Omne vivum ex ovo... All life comes from an egg

We all survived and thrived on Easter this year which marked the anniversary of a very sad day.  I can't believe three years have past since I last saw my father.  With each passing day, I miss him more.  My grief does shift and change, though.  I no longer sob like my heart just got ripped out of my chest.  But I still cry for him out of the blue.  Sometimes I just long to hear his voice.  I wish I could hear him tell one of his bad jokes.  I wish I could see him smile.  I wish he could give me advice.  I wish I could see him speed into the driveway in his Cadillac.  And I miss hearing music being played at his house.

Having the anniversary fall on Easter this year made me ponder death and life in a more spiritual way than usual.  We had just celebrated the most sacred holiday in church that morning and Fischer was an acolyte for the first time.  All the children brought flowers into the sanctuary and during the children's sermon, they all stepped forward and placed flowers in a giant cross.  Even Nicholas participated, carrying long stems of orange lilies.  A retired doctor gave his first children's sermon and there were certain things about his mannerisms that reminded me of Daddy.  He told the stories about the pine tree and the dogwood and passed around samples.  It seemed like the kind of sermon Daddy would like to share.

Easter is my favorite holiday.  It is my favorite day period.  I freely admit I have a real thing for Easter egg hunts.  My sisters and I amused ourselves by hiding plastic eggs inside the house for each other all year long.  When it rained, or when we were bored, we had Easter egg hunts.  Mama never filled the eggs and it wasn't until I was an adult and Jolie was going on her first Easter egg hunt that I realized you could put candy inside of them.  It was a whole new ball game.  A revelation.  I don't think we ever had egg hunts at school or church when I was little.  So I never knew.  Perhaps I am just one slow girl.  But from that point on, I made sure I put candy in each one when I hid them for Jolie all year long, on days when it was rainy or when we were bored.  The Easter Bunny can do his thing filling the basket, but the egg job is mine.

After church, we drove to Mama's house and had lunch.  My sisters and their families were there too.  We all swam in the pool afterwards but I was being dumb and doing a flip under water when I messed up the tube in my ear and got really disoriented.  When my husband and my brother-in-law ushered me out as I was in extreme pain and panic and laid down to get the water out of what felt like my brain, I got stung by a freakin' bee.  I went inside and took some Benedryl, and then snuck out the front door while no one was watching and hid six baskets full of eggs for my children, my niece, and my nephew.  Come hell or high water, we were going to have an Easter egg hunt.

Eggs have been a symbol of new life for eons.  Eggs are part of my roots.  See the first picture up there of my Daddy as a baby playing at my great grandfather's chicken hatchery?

"Just as the chick breaks out of an egg, so had Jesus broken free of the tomb of death. Easter eggs remind us that Jesus conquered death and gives us eternal life.” --
www.homeschoolshare.com/legend_of_the_easter_egg.php

"From earliest times, and in most cultures, the egg signified birth and resurrection. The Egyptians buried eggs in their tombs. The Greeks placed eggs atop graves. The Romans coined a proverb: Omne vivum ex ovo, "All life comes from an egg." And legend has it that Simon of Cyrene, who helped carry Christ’s cross to Calvary, was by trade an egg merchant. (Upon returning from the crucifixion to his produce farm, he allegedly discovered that all his hens’ eggs had miraculously turned a rainbow of colors; substantive evidence for this legend is weak.) Thus, when the Church started to celebrate the Resurrection, in the second century, it did not have to search far for a popular and easily recognizable symbol." --www.ideafinder.com/guest/calendar/easter.htm

Who wants to remember the anniversary of the death of a loved one?  Birthdays, maybe, but the day they died would be better to forget.  At least that's what I thought.  But now I have seen the light.  The perfect way to remember Daddy was having that Easter egg hunt.  Watching his grandchildren frolick around the yard finding brightly colored plastic eggs was precious to my eyes.  Let the eggs symbolize birth and rebirth.  Celebrate that Jesus prepared the way for us to be together again someday.  This promise is the only balm for our sorrows. 

Peace be with you.

Hello Friends

If you are visiting from Gateway Domestic Violence Center, you may be interested in reading my other blog:

http://www.thejourneyofabatteredwife.blogspot.com/

Either way, welcome to my little world.

Patches Peaches, our little friend

Long, long ago when Jolie was about 6 years old, Sydney was 4, and Fischer was a baby, we adopted a dog. Our daughters had been pleading for a dog for quite some time and Adrian and I were seriously considering it.

