’t consulted about our availability or anything, but we’re going to take it, obviously, because if we don’t, well, let’s just say there’s a slim chance R might get what she needs some time before she goes on Social Security. Possibly we’ll bring all four of our kids with us. That ought to be fun. In the meantime, the OTHER stuff R needs has not been mentioned by anyone. I’m thinking I’ll send the guy another email today, suggesting that when we come for the meeting, we’ll just pick up the necessary forms while we’re there, assuming the blithering lumps who work for him (don’t get me started) manage to hit their “print” buttons by then. Perhaps I can even volunteer to hit the print buttons for them. “See? This is how it’s done. You moron.” Maybe I’ll bring a few feet of cast-iron chain and attach myself to the desk until the forms are in my hands. Perhaps I’ll even fake going into labor at the same time. If that doesn’t work, well, I confess to being out of ideas.

Guess what? My OB told me yesterday that I’d gained too much weight since the last visit. He isn’t concerned about my overall weight, mind you. Just the 9 pounds in 4 weeks thing. Know what else he said? “You look like it, too.” Heh. If he weren’t one of the most excellent people on the planet, I might swear at him right about now. As it is, I’ll just say this: Of COURSE I gained a lot of weight. I don’t do anything. I sit on my couch all day long. I just spent three weeks sitting in a car all day long. I also have a human being growing inside of me. I did forgo my ice cream last night, with difficulty, but I’m sorry, I’m not going to take any drastic steps to keep from gaining too much weight. If he doesn’t like it, he can slice it out of me when he slices out the baby.

Humph.

Time for lunch.

Heh. Shut up.

Greetings from Cleveland, Ohio, from my baby siSter’s house. I ain’t got no time to post. I’m already freaking out that I’ll forget everything we did each day and never finish the executive summary. But I had some editing to do, so I did it. You know. Stuff that pays comes first.

Tomorrow we drive to Pittsburgh and have lunch with dearly beloved friends. Then we drive to Carlisle, PA (again), and since I have no bunny rabbits this time around, I shan’t be informed of their deaths while we’re there. Then on Thursday we go to Hershey Park, where PLEASE GOD the weather will not be atrocious, as it was every blithering day that we were in St. Louis (not kidding. It was 98-100° EVERY DAY), and then we drive home late Thursday night. So, that’s that. More to come, hopefully some time before the next road trip.

Sunday, August 1: Drove to Baltimore and saw my grandmother, Savta Ruth, a.k.a. Dah-Oof, as well as BFFA, who came out to the horrible evil fast food restaurant with 50% of her children so we could all see each other. We’d been hoping to leave the house at about 11 AM. If I’m not mistaken, we left around 1:00. Not bad. Not bad at all. We arrived in Baltimore in time to eat dinner at the horrible fast food restaurant. My grandmother looks swell, baruch Hashem, albeit less swell than she looked before she had to be shipped off to assisted living. Feh. Continued driving until 1:30 AM, when we reached our hotel in Staunton, VA, which happens to be the birthplace of President Woodrow Wilson. Collapsed into hotel room bed wishing to die.

Monday, August 2: Drove the whole day until we reached Chattanooga, TN. Petted numerous dogs and used numerous bathrooms at rest stops. Witnessed the charming of numerous rest stop patrons and employees by my daughters and my son. Saw numerous red state-type bumper stickers that I wish I’d written down, because I don’t remember any of them now. Saw numerous billboards advertising gun shops. Repeatedly berated G for bringing me to the Deep South and trying to turn me Republican. Drove through/past two adjacent towns in VA called “Christiansburg” and “Blacksburg.” Made numerous jokes at the expense of the names of these towns. Listened to suggestions by girls that G should become the first rabbi in Christiansburg. Arrived in Chattanooga at 8 PM? Something like that. Sat poolside at hotel while girls swam and while scrawny, very friendly stray cat purred all around the pool, allowing everybody to pet her except ME. Got mad at Some Guy for suggesting the cat probably realizes that pregnant women should not be around cats (not stray ones, anyway). Ignored warning by Some Guy to stop using the power cord on my computer since it was emitting a burning smell (heh).

