Not a Good Sign

Maybe this is just me, but is there a set time when we finally realize that we're nothing special?

I can't speak for you, because you may well be (and probably are) something quite special.

This is my blog, tho, and I am just now figuring out my personal and absolute dearth of specialness.

I'm too damned old to hurt like this.

That Which Grace Does Not Erase

Am not complaining. Am simply noting, for the sake of those who may be misinformed, that Grace does not erase exhaustion. No sir, it does not. And again, I am not selling Grace short, because it saved my tattered old ass, but gawdern, I am one tired piece of nothing sweet. Like there is thunder riding on my shoulders. Like my blood is full of very, very wet sand. Or maybe one of those morning baby pee diapers--you know the ones--so heavy you totally miscalculate the trashcan toss and it fwaps the floor and you just know that such mass does not exist without some sort of damage. (How gross is that? but in no way hyperbolic. Sad. I know).

Perhaps I will start taking care of my old self again. No promises, but you know. Perhaps I will shield my eyes and go into the sunlight and that awful sandy/diapery wetness will begin to dry a bit. That would be more Grace, now wouldn't it? Perhaps I will overcome the distance between the compost pile and the vegetable garden without needing gatorade at the clothesline. That would be so cool, so freaking cool.

Yeah, I am still so topped off with worry and stress that I can feel the bubbling in my head. We have economy issues, house issues, health issues, co-pay issues, marriage issues, schedule issues, what-about-me- should be-thinking-about-graduate-school-by-now issues (that one is mine alone, btw) but I think that for tonight I will focus on the compost to garden thing.

Baby steps. With Grace holding my sticky silly little hand.

And with Grace comes Humor

We have a mirror in one of the gardens--not like it's Ladew Topiary or anything, but since more gardens=less mowing, we have a lot of gardens and one of them has a damned mirror in it. There. Now we all understand.

Anyway, I'm looking out the window watching LRHF doing the LRHF show in front of the mirror, it's a saucy blend of current events, topical humor, and Blues Clues references (seriously, I have no idea what it's about but I'm pretty sure that's what he thinks it's about. ) And he's got a pad and pencil on the picnic table beside him. And he's looking in the mirror saying, "Clap LRHF. Clap. " First, he'd model the behavior and then he'd request it of himself. For freaking heaven's sake the boy is playing ABA therapy on himself. He'd run a trial and then make some notes on his pad. Get very pleased when he responded correctly. Rather stern when he didn't. I thought I'd fall down. He's pretending to be his doctor, for crying out loud. I can't even say what this means, but I find it oddly sweet and just chock full of higher level thinking. So I can't complain.

Well, not about that, anyway. You know how I am.

There is Grace

Oh....Amen.
That Hand of God is really something. As busy as God must keep Himself, He stepped down to me. He laid such Grace, such bright shining glorious Grace before me that I cannot yet even think or speak. And you know that it must be a God thing if I am speechless. Thoughtless comes around pretty regularly, but speechless is like Haley's Comet.

I know that my tattered old sticky bits of soul aren't worth the carbon they're wrapped in, but my son--he is more than worth it--he is freaking worthy.

Aaaaand so

My father said yes.

My son is a proud Hope owner now, and I think maybe he might let me use it too.

Oh, Amen.

Please Leave a Message at the Tone

Had a drink. Ran over the annotated notes. Ran over them again. Had another drink. Not big drinks, just, you know, drink drinks. Thought maybe I should practice on someone first. Decided that might take too long and the anxiety might get pushy with with drink(s) about who was the line leader.

Called Dad.

Got the machine. Left veeeeryyyy sloooow and wellll spaaaced messsage so he could get to the phone...(cordless phones give you brain cancer, you know)

Nothing.

Ah well, I'd hate to have nothing for tomorrow, right?

The High Cost of Hope

Please don't misunderstand me.

This is a break in the clouds. This is handpicked by God for LRHF. Excellent therapies with excellent outcome. Intensive and on-site. One realistic and remarkable doctor overseeing a hand-picked therapist working big-chair-to-little-chair with LRHF because, because, because LRHF, my beautifullest most blessingest baby, wants to come out and play. And that's not just me mommy-talking. That's what the smart folk think.

This is what must be, what is necessary, and what will work.

This is what will cost $32,000.00 a year.

(Do you hear that? that's my insurance company still laughing, or maybe just pissed off at that last post--the one where I got a little pissy w/them)

As I say, don't misunderstand me. This is a good deal. Seriously. This is the best I am going to do to achieve the best for my LRHF.

But Holy Freaking Batshit (sorry Jenny, but you know you're thinking the same thing), that's a lot of money and Hope is not something that will ever, ever go on sale and even if it did, what child should wait? Not mine. I mean, not yours either, but definitely not mine.

So then, oh yes Lawd, I will sell my second-rate soul. And you would do just the same if you had a LRHF.

Yes. You know you would.

And now I am collecting data and research on this therapy and this doctor and the exponential relationship between frequency of therapy and successful outcome. I am practicing my bestest wordiness to explain to my father that this is Hope. This is the means by which his grandson will have his path eased, even just a tiny bit, one less pebble, one less hill. This is all I want for him--I cannot want what I don't know, but I know that I want this Hope.

Umm...I've never done this before, btw. Asked (well, begged really) my father for such things. Was not raised this way, was not entitled. We've discussed the possibility, but it involved what is essentially LRHF's education money, not my father's damn-well-as-I-please money. This new thing never crossed my silly mind. Until I had a LRHF. And some really sad projections about plasma donation.

So here we are. And I think, I think that with the Hand of God on my back, I can do it. Or He can get me up to it, because don't think for a moment that I don't know Who is really pulling me out of the puddle for this. I think, too, that it is oddly possible that this same Hand will move over my father's heart for this child he's seen twice.

No matter what I think--I can do no other but ask. (Seriously, God, just how many flavors of scared do You make? And who knew there'd be such a freaking buffet?)

And girding that 32k Hope is this sticky whispery prayer--

Keep Your Hand firm at a mother's back, soft on a grandfather's heart, and forever on a little red head.