{Originally posted at Missives From Suburbia}

The Ambassador is a notoriously picky eater. More so than the average two-year-old from what I gather by comparing notes with my mom friends. I’m sure it’s a stage. Well, I hope it’s a stage, and he hasn’t inherited my father’s abysmal taste in food (everything dry, please, and burn if it you have the time, thanks). I suppose we’ll find out in about 20 years or so.

But really, it’s bad. The Ambassador won’t even touch the usual kid foods. No chicken fingers, no hot dogs, no pizza, no spaghetti, and let’s not discuss condiments of any kind. We’ve resorted to things like boxed mac & cheese, Hamburger Helper — which I’d never even tasted before a couple months ago — and our current fallback, Taco Bell’s Beef Combo Burritos.*

Truth be told, Hubby does end up taking the kid out to lunch more than I do, but that’s because I’m too lazy to leave the house most days, not because Hubby is any less concerned about The Ambassador’s nutritional well-being. Anyway, knowing how often they dine out together, it didn’t surprise me the other day when we swung by the Taco Bell in midtown Minneapolis (aka, the Taco Bell voted most likely to be held up at gunpoint), and Hubby said, “Hey! That’s the pimp and the hooker I told you about last time we were here!” Uhhh… refresh me on that one, honey?

{originally published on Because I’m The MOM}

When I started this blog I wanted it to be about my family, one of whom has special needs. What I didn’t want was a Special Needs Blog. I realized though, that to ignore Thomas’s story altogether means that there are things I can’t say because they wouldn’t make sense. So here you go.

When I got pregnant with Thomas I was considered high-risk because I was 36. My ob-gyn suggested that I have the 11-week Nuchal Translucency Test. No problem, I thought, this just goes along with being a little older. I have to say though, that every time someone said “advanced maternal age” within earshot I wanted to smack them sideways and shout “I’m not FIFTY for God’s sake. I’m 36! I’m YOUNG.”

About 2 minutes into the test I saw the sonographer’s face go still and she got very quiet. Not a good thing. She summoned the doctor, a very kind man with a very serious face, and he told me that there was a 50% chance there was something genetically wrong with my baby. Probably something like Down’s Syndrome. My husband and I were devastated, of course, and thus began my running of a veritable gauntlet of tests for the next 24 weeks. The thing is, EVERY SINGLE TEST came back normal. Chorionic Villus Sample? Normal. Multiple in-utero echocardiograms of Thomas’s heart? Normal. Ultrasound after ultrasound? Normal. The doctors were elated, but deep inside I knew there was still something wrong.

{Originally Published in Cafe Philos.}

It occurs to me this morning you might be wondering how someone would have gone about buying a Playboy in a small American town in the early 1970s — and get away with it. Of course, that was back when buying a Playboy in a small backwards town could break your reputation, so getting away with it was key.

Now, I don’t recall how old I was when I bought my first Playboy. Older than 16, at least. So long ago some of the details that never mattered to me anyway now escape me.

I do, however, recall that I bought my first Playboy at Potter’s Drugstore, and that Old Man Potter himself rang up my purchase. Old Man Potter owned and operated one of two drugstores in my pathetically small town of 2,000 people where it seemed everyone knew everyone else. And here’s what I recall about buying that Playboy:

I recall I began sweating the moment I picked it out of the magazine rack, and I began blushing the moment I handed it to Old Man Potter at the check out counter. The only two people in the whole store at the time were Old Man Potter and me — I had carefully seen to that — but I nevertheless felt like the eyes of the entire community were upon me.

For a moment, everything seemed to go smoothly. I handed the Playboy to Old Man Potter; Old Man Potter took the Playboy; he looked at the price just like he would any other magazine: and then he entered the price into his cash register. Smooth. Normal. I was almost about to breath again when suddenly he said, “I’ll be right back. I have to make a phone call.” Then he dashed off to the back room with the Playboy still in his hands.

I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I didn’t stop blushing. I didn’t stop sweating…

Originally published on Mother of Confusion

My son was born after midnight during the cooler days of May, before the Central Valley could blaze triple-digit temperatures.

The delivery room was packed full of people. The doctor, several
nurses, my husband, my parents and my mother-in-law were in attendance.
As my son emerged into the world, I expected him to gasp and then cry
about the abrupt ejection.

He did not.

Instead he was quiet and blue. The umbilical cord was wrapped around
his slender neck several times. Of course I didn’t know that yet, but
the jubilant faces of the others gave way to peaked, pinched
expressions.

When I asked what was wrong. The response was, “Nothing. Everything’s okay. It’s okay.”

The reassurances scared me. I was only 20-years-old, but already I knew people lied when things were really, really wrong.

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Originally Published on Blue Yonder

You know, I really try very hard to keep our lives simple.

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