Tuesday, August 3: Woke up in Chattanooga and proceeded to freak out because there was a heat wave that was apparently the worst heat wave in several years. Temperatures are expected (see, I just switched tenses) to reach 98-100°. Heh. Visit Rock City Gardens with family even though I expect the heat to kill me. Rock City Gardens is up a mountain, and is full of cool, shady places, and is therefore not as bad as elsewhere in Chattanooga. Ergo I do not die, though I need to rest numerous times, and I immediately become drenched in sweat, and I do come close to blacking out once. Boy is adorable, girls are enchanted, everyone has a swell time.

Proceed to next outing, which is the “Incline,” a very steep train car that goes up the mountain, and then — wait for it — down the mountain. The train car is neither air conditioned nor ventilated, and as such all of us almost die. The train car is also sort of boring, AND we are sharing it with a large group of rowdy pre-teen children, who are loud, and many of whom have tattoos, at which the Boy points and loudly shouts “Boo-boo!” Heh. I see pictures of myself from Rock City Gardens and from the Incline and commence howling loudly about being a bloated, disgusting cow. Swear I will not be photographed again until I lose all the baby weight. Vow to remove myself from all pictures.

Return to hotel; eat lunch; put Boy to sleep; say goodbye to G and girls, who are leaving for Ruby Falls, the final attraction of the day. Use computer, including smelly, overheated power cord, to do some work for client until I feel too sick to continue. G and girls get back and gush about how beautiful Ruby Falls was. Girls and I go to the pool while G takes Boy to supermarket to refresh supplies. I sit poolside and chat on the phone with BFFD, while the girls bug me every three minutes about coming into the pool with them. Finally I get off the phone and go into the pool (in my clothes, of course). And then… something wonderful and magical happens. Suddenly, my heavy, bloated, uncomfortable pregnant belly is being supported by the water. I gasp in ecstatic shock. Between that and the relief from the nasty, sweaty, sticky heat, being in the water is wonderful. The girls are euphoric. G shows up briefly with the Boy, who first starts yelling to me to get out of the pool, and then starts yelling that he wants to get into the pool. I’m feeling so happy and refreshed that I tell G it’s ok to bring the Boy to the pool, and I’ll take care of him.

G and the Boy leave and come back ten minutes later, with the Boy in a t-shirt and a swimming diaper (G forgot he had a bathing suit). Boy proceeds to babble to everyone at the pool about his swimming diaper, which he points to enthusiastically. I take the Boy all around the pool, playing games, etc. He’s adorable and having a great time. Girls are also having a great time, especially RS, who has befriended the scrawny cat, who apparently frequents the hotel pool every night. Many hotel guests rave to me about how cute my kids are, and marvel at the fact that I have four. They marvel further when I tell them I’m having another one (they can’t see it, see, because it’s in the water). Boy points to a little girl who has just gotten out of the pool with her brother and her parents, and loudly says to me “What’s dat?” I am embarrassed, but luckily, here in the deep south, people tend to be friendly, so the family laughs. “That’s a girl who came to swim in the pool,” I tell my son, while smiling apologetically at the parents. The Boy has an inquiring mind, however, and next points to the brother. “What’s dat?” The family laughs harder. “That’s her brother,” I tell him, “and you should probably just let them swim.” The Boy ignores this and points to the brother again,and joyfully shouts “Belly!” It is impossible to ignore this or cover for it any way. It is quite clear what he said and why. I am forced to say, “Yes, that’s his belly” (the kid was wearing a bathing suit, see, and unlike my son, no t-shirt). The parents crack up, as do I, and I say to them “I’m so sorry.” I then say to the young man “Just ignore him. He does this to everyone.” (This is true, of course; my son is completely fixated on bellies. I blame the Nephew for this.) The young man looks, um, peeved. Heh.