Mama called me one day to tell me someone from her church was looking for a new home for a Jack Russel Terrier they had rescued from a park. The couple had been walking at the park and found this terrified, lost, hungry puppy and decided to take her home. They took her to the vet to nurse her back to health, got her shots and had her spayed. The next day, they put signs up all over the park and around town hoping the owner would claim their little lost puppy.

After a while, the vet said that since no one claimed the puppy, the couple could have her. So they brought the pretty white puppy home and named her Patches.

Patches was quite a handful and she began terrorizing the couple's cats and other dogs. They tried everything they could but Patches kept running away and running amok. After a while, they decided she needed a family to love her and someone younger to run after her.

Well, in short, that is how we met Patches. We were living in a condominium at the time and the sweet couple brought Patches to us one sunny afternoon. It was love at first sight. Patches was such a beautiful puppy and so loving. She rolled over at my feet and let me rub her tummy on that first day and she took to the children right away.

Sydney wanted to name the puppy Peaches, but since she already would come to the name Patches, we just officially named her Patches Peaches. She was a great dog. She loved riding in the car and would go with me to pick up the kids from school every day.

Patches was a ball of fire, though. She clawed my dining room chairs trying to keep a look out at the window of our dining room. No gate could keep her confined. She was a loaded gun ready to fire any moment she could break free. She was strong and fast and had enormous amounts of energy. I admit, she wore me out. She had ADD and didn't particularly like just laying around hanging out with the family. She loved it when we gave her things to do but could out last any of us with her energy. Even a treat filled Kong was no match for Patches.

At the apartment, her favorite activity was tight rope walking. A friend called her a catog, meaning half cat, half dog. She slinked around the top edges of all the furniture trying to show off her balancing talents. She probably had run away from the circus, truth be told. Trying to exercise her on a leash was no easy task. Have you ever seen me run? It's not normal. But we did it rain, snow, sleet or shine. Several times a day. I have vivid memories of the first time I seriously contemplated giving her away. I was sick with bronchitis. It was raining and freezing outside. Patches was on the leash and I was running laps with her in the ball field oustside our apartment. I was having trouble breathing so I just unbuckled the leash and whoosh! Like the wind she flew. She flew and flew like a speeding white bullet. She needed a big yard with a fence.

Soon, we were building our new house and we were thrilled to build Patches a new fence so she could run around a yard to her heart's desire. Scroll down and read about the epic tales of Patches the wonder dog. Keeping Patches corralled has been an uphill battle. Her shenanigans sometimes make us laugh and sometimes make us very frustrated. Many times I have called her my little P.I.T.A. which stands for Pain In The You Know Where. It's true. She's a difficult dog, but absolutely, hands down, the lovingest little dog you ever did see. Well, unless you are a neighbor's cat or poodle whom she tried to devour.

She can remove nails with her teeth. She can climb trees. She can jump higher than you would imagine a 12 year old dog being able to leap. She can dig. She can withstand a shock or two from a radio fence. She can communicate telepathically with a retarded dog to eat the collar off of her. She can push big wheels to the fence and climb over.

We welcomed two more babies to our brood and without meaning to, Patches really took a back seat in my life. I still loved her but didn't have the time to give her the attention she wanted and deserved when I was spread so thin with five children. So we decided to give her a sister. Bailey is a special needs datschaund who is somewhat retarded, but has been a wonderful companion to Patches. They loved each other so very much. Patches was a very happy dog who loved playing with Bailey. Bailey had a talent of biting off Patches' collar so Patches could get out of the not only the fence, but also escape the invisible radio fence.

With all the things going on in my life, I have neglected certain things like going to the dentist and taking my dogs to the vet. I let their vaccinations expire. They were both in picture perfect health, so I never worried about it. Until yesterday. And it all came tumbling down.

Patches got out of the fence and found a groundhog in the back yard. I heard her barking and I went out on the deck to see what was going on. There she was having a huge fight with the groundhog. It was quite violent and very sad. I tried everything I could to distract Patches and get her to stop but nothing I did worked. Patches killed the groundhog.

I wondered if groundhogs could carry diseases like rabies and I tried calling animal control but the line was busy. Patches finally came up to the house with bribery of hotdogs. She was covered in blood and limping. Her face was scratched to pieces. Tentatively, she came to me and I got her back in the fence and being freaked out by the groundhog blood, I sectioned off a part of the fence to keep her away from everyone just in case she was dangerous to anyone.

