Homeschool, schmomeschool.

Since I appear to be wallowing in my own self pity today and unable to do anything else, I’m going to get this out of the way:  one year ago tonight I had to call an ambulance.  I had to hold Ella so she wouldn’t be scared when they brought the gurney into our living room.  I had to look into the open but not-comprehending eyes of my husband having a seizure in the very chair that my butt is planted into at this very moment.  Oh, and I was T minus 14 hours to having my gallbladder removed.

So there’s that.

This is the night that they found brain tumors.  Tomorrow is the day they started radiation.  Saturday is Amelia’s birthday.

I have this yucky feeling in my gut, much like I felt post surgery.  Could be all the baked beans at dinner.  Could be the generalized monthly ickyness.  Could be that the meds aren’t working anymore (which I suspect but I added a B complex to my day and it helps a little bit). 

Or it could be the time of year in which all children irritate the absolute snot out of their mothers and need to be in school again.  Because that’s my kid.  And the next two weeks will not go fast enough.  I know I shouldn’t push her into growing up.  I know that kids have so many years of school ahead of them and that I shouldn’t be in a hurry.  But my kid?  Had better get to school before I do something not very nice.  The littles are screeching, hair pulling, kicking little brats and they need to separated.  “If you kids don’t knock it off I’m turning this car around…”

Actually, the only time we are all at peace is in the van, going somewhere.  Given the economy (that would be my lack of economy to tell the truth), we shouldn’t be going anywhere but a 20 minute trip to Target not only provides 40 minutes of time-not-being-touched  but also has all the retail therapy that we can handle.  The littles are, oddly enough, really good shoppers.  They are calm and happy.  The generally don’t whine their way through stores although Ella will stop to look. at. everything.  Seriously?  It’s a box of dryer sheets.  I’m pretty sure you’ve seen that before.

We are intimate with the UPS man again.  That’s the beauty of living away from relatives at birthday time.  Lucy came to live with us today, courtesy of Auntie Monica.  Isn’t she cute?  I keep meaning to make the girls dolls but I’ve never worked up the guts to make something that complicated.

My head is foggy.  I’m sure it’s because I’m tired since I can’t seem to get to bed on time.  I’m overwhelmed by the disaster that my living areas have become.  Seriously?  The littles are injuring themselves with their own junk.  And I have my nose buried in my new favorite book and can’t be disturbed long enough to hide the markers, retrieve an almost full box of Cheddar Jack cheezits that is about to be dumped onto the carpet or fold the four loads of laundry that is occupying space on my couch. 

I certainly hope that school is the answer.  I shouldn’t place too much stock in a place that smells like graham crackers and fish food but I have to hold out hope for something to change.


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