We continue swimming for some time, then return to the hotel room, where I am feeling so energized that I am actually able to bathe my son, for the first time since early June, when I huffed and puffed afterwards for two hours. This time that does not happen. There must be something in that Chattanooga water. We eat dinner and put the kids to bed. I call my mother while G uses my computer to answer emails. Suddenly G says “WHOA!” and then “Miriam, it’s smoking!” Indeed, the computer power source is pouring out smoke. G yanks it up off the floor, at which point it is revealed that the carpet is also pouring out smoke. The fumes are horrible. I hang up the phone and yank the plug out of the wall. G carries the smoking power cord out of the room and outside so it will pour its smoke elsewhere. I pour water on the smoking carpet, which is now sporting a lovely black hole, and then I climb up on the bed and throw a hand towel over the smoke detector. If the smoke detector goes off, see, it will traumatize both RS and the Boy, like, for life. G returns. The cord has stopped smoking but is still hot, so we aren’t comfortable throwing it in the garbage. The stench is so bad I’m choking. I call my mother back and report what happened. She suggests leaving the door open to air out the smell. We do this; it appears to work. Eventually we go to sleep. (Yes, we told the hotel people about the carpet; they did not care in the least.)

Wednesday, August 4: The Boy turns into a devil monster from hell. Stay tuned.

• My pregnancy symptoms remove all of my energy
• My pregnancy symptoms remove all of my strength
• My pregnancy symptoms remove my will to live
• It’s too hard to post from my phone
• I would have used my computer but it stopped working after the power cord set fire to my hotel room (seriously)

Now, since arriving in St. Louis, I’ve received a new power cord (thank you, Some Guy ), but I’ve needed to use all of my energy, strength, will to live, and time on the computer to do some work for my most devoted and supportive client, who tossed me a few projects while I was on the road. Here are the benefits of having a devoted and supportive client:

• He’s always trying to find me more work
• I can write him things like “Ugh, the stuff you’re describing requires use of a brain. The fetus has eaten most of my brain”, and I can write him things like “This sentence makes no sense. You ought to stop letting trained monkeys do your writing.” And then when I set fire to my hotel room I can say things like “I’m not going to have computer access until I reach St. Louis, because my computer power cord blew up and set fire to the carpet in my hotel room.” Then when I have a horrible night and spend the next day huffing and puffing and lightheaded and unable to work, I can say to him “I’m quite sick and I don’t think I’ll be able to do any work today.” See, if this weren’t a devoted and supportive client, I wouldn’t be able to say any of those things, at least not in those words.

Speaking of which, I’ve got to get back to work. I’m skipping out on the trip to the Magic House, to which I have been approximately 17,000 times, and which has apparently been redone for the first time since I was five. Skipping out allows me to try to finish these assignments during my semi-conscious hours, see. I’m working on an executive summary of what we’ve done so far. Stay tuned, if you’re into that sort of thing.

7:30 AM: Woke up after a largely sleepless night, in spite of my having taken my pill at about 9:30 PM. Hoped BFFR remembered to have me in mind when she said chonen ha-da’at,  like I asked her to (I attribute all of my academic successes in high school and college to my having had extra kavannah during chonen ha-da’at on test days). Got dressed, etc.; ate three tuna melts for breakfast (usually I have six, but there was no time ) (under normal, non-pregnant circumstances, by the way, I HATE tuna melts); left with girls at about 8:30. Offered to let any of the girls, including the two carpool girls, take my exam for me, since the department administrator will be delivering it, and he has never met me before. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? I could have paid someone off! Someone who already has a master’s degree! YS immediately offers to take it, and says, by way of justification, “I’ve read 23 books.” This is just about all my kids know about this exam — that I was supposed to read 23 books. Heh. Apparently, any 23 will do.