I got in touch with animal control this morning and found out groundhogs can indeed have rabies. Because I was a complete idiot, and let her rabies vaccination expire, I had three choices. I could get the groundhog's body, have it decapitated at the vet and sent off to the state for testing while quarantining Patches at the vet while we wait for the results, or we could quarantine Patches at the vet for 6 months and wait and see what happens. She may have to be put to sleep during that time if she showed signs of rabies or if the groundhog's pathology report came back positive. Or, we could put her to sleep now. Well, the goundhog's body has gone M.I.A. So that option was out of the question. If she had been current on her vaccines, it would only be a ten day quarantine. Patches being so torn up by the groundhog, needed medical care so I couldn't just opt to keep her at home and not tell Animal Control about what happened. The vet would be liable to do the right thing any way.

The vaccine was only around $18.00. That's what it costs to take my children through the fast food drive through. Who was I kidding that we didn't have the money to take our dogs to the vet?

I had a hard decision to make. It really tore me up. I called Adrian at work and we met for lunch after I picked up Nicholas from school so we could figure out what to do. We decided we should put her to sleep.

I went to the store, bought her a cardboard crate since I couldn't carry her into the vet and I can't let her bite me or else I could be infected assuming she was contaminated. I picked up Sydney a little early from her school and had her babysit Nicholas at my mother's house. I ran home weeping the whole way. I smeared peanut butter all over the inside of the crate and went outside dressed in as much protective clothing as I could find. I didn't need to. Patches was not aggressive about going in the box even though I know she was confused about why I was putting her in one. I fed her some left over meatloaf and put her in my van and drove to the vet.

The whole ride, I told Patches all the funny and best memories we shared together. She kept her cute little black nose poking through one of the vent holes. I told her the stories of when she was a puppy and brought such a fun and bright spirit to our little family and how everyone loved her so much even though she was a mess. I told her how sorry I am for not being a better person. I just cried and cried out of love and guilt and utter sadness.

Everyone at the vet's office was so kind to me. I had a pretty major break down there and they were so compassionate, offering comfort I didn't even deserve. The technician asked me the dog's name and she promised me she would talk to Patches during the entire procedure and would help her journey right straight to heaven. She said I could watch or wait in my car and she'd come out afterwards. I waited in the car. I couldn't watch.

I was surprised when she came out carrying a little pet casket. I didn't realize I would be taking Patches home. I didn't exactly know what to do. Not to be gross, but it was a hot day today and I had about 15 minutes before the other three kids got off the bus. Oh, this is not going to be good. I can't pick up the kids from the bus stop with their pet in a casket in the back seat.

I called Adrian bawling my eyes out begging him to come straight home. He suggested I put the box in the boat and wait until he gets home in a few hours. Nope, can't do it. It's hot. Oh, man. I am going to have to put her inside until he gets home. But where? On the dining room table? I can't think straight.

The laundry room! OK, that makes sense. She can wait in there until Adrian gets home and can dig a grave for her in our little back yard pet cemetery. There are a couple of fish back there and the two puppies we lost several years ago. It's a sweet little spot. Patches will always be honored.
My hands and arms were shaking so badly when I got home that I dopped the casket on my way downstairs to the laundry room. I am sure Patches' spirit got a huge kick out of watching me tumble down the stairs cartwheeling over her dead body. Luckily, the lid stayed closed and I was able to get the casket into the laundry room, shut the door, run upstairs and high tail it to the bus stop and try to act normal when my kids got in the car. At that point, if I had broken any part of my body, I would not have been able to feel it. I was starting to have an out of body experience by this point.

"How was your day, Mom?"

"Oh, it was a very sad day, honey. The vet had to put Patches to sleep. I am so sorry."
"Where is she?"
"Honey, she is in the laundry room, actually."
"When she wakes up, can we play with her?"
"Gosh, I am sorry. This is terrible. Um, the term being put to sleep actually means the vet had to give her medicine to make her fall asleep and not wake up. She's gone. She's in heaven. And her body happens to be in the laundry room until your father gets home."
"You mean there is a dead body in the laundry room? Oh, man! I hate groundhogs. I am gonna shoot every groundhog I ever see! This isn't fair. Patches was just trying to protect us from that groundhog."
"I know, sweetheart. I know."
Adrian came home and put Patches Peaches' body to rest. Our hearts are broken. We will all miss Patches the wonder dog, the escape artist, the belly rub addict, the loyal guard dog, the faithful companion, the cat terrorizer, the ball of energy, the bullet, the fastest runner in the neighborhood, the curious wanderer, the smartest dog on the planet, our little friend.

I hope when it is my time to leave this earth, that Patches Peaches will be waiting for me at the gate.

Autism Journey Part 8

I got an e mail yesterday from some national autism awareness group that we got signed up with when Nicholas was first diagnosed two years ago, asking me what color Autism is and to remind me to wear blue on National Autism Awareness Day. Oh my Lord. Should I break out my blue pants and attach puzzle pieces all over my self? Yippee! I am AWARE. Look at me! I am aware!

Well, I have recently come to the conclusion that we all have ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder.) I am serious. We are all weird and that in a nut shell is what the Autism Spectrum is all about my friend. It really should be called the weird-o-meter. Some of us are so weird we don't "function" highly in society and others of us are weird but are "functioning" just fine. Some blend in and some stick out. That's all there is to it. I use the term functioning loosely because it is an objective term. What's your function? Are you living to your full potential? Probably not. You are not fully functioning then. Are you doing the best you can? Then you are. Doesn't mattter what your disabilities are. It's all about your abilities and if you can make crapade out of the crap you are dealt with in life. I know some crippled folks who have been dealt more crap than you could ever imagine and they function more highly than most of us ever will.

I happen to be blessed with two weirdos in my life. Well, actually all seven of us rate on different degrees of the weird-o-meter but two of our children are formally diagnosed as being truly weird. Weird is not bad so don't send me any hate mail about me calling my children weird. Weird is just different and I am coming to realize that if you are NOT different, that's just, um... weird.

Schools are so rigid in their teaching methods that a parent of a particularly weird child must fight and advocate for their child's right to learn the way they learn best. If schools would start realizing that all their students are different and that everything needs to be taught in a multi sensory way, then they could do away with special ed and make all education special. Wow what a concept. I figured it all out and I am not even a brain surgeon.

I sure would love Nathan Deal to put ME on his education advisory board. I could tell him like it is. Perhaps instead of wasting teachers' time with all the boat loads of paper work and stressing the children out taking all those ridiculous bench mark tests, they could actually spend time creating and building their students' brain power. Teachers could actually teach and they wouldn't have 30 students in a class room. What's up with that Dr. Shaw, Mr. Superintendent of the year?

Any hoo... We are all weird. We all learn differently. Home school families rock. Wish I could be one of them. My children beg me not to do it. They happen to like school. I use it as a free enrichment program and try to teach them at home all that they must know. I don't sweat the small stuff. I openly share with my children that they will never be timed in math facts when they grow up and that in real life, if you don't like to read, you can get audio books and down load them right onto your i pod. It's no big deal. In high school, you won't be timed in math facts either so don't worry if you only get 30 out of a hundred. I'd like to time Paul Shaw and see if he himself can do 100 multiplication facts in 3 minutes. It was his brilliant idea in the first place.

And while we are on that sore subject, what does it prove to be the fastest one? What does it really do for you to be the fastest at anything? The early bird gets the worm but the second mouse always gets the cheese. And the early worm always gets eaten. Dude.

So, accept where ever you may register on the Weird-o-Meter. Own it. Accept it. You are special and unique and every quirk can be a gift if you learn how to use it wisely. If you are slow, that's alright. Life is not a race the last time I checked.

I just feel sorry for all those boring round pegs out there. I am thinking we might need to raise some awareness on this issue. We need to have National Normal Awareness Day to honor those who are boring as hell. We need to make round pegs into jewelry and art and sell them to all their poor parents who need to show off that they have a child afflicted with boring as hellism. We'll light up all buildings in Washington DC beige and everyone can wear brown. Who's with me?

That's all I gots to say. Amen.

Butterflies

OK, I am done being angry. It was a guilty pleasure feeling sorry for myself for a few days. Pity parties seem like a good idea at the beginning but they just bring you further down. It's better to pretend to be happy and keep on moving forward. Fake it til you make it. It really works because I am back to feeling peaceful and content. For the most part. You know, during the times I am not thinking about running away or jumping off a very tall building.

I am very under qualified to be a mother of five children. I can do the baby thing. That part is easy. Actually, it's pretty easy for the first 12 years. Plus, they are so darn cute when they are little that even if you are feeling frustrated, it's easy to fall in love with them over and over again. I think people who complain about raising small children are a bunch of ninnies. They need to get over the sleepless nights and potty training. If you cannot figure out how to handle a two year old's temper tantrums, you are a lost cause. It's not rocket science. You are big, they are small. You can just pick them up and put them where ever they need to be. You can take away a toy and they will think you are the all powerful goddess and they will respect you. They think you know everything. Most of the time, they just want to play with you and what is better than that? And the problems they have, you can usually fix. If they get hurt, they run to you and often just a hug from you makes everything right in their world again.