9:15 AM: Dropped girls off at camp. Texted G that I chose to listen to a particular CD in the car because one of the individuals on it resembles my dearly beloved professor, and I figure it may bring some good karma. You know, just in case chonen ha-da’at fails me. G apparently never realized that they look alike, and was somewhat startled by the discovery (if you know my professor and you want to hear who I listened to, feel free to email me ). Proceeded to drive to Manhattan.

10:30 AM: Texted G the following: “Please find me nearest Dunkin Donuts. Coolatta needed badly.” G responds with a very nearby address (thank God!). Park car in old familiar lot, waddle two short blocks to Dunkin Donuts, purchase large (large) strawberry Coolatta, waddle back down the street drinking it, feeling thoroughly embarrassed by how huge and bright red it is, and by how huge (though not bright red) I am.

10:50 AM: Arrive in my former academic department. Gaze around fondly at everything, including the soft mushy gray couch that was new when I arrived in 1998. Wonder if that couch has ever been cleaned. Heh. Introduce myself to new department administrator (too late now; I’m going to have to do this myself after all), who sets me up in an empty office and hands me… my MA exam.

*cue dramatic music*

11:00 AM: Begin MA exam. Spend the next several hours drinking huge, bright red Coolatta while typing essays on computer. This is very exciting; I had assumed I was going to have to hand write them (shudder) in stupid blue books. The questions are laughably obvious. Imagine if someone told you to study Christie Brinkley’s biography, and then the questions they ask you are “What color is Christie Brinkley’s hair?” and “To which rock star was Christie Brinkley married?” See? Obvious. Although, while it is very likely that I could have answered these questions satisfactorily even before the limited studying I actually did, it is also quite clear that the studying helped. I find myself incorporating many things into my answers that I would not have thought to include if I hadn’t studied.

2:00 PM: Email completed exam to department administrator. Waddle back to parking lot while on the phone with G. Retrieve car. Realize there is no time to go home before pickup time at camp. Drive to camp while eating remaining three tuna melts (G packed them in foil for me ) (of course I had to scrape the cheese off the foil, but no big deal), munching on big bag of Kix cereal, and finishing Coolatta. Text G that Coolattas are not very good when melted and warm. Arrive at camp around 3:05. This is 40 minutes early. I sit in the car with the motor running (need the AC, see) and respond to emails on my phone while continuing to munch on Kix.

4:30 PM: Arrive home with girls. Waddle upstairs to change out of sweaty uncomfortable clothing. Adrenaline rush that has apparently gotten me through this day abruptly disappears and I crash onto my bed, feeling like roadkill.

4:50 PM: Phone makes “new email” sound (actually, it’s the same as the text message sound, the IM sound, and the voice mail sound. I have not yet figured out how to change this). I look at my email and see that I have been cc’ed on an email my professor sent to the department administrator. Email reads as follows:

Miriam passed her exam.

Well, that was quick. I forward the email to G, and proceed to hide under my blanket. This is what I often do when there is good news that I don’t know how to deal with (also, I still felt like roadkill).

So, there you have it. Miriam passed her exam. Remember how I said last July that I was going to get my MA (after only twelve short years) (heh) in January, because I’d passed my French exam? Then remember how I found out that contrary to what I’d been told, I also had to take a comp exam? Well, I took it. Apparently my gamble on my former knowledge, my writing ability, and my nice professor, combined with the small amount of studying I actually did, paid off. So now, all I have to do is wade through several miles of godawful paperwork, and maybe, some day, I’ll have a few (more) letters after my name.

Yay, me.

We leave for our trip on Sunday. We’re hoping to leave before lunch, which presumably means we’ll leave around 8:00 PM. Heh. I’m both excited and apprehensive about this trip. Here’s hoping it goes well. I hope to post from the road, as I did last year.

Speaking of last year, tonight and tomorrow are the first yahrtzeit of G’s beloved cousin. Yeah. There’s something to write about. May her memory continue to be a blessing.

Yesterday some lovely and wonderful old friends who are visiting from Israel stopped by with pizza, and with their four children — one of whom has been corresponding with RS over email, and two of whom are seven year-old boys who were absolutely wonderful to my wide-eyed, adoring son (the fourth is an adorable four year-old girl with the cutest, blackest curls you have ever seen). It was noisy and terrific in every way.

Tuesday was not a great day, because my baby siSter and her family left us and went hopping off to their new house in Cleveland.  Adjustments, anyone? I haven’t yet tried to explain this to the Boy, who fully expects to see all of them any day now, and has asked for them more than once, as is his usual habit. Sucks.

My father is not, for the moment, having surgery. Apparently they’d do the surgery “if he were young and strong.” I beg your pardon. Who’s calling my father not young and strong?? But instead, they’re giving him yet more antibiotics and such of that sort. There appears to be a bunch of stuff festering inside his ear, see, that doesn’t necessarily belong there. We can now all add that to the list of things we don’t want to think about (no, it is not cancer, just stuff. Icky stuff).

My grandmother has moved to assisted living. Speaking of things we don’t want to think about. It’s about time I penetrated my denial and called her already. I don’t think I’ve gone this long without calling her since I was in college. It’s completely unnatural. It’s just that every time I try to call her, I have what approaches a full-fledged panic attack. But I’m going to have to do it anyway, if for no other reason than that we plan to visit her on Sunday, and she really ought to know about it first.

Elaine (Babysitter Allison’s mother) already had surgery, which appears to have been successful, but just for fun, they started pumping her full of chemo today anyway. This will go on for some time. If anyone wants to whisk Babysitter Allison off to Bermuda for the entire month of December, don’t be shy. Assuming she makes it that far, she’s going to really, really need it. (P.S. She will make it that far, and farther, because that’s how she is, but still: Bermuda.)

After my third email which repeated, in bold type, a question that I’ve been asking for over a month (that question being, whom do I contact regarding Dumb Board of Ed Form #2), the big fat Dept of Education moron finally responded and told me who to contact (if that’s supposed to be “whom,” I don’t want to know). To be fair, it’s understandable that it took him so long to respond; after all, he did have to give me somebody’s name. Their first name and their last name. I mean, really; does the guy look like he’s made of time? So I got the name. Next step: Calling all three of these maniacs in early August, like they told me to. And God help us all if they don’t do the jobs for which they get paid, and send me what I need in time for all of R’s services to start on the FIRST day of school. I’m going to bulldog them all into oblivion. You’ll see. (so will I)

I think that’s all. My pill is totally kicking in. Mmmm. Roadkill notwithstanding, this was overall a fairly positive day.

“You’ll get your body back,” a friend reminded me the other day, when I was howling about my helplessness and about how I’m never going to be able to do anything, ever. My body back? What do you mean? What body? Oh, this? This bloated, painful, lumbering thing that occasionally twitches and jumps so as to remind me that something is growing in there?

“No offense to God or anything,” I’ve been known to say, “but this is a very poorly designed system.” In my opinion, of course.

Know what else my friend told me (this is a friend I don’t speak to often enough, but who always knows everything)? That I shouldn’t berate myself for my inability to be a bulldog with the DOE (speaking of bloated, painful, poorly designed systems…) when it comes to advocating for R. That being a bulldog doesn’t come naturally to me, and I shouldn’t feel like it should suddenly be easy when the party in question is an unhelpful stranger who is part of a horrible huge bureaucracy whose inefficiency borders on surreal, and who happens to hold my daughter’s future/happiness/whatever in its hands.

YEAH! THAT’S RIGHT! I DON’T HAVE TO MAGICALLY TURN INTO A BULLDOG, GOSHDARN IT! AND I CAN USE EMAIL IF I WANT TO! THERE’S NO LAW THAT SAYS I HAVE TO USE THE PHONE!