Just wait until they turn into teenagers. It is not so easy. You can no longer pick them up and put them where they need to be. Well, you can try, but you'll throw your back out. They aren't quite as cute any more and in fact, they smell like too much perfume and they hog the bathroom. They break my heart constantly. The things they struggle through are tough to watch. And I really do know the answers to help them but they think I am retarded, so they won't listen half the time. And the thought of them actually running to me for a hug to make everything better makes me laugh out loud. They are embarrassed to even be seen with me. Most of the time, it is best to let go and let them figure out things by themselves any way, but it is hard for me to do.

Our teenagers are 14 and 16. I remember being those ages. My life was very hard from the ages of 14 to 22. I sure did do a lot of struggling and I got really hurt so my urge to protect is magnified. I'll tell you a little secret: I thought that I would be such a good mother that my children would not have to go through the same types of challenges I went through. But you know what? It doesn't matter what kind of parent you are. All people have to go through puberty and I am coming to realize it is divinely designed to be a struggle. At least that is what I am telling myself. I cannot admit it could all be my fault. I have to hold on to some faith that the challenges have a purpose or else I might have to throw in the towel and find that very tall building.

Teenagers are like butterflies. They start out as an egg, then larva in a nice nest way up high in a tree away from danger, next they develop into pupa, and finally they become caterpillars and venture out of the nest and the tree. When they are ready to transform into butterflies, they eat a lot, get really fat and they sleep in a chrysalis for a long time. Sounds like a teenager to me. And then, right as they are ready to emerge, they really struggle. When people see the new butterflies with wet wings having a hard time, sometimes we try to help. But if we intervene, it actually kills the butterfly.

In order for the butterfly to get her new circulatory system up and running, the butterfly has to take her time getting out of the chrysalis. It takes while. She has to pump her wings while hanging on to the chrysalis until she is ready to fly. If we pry her shell away to quickly to help her out, she will fall and die. If we try to take her away from her perch too soon, she will perish. She has to do everything by herself. And we just have to watch.

So I guess as parents, maybe we are the chrysalis. We have to just be steady and let our butterflies have something to cling to and we have to let them pump their pretty little wings until they are strong enough to fly on their own. If things go well, the butterflies will fly away into the sunshine, taste different flowers, find a mate, make lots of caterpillars who will go through the same struggle as we all did. But maybe we are just new butterflies too, just winging it with our own struggles.

A couple of weeks ago, I was standing in line at the post office and I overheard two ladies talking about their grown children. They were both mailing their daughters Valentine's packages and it was a small world kind of thing and each of the ladies shared their sorrows when they discovered they both were mailing packages to each of their daughters living in different states who were each going through a divorce. Both ladies found comfort in each other as they related just how difficult is was to experience their daughters' heart breaks.

One of the ladies said, "Gosh, you get them all grown up which is hard enough and then you think you have finally made it and then you realize it's even harder when they are all grown up and go through things you cannot fix or help at all.

I butted in, "Um, excuse me. Don't mean to be nosey, but did you just say it gets harder when they are grown?"

The other woman laughed and said, "Oh, yes! You have no idea!"

And I said, "Man, I thought I was in the midst of the toughest stage with two teenage girls and three younger children."

And the lady said, "Well, you are busy and juggling a lot, but raising teenagers is nothing like the heartbreaks and worry you will suffer through when they are all grown up. You never stop being a mom."

There is evidently no break from being a mother. Once you bring your child into your life, they are yours forever. I can see this with my own mother. She's still my mommy. I still rely on her quite a bit even though I act like I don't need her. I am sure her heart breaks for me when I am struggling. Maybe we never really grow up all the way. Maybe I am still struggling out of my chrysalis with wet wings all the while trying to keep up with three caterpillars and two butterflies just peaking out of their shells. Maybe we don't fly away until we are ready to fly off to the next life. It is folklore in many cultures that butterflies are the souls of those going to the Otherworld.

The larva stage can last an entire year depending on the weather. Caterpillars spend a long time foraging but as butterflies, we don't actually get to fly for very long. Only a couple of weeks, typically. Most of our lives will be all about the struggle.

So, here's my epiphany: Keep the eggs safe and protected. Make sure the larva are developing properly. Enjoy the caterpillars as they are lots of fun. Teach them what they need to know to survive. And let the metamorphosing teenagers sleep and eat all they want. Make sure their chrysalises are good and strong. And when they start to peep out of the shell, let them be. Give them the chance to pump their own wings as we parents continue stretching our own.

Autism Journey part 7

I cried 6 times yesterday and I am not even premenstrual. Nicholas went to his five year old check up and for some weird reason I had convinced myself that this check up was going to give me the answer I have been searching for during the past 3 years. I desperately want a doctor to tell me WHY Nicholas has PDD-NOS and why he is so little. In my heart, I have been believing that one day a doctor will tell us why and how it happened and that there is a way to fix it.