It sort of makes me giggle when I resend an email that I just sent the day before. I usually give the maniacs around 24 hours to respond, and then I resend it, with an edited subject line (”second email”), and a little intro that says politely “I am resending the email I sent yesterday, below. Looking forward to your response.” Pain in the bloated, lumbering hindquarters, I am, but so far, I don’t care. I’ll probably care the first time I get snapped at, but that hasn’t happened yet.

Of course, I sent an email Thursday, and resent it today (Monday), and the jerk still hasn’t responded. I’m going to have to bulldog it eventually, I suppose. You answer this email, or I’ll… send it again! Be gone, or I shall taunt you a second time! Which comedian was it who mocked the Scotland Yard for not carrying guns? Stop! Or I’ll… say stop again!

How many times have I announced on this blog that denial is a bad idea and that it doesn’t work? Has the message sunk in with you yet? Because it hasn’t sunk in with me. There I am, in denial, not even realizing I’m in denial — because it’s denial, see — when suddenly I find myself sitting in my parked car outside Trader Joe’s, crying myself into unconsciousness while the clock ticks happily by. Um, Miriam? You need to get home. Babysitter Allison has to leave, G has to make a bunch of stops and the girls have to be picked up. But I can’t go home; I’m busy crying. Also swearing, out loud, at God.

Have you hit a low point when you start swearing at God? I mean super-swearing. Yes, use your imagination; that is what I mean by swearing. And when I say “at” God, I mean at God. I do not mean to God. I mean swearing at God, spitting out bile as if God was the umpire who made the Cardinals lose the ‘87 World Series. (Some might say He was, but those people are usually Twins fans.) I might have thought the swearing at God was the low point — when rather un-Orthodox (never mind un-rabbi’s wife) phrases were coursing through my head at God during last month’s TIA — but I found a lower point, I think, which is when I suddenly discovered I was threatening God.

???

Hey God! Stop, or I’ll… say stop again!

Um, hello? How exactly does a human being threaten God? This isn’t ancient Greece, you know. It’s not like I can say I’m going to withhold the hecatombs (I learned the word “hecatombs” back when I used to be in graduate school). But there I was nevertheless, looking at some drawings R had made, and suddenly I heard myself muttering something at God that started with the words “You’d better…”

??? Color me perplexed. What exactly is that supposed to mean, when directed towards… um… the Lord, Creator of heaven and earth? And creator of my daughter, and of strep pneumococcal strain number whatever-the-heck-it-was? You know they vaccinate for that strain now? Of course, we don’t know for sure which one it was, since the culture got lost between the stupid moron hospital and the other stupid moron hospital mailroom (I do not call the second hospital “stupid moron”), but our pediatrician buddies say there’s a “most likely candidate.” So, yippee. They vaccinate for it, now. Thanks. That’s swell. So my currently gestating child will not get that particular type of Psycho Evil Pneumonia From Hell, nor will it have that kind of stroke. Excellent.

Of course, it could die from something else. Or almost die, rather. Twice, three times, four times… depends how you measure. Bleeping stuff was out of R’s body for eight months, and it still managed to give her a stroke. Did I ever explain that? Did I ever blog about what Dr. SuperStroke thinks happened? Well, she thinks that when R had the Psycho Evil Pneumonia From Hell, it might also have given her meningitis, which was not tested for at the time, and the meningitis is what kicked her internal carotid artery (psst: that particular artery is located inside one’s brain) into starting to narrow. Or, since we do know that the Big Bad Pneumococcal entered her bloodstream, and she did have pericarditis, perhaps a clot formed in her heart and traveled to her brain (you know, her brain), and that is what caused the inflammation and the narrowing. We’ll never know for sure, but it doesn’t much matter, does it. The point is, something whacked her arteries, and then she had a stroke. Or three. TIAs are like little itty bitty strokes, and she had two of those. So far. She could be having another one, or another stroke, right now, of course. Hey God, you’d better….