Our pediatrician is quite remarkable and she acts out of kindness and love. She has been willing to explore any hair brained idea I ever have. She doesn't scold me for googling medical stuff too much. She has a heart and understands what it must feel like to be in my shoes. She never judges me. Honestly, I don't know how she even puts up with me.

But yesterday, a HUGE shift took place in my heart. Nobody could see it unless they saw my hands shaking or saw my tears spill out in the parking lot. It wasn't a bad thing. It was just me coming to the end of my desperate search for answers and standing at a complete dead end.

Nicholas was diagnosed with PDD-NOS when he was three but he was already receiving speech therapy when he was two years old because he had stopped saying mama and dada and he only grunted. Teachers saw red flags for autism and it freaked me out even though I saw them too.

It only took a developmental pediatrician one hour to make his diagnosis. I didn't know what PDD-NOS meant but he said the word autism and my heart sank to my feet and the world spun out from under me for an entire year. I just worried that Nicholas might not ever be verbal. I worried he would never be OK.

I was under the false impression that autistic people never love others and that they are unable to show affection. It broke my heart.

Of course, if you know Nicholas, you know that he is one small package of hugs and smiles. He is cuddly and extremely happy. He hugs me every day and at night when I put him to bed, he holds my face in his hands and stares into my eyes for a long time. He giggles and smiles. We don't carry on conversations like I used to experience with my older children when they were five years old, but we communicate just fine. And I think we even communicate telepathicly sometimes.

But I just wanted for so long to know WHY this happened. What did I do or not do when I was pregnant? Was it the vaccine? Every month conflicting stories are published in medical journals about the link between autism and vaccines. Who is telling the truth? Was Nicholas born with it? Was he destined to have PDD- NOS? Is it inherited from me? He's not the only child in our family affected by Autism Spectrum Disorder. Was it the high fever he had when he was one years old after a bad reaction to a round of vaccines? Did it cause brain damage? 'Cause let me tell you, he was never the same baby after that episode.

Well, I was eager to brain storm ten different possibilities to explore with our friend and pediatrician when it all shifted in my heart. She said we don't have to know why and we may never know why. And that's OK. I don't think there's anything we can do to "fix it." He's a beautiful child with a beautiful mind. Let's just focus all our energy on his abilities and get him all the help we can.

Whoooooosssssshhhhhh..... the wind was sucked out of me. The hope for a cure, gone. Even though my hope was based on a wish and not actual faith, the hope died right there in the office. And for the first time ever regarding Nicholas, I tasted acceptance.

Boy, it tastes bitter at first. It's like giving up. It's like hopelessness. It is like defeat. But I know it's really not. It's just going to take me some time to figure it all out in my heart. And the taste is still bitter.

After Nicholas' appointment, I took him to his school which is the state of the art, best place for special needs children in the entire state and possibly beyond. I enjoyed a Valentine's party in his classroom. I sat next to a precious child who will never walk or talk. He was beautiful. And I thought about what his mother must carry in her heart and how heavy it must be with worry about the future.

And then I looked at Nicholas, who by all accounts is fine. He's healthy. He's happy. He's learning new things every day. He loves his life. And when I looked at his friend sitting in a special chair, he looked like he was enjoying life too. He was mouthing a Cheeto and appeared to be in hog heaven. I looked around at the other children. One little girl is blind and she was having a ball dancing to some music and singing the words. She is happy. And a pretty little girl reached over and started holding hands with a little boy in a wheel chair and she danced with him and petted his hair. My goodness, the entire classroom was filled with happy children and you honestly could not tell who had a disability and who did not. It was just a classroom filled with children.

On my way home, I called my sister. I cried to her and told her I didn't mean to be ungrateful, but I just am so sad and so mad that I can't find a cure for Nicholas. I feel like he got locked up and damaged and is not the person God intended him to be. She wondered if I'd ever really allowed myself to be angry about it before. I haven't. She said, "Then be angry. Pick up that hat, wear it for a little while and then put it down. You don't have to marry your feelings. When you want to feel positive and happy, you can later. If you want to be mad, be mad."

Ohhhh... relief. I am f'ing PISSED OFF that something bad happened to my baby and I cannot fix it!!!!

There, I said it. And I mean it. Even though I love Nicholas just the way he is and he is a blessing to this family, I MEAN IT!!!!! I AM ANGRY!

I came home and jumped into Adrian's arms. I told him how sad and mad I am. And he hugged me and said that was OK but that he wasn't mad at all. And that he knows in his heart it is all meant to be.

He was raised in the Mormom church and he believes in a pre exsistance. He said that when it was time for Nicholas to come to earth, that Heavenly Father told him that Abigail and Adrian needed him in order to bring our family certain blessings and to teach us lessons that only he could. And there were going to be four siblings who needed what only he could give. But that it wasn't going to be easy. That a life experience on earth is tough. And there would be some added challenges like living in a body affected by autism. And he would be really little for his age. Kids might make fun of him and learning certain things would be hard.

And that Nicholas' spirit understood all of this and more. Five and a half years ago, Nicholas' spirit stood up, raised his hand and said, "I will go! I am ready for this mission!" And then, while I was laying in bed reading a book, Nicholas' spirit joined the baby body I was carrying in my womb and I felt him kick for the first time. His spirit had quickened. Nicholas is totally OK with the hand he has been given. We need to be OK with it too. It is part of the plan.

Well, now you can see why I cried so many times yesterday. What Adrian said is so beautiful. I told him he needs to teach the world that message. That we are all here by choice. If we believe we knew of all the struggles and heartbreaks we will face, it makes it easier to find peace with it all. It's easier to see the precious people in this world who live with awful disadvantages, that it is part of a plan and this is just one tiny slice of our experiences.

I'd like to think everyone who is born with a disease, cancer, C.P., Downs Syndrome, Autism, Mental Retardation, Neuro tubal defects, or whatever, that those people are serving very special missions here. And that one day, when their time is up on earth, that they will be restored to their perfect bodies and minds. And that they have blessed the lives and taught all us typcial folks lessons on God's pure and unconditional love.

I'll put my angry hat away when I am ready. And then, I will get on my knees and thank God for chosing me to receive so many wonderful blessings from each of my five special children.

The Update to: Patches the Wonder Dog (Originally posted Aug. 23)

I always write about my five children but I very rarely write about my two dogs. Probably because if you have five children, you sort of emotionally neglect your pets or at least you don't pamper them the way you would if you didn't have a bunch of children.

We adopted Patches Peaches about ten years ago. She is a beautiful Jack Russel Terror, I mean Terrier. She was given to us by an older couple who had been unsuccessful at training her. OK, this should be a red flag. If a retired couple who spent all their time with Patches could not control her, why in the world would I believe I could do a better job when Adrian and I were both busy working people with two small children and a baby on the way?

We lived in a small apartment at the time and trying to exercise Patches was a nightmare. She tried so hard to escape every chance she got and the city we lived in would not tolerate dogs on the loose.

Well, when we finally finished building our house up here in the country seven years ago, we were excited Patches would finally have a fenced in yard to run around in and get her energy out without bothering people so much. Adrian and his friend spent a week building a pretty wooden picket fence around the back yard. I kept leaning over the top deck and hollering, "Those pickets are too far apart! Patches will squeeze right through them!"Adrian assured me the pickets were fine and that the way they were spaced out was all planned and did I have any extra money to buy more pickets? No? Then be quiet and quit being such a control freak wife always telling her husband what to do and bla bla bla.

Well, when the pretty fence was finally finished, we celebrated and let Patches out to her big, new yard! And what do you think happened?

Like a bullet, she leaped right between the pickets and ran off.

Damn.

Well, then Adrian and his friend went out and bought chicken wire or was it rabbit wire? I don't know. They spent another day and a half nailing wire all around the fence. It was back breaking work, really. I leaned over the rail on the top deck and said, "You should have listened to me..." But I don't think they really wanted to hear that. They also didn't want to hear me say the rabbit wire wouldn't work either. God, I hate always being right. It's a burden, really.

But the next day, we let Patches out again to her new, big yard and she seemed to stay in the fence, merrily running around and frolicking like the happy dog she was.I stepped out on the top deck to check on her about fifteen minutes later and I hollered for Adrian, "Um, honey! Come here! Patches is climbing the chicken wire and... Wow! There she goes! Right over the top of the fence! She's gone!

So, then Adrian went to the Home Depot and bought new pickets to put in between all the other pickets. He came back complaining how he just spent a fortune on new pickets and since Patches had cut her foot and leg on the chicken wire, we had also spent a hundred bucks at the vet to get her stitched back up. Plus, by this time, Patches had been out to meet some of the neighbor's dogs and no one seemed to appreciate a bleeding dog crawling under their fences to play with their dogs.

So, after Adrian went around nailing pickets between the other pickets, we let Patches out once more. I must mention Adrian had to nail the pickets on the inside of the fence this time so as to put a barrier on the rabbit wire so she wouldn't climb up it.

Well, Patches did great for about an hour. Then, when I went to spy on her from the top deck, I found her doing something pretty incredible. She was using her teeth to get out the nails, thereby allowing the extra picket to swing to the side, then clawing at the rabbit wire and jumping right through the pickets and running for the hills once more, busting stitches and all!