Heh.

The really funny thing was, I swore in the same sentence. As in, my threat to God not only seemed to think it was threatening God, but it also contained a very, very, very bad word. So, I swore, and threatened God at the same time. Kiddush!

What happened, exactly? It’s not like I wasn’t angry before the most recent TIA. But I wasn’t just waxing fluffy, either, when I said all those times that I was so overwhelmingly grateful to God. I was. It was real. There was anger and horrible pain, etc., too, but my primary God-related reaction was “Thank you.” Because there was, and is, so much to be grateful for. I know how easily it could have been much, much worse, every time. But last month, it somehow all flipped, and suddenly all I can do is seethe and swear. Maybe it’s the confluence of pregnancy symptoms, and TIA — again, when she hadn’t had anything in so long — plus major DOE jackdonkeys making our lives absurdly more difficult than necessary. Maybe it’s all the excruciating ways in which she’s different, and how pronounced it’s been. Maybe it’s the stroke anniversary passing. G and I were both sorta basket cases that week. Heh. Maybe it’s all of the above. But dang, I’ve been mad. And I’ve been crying in parking lots, and I’ve been swearing and threatening God.

Sigh.

Speaking of emails that don’t get answered, I’m taking my MA exam this week (ha), and I emailed my professor to ask how he recommends I spend the next few days. Should I reread this, or this? Anything in particular he suggests I focus on? He hasn’t responded yet. Feh. Having spent many years dealing with irritating students, I try very hard not to be one myself, but I don’t think this email puts me in that category. I’d say it’s just shy of irritating student. And yet he does not respond. In the meantime, I have three books here with me on the couch, and you mark my words, I’m going to open at least one of them. Don’t try to stop me. Or I’ll say stop again.

The thing with driving carpool and being stuck in horrible traffic for over an hour when it’s over 90 degrees outside and you’re pregnant and spitting and you use up all the tissues and can’t reach the other box, is that if you had just listened to the traffic report instead of texting with your friends while waiting 20 minutes in the carpool line, then you would have known to take the Tappan Zee instead of the GW, and you would not, at this very moment, be sitting in your bed groaning and trying not to hurl.

Ugggghhhhh….

The good news, however — no, make that the OH MY GOD THANK YOU THANK YOU news — is that the car air conditioner worked beautifully the whole time, AND we did not run out of gas, though the light did go on. What would I have done? Seriously, what would I have done? Without the AC I probably would have fainted. For real. No iMiriam hyperbole. I suspect I would have fainted. So — thank God.

Anyway, according to the traffic report, which I did turn on once we were stuck and there was no way out, there was a 12-vehicle accident on the inbound upper deck of the GW. And of course, there’s no option to take the lower level when on the Palisades Parkway, which is where we were. When we heard that report at 4:21, they said only one lane was getting by. When we actually arrived on the bridge at 5:08, all the lanes were open and we saw no accident. So I’m assuming either the radio station LIED, or that the accident was cleared while we were crawling along. I asked the toll booth dude if anyone was hurt, and he didn’t know. I do hope not. And I have to say, the girls acted like champs the whole time. No whining, nothing. They played games and sang songs and made up their usual hypothetical situations and asked me about them, and marveled with me at the idea of a 12-vehicle (7 cars, 5 trucks, per 1010 WINS) accident. Mind you, RS and carpool girl #1 weren’t with us, since tonight is their overnight at camp. RS won’t be sleeping over, however. She doesn’t do that. So G will be going to pick her up tonight at 9:00. Fun. She will have participated in extra swim, a cookout, and… a hike in the woods. She was freaking out about this hike for about two hours last night, when she was supposed to be sleeping. 8:30-10:30. I kid you not. I encouraged her to go because “hiking can be fun”, but I have a strong feeling she isn’t going to love it. She’s more of what we might call an indoor girl. Heh.