Well, this went on and on and Adrian spent a total of a million hours fixing this fence any way he could think of. Some days, Patches stayed in and some days she did not. I was beginning to think Patches really didn't like us. We brought her inside every evening, but we wanted her to have a yard to run around in too.

Well, to make a long story short, and I realize this is already a long story...we invested a lot of money in a radio fence. Patches wore a collar that would shock the hell out of her if she got near the fence. By this time, we had adopted a friend for Patches, a somewhat retarded miniature dachshund named Bailey.

We actually adopted two miniature dachshunds but the other one got ran over when a windstorm had blown open the gate and I didn't realize it when I let the poor little puppy outside to go pee. We "replaced" that puppy, which was Jolie's puppy, by the way, with another miniature dachshund but when she was about 10 weeks old, she ate some weeds outside that had been sprayed with weed killer and she died two days later. It was horrible.

Anyway, Patches convinced Bailey, the surviving retard, to somehow eat the collar off of her and Patches would then dig her way to freedom thereby destroying the annoying- as- all- get- out- to- install- electric wiring. Adrian spent many an hour at Radio Shack buying spools of speaker wire to splice it and repair it on a regular basis. But eventually, we solved the problem and Patches stayed in the fence for like an entire week.

Then Patches started getting creative. Sometimes she would jump on the trampoline so hard as to catapult herself soaring over the fence, falling on the other side and then running for her life. If the kids left their big wheels in the back yard after racing down the hill, Patches would stand up on the back of it and push it to the side of the fence, climb up and jump over.

Presently, the radio fence is really broken. A gigantic rat who was as big as an opossum climbed up a bush and jumped up to the upper deck where the radio box was, ate up all our bird seed and ate up all the wires coming out of the radio electric fence housing as well. Damn rat. It scared the crap out of me one night. It was trying to stay dry under the grill and I had walked out there to get my shoes which I had left out on the deck. That thing looked at me, reared back like an attack cat and jumped three feet in the air, caught a branch on the big bush and ran away. My shoes are still out there 'cause I am scared of seeing that monster again. It's been two months.

Now, Patches is running amok. I could really care less except that she is known to terrorize the poodles who live across the street. She also chomped on my next door neighbor's cat's head when it was just a kitten and shook it up really badly. The cat is still living, but permanently brain damaged. I wonder if that is why they are moving to Florida? The poodle owners don't even talk to us. Can't say I blame them.

Oh, Patches! What are we going to do with you? Poor Adrian has no more energy left to fix the fence again. She got out today because she rolled a basket ball over to the fence, stepped on it and jumped over. I mean, really... she wants to be free. Is that so wrong?

Latest update: Adrian recently hammered in some nails all around the top of the fence so as to act as barbwire. The nails didn't bother Patches too much although the scraped up her tummy which was pretty pitiful, actually. I felt cruel. And Since Patches stays inside all the time now and just gets let out to go potty, you would think we'd be smart enough to just take her on a leash and walk her. Why don't we do that? Two reasons, really. Number one, we are lazy, I mean busy. Number two, Patches will NOT go potty in front of ANYONE. I am serious. She has always had real modesty issues.

Adrian spent so long hammering all those little nails around the whole fence and it was all for nothing. Patches learned a new trick to avoid scraping her belly. She freakin' learned to climb a tree and then just jump over to the other side of the fence. I saw her do it. Man.

So, then Adrian spent a small fortune on more wood and did some more fence work and cut down all the bottom limbs of the Leland Cyprus tree she was climbing. Patches has not escaped since. She is completely depressed. She has had her tail between her legs for days. She won't even come upstairs to hang out with us. She feels the agony of defeat for the first time in many years. (I am knocking on wood as I write knowing there is a good possibility I have spoken too soon.) And do you know what the moral of my whole long story is?

Adrian should have listened to me in the first place. Like I said, it really is a burden always being right.

P.S. BREAKING NEWS: We celebrated Fischer's 10th birthday yesterday and left the dogs outside. When we got back, we were greeted by a very muddy dog on our porch. Patches dug her way to freedom. At least we know she had to resort to digging (she doesn't normally like to dig because she hates being dirty) because she is unable to go OVER the fence. I know we should surrender but now it's a game. A game that has been going on for 10 years, I might add. I am starting to wonder if we are getting something out of this whole thing. Maybe we just like the challenge. Maybe we know if Patches didn't have a problem to solve, she would be too bored to live. Maybe that's true for us too. Hmmm... never thought of it that way.