Here is a list of things that are too upsetting to think about, so I try not to think about them, but that approach isn’t working.

Dept of Ed maniacs. I am going to kill them all. There are no words. Frustration does not begin to describe it. And apparently the only way to get anything out of them is to be a bulldog, which I am not. I can sometimes morph into one, but I haven’t yet, at least not for this, and time is ticking. The new school year will be underway in like five minutes. Know what? I hate everything.

My grandmother. Major end of an era, we think. Going to assisted living after rehab. We call what I’m feeling “denial.” I can’t accept it, so I pretend it doesn’t exist. Healthy, no?

My sister is leaving. Next week, like. Taking my non-baby brother and my niece and nephew and moving to Cleveland. Talk about denial. I suspect bad, bad things will happen once we’re back from our road trip and it actually hits me that she’s gone.

My dear friend Single Dad (aka “Some Guy”) has been through seven levels of hell with the supposed people supposedly in charge of the supposed care of his severely disabled daughter — and, it keeps getting worse. I didn’t think anything could make me as physically ill as the welts the maniacs gave her by accidentally putting her elbow braces on backwards (oops! so sorry! won’t happen again! bah-bye now!), but some of what’s taken place since she started her summer program has actually been just as bad, or perhaps worse. I’d list some of it but I’ll throw up. I will say this though — everyone should have a father like him. The world would be a much (MUCH) better place.

Very bad car accident with very bad consequences for the friend of a friend in Israel. It’s one of those things you just don’t think about because it’s just that horrible, and you know it could just as easily happen to you or someone you’re close to, and you don’t know what to think or feel, so you don’t think or feel anything, because since it didn’t happen to you or someone you’re close to (yet), you have that choice.

Right.

I take my MA exam next week. Heheheh. Maybe, maybe I should study, once the heartburn subsides, I mean (HAHAHA). What do you think?

Let’s think positively for a moment. Hmmm. Oh wait, I can’t, the Boy is yelping for me. I’ll get back to you with some positive thinking next time.

YS’s glasses broke on Tuesday. R’s broke yesterday. So that’s two days and three days, respectively. I don’t have a good feeling about this.

Spoke to two people yesterday from the NYC Dept of Education. The first one seems not to have read her job description. Not only did she call me back, but she did so almost immediately – and she started the conversation with “Now, what can I do for you?”

-???- What’s that all about??

Unfortunately, what she could do for me was transfer me to someone else, since she doesn’t directly handle the thing we need done. Sigh. Luckily, the person to whom she transferred me restored my faith in the DOE. She answered the phone with an unintelligible, snappish grunt; as soon as I said “Hi, this is Miriam B. So-and-so transferred me –” she cut me off abruptly and said “WHO is this?” — and the conversation progressed nicely from there. Heh. Cut off almost everything I said, and everything she said back to me was snapped in an impatient manner that clearly told me that first of all, I had no business being on the phone with her, and second of all, I was an idiot for suggesting that I ought to be able to acquire the things I was calling to acquire. I was polite and cheerful the whole time, and managed to get some information out of her, but BOY OH BOY am I not going to deal with HER again. Nor am I waiting, as she told me to, until August 20 to call again. August 20, my…. Heh. You see what I’m saying. I told G that this person didn’t sound like she would in any way respond to “Oh yes you will send me those forms. The DOE has been in direct violation of the IEP and my daughter’s rights have been violated…” yadda yadda. So I intend to aim higher. With a crossbow, if necessary.

[P.S. I am all talk. So far, anyway. But maybe if I talk enough, someone will listen.]

Got the info I needed about my MA exam. Now I need to schedule it. Then I’ll take it, and maybe I’ll pass. Actually I’m fairly certain I’ll pass, but I’m still scared out of my wits. Because what if I don’t?

Ta ta for now.