How to honor your child

We knew each other before Aug. 16, 2011, when my perfectly healthy 2-year-old son was overcome by an autoimmune encephalitis. “Was that you the other night?” I asked as he, his wife and their oldest daughter now got out of their double-parked van into the sticky summer air. “Yes,” he replied, “I hadn’t seen you in so long I didn’t recognize you.” Without effort or emotion, I shared the story of our 15-month hospitalization and efforts at navigating our new lives.

The above is an excerpt of a personal essay written by a friend of mine who I met through blogging. It's the second year anniversary of her son's diagnosis, and I can't imagine a more articulate and moving way to honor him.

Read the whole essay here on Motherlode at The New York Times.

Punch Drunk, Insane and Bitter

to Erika

Ellen Burstyn in Requiem for a Dream
I imagine that I look like this, often

One of the superlative benefits of having a child with a disability, particularly a seizure disorder, is that I've found and become friends with some of the funniest people on the planet. I don't think of myself as funny, but I do acknowledge a superlative sense of humor, particularly a dark one. I got two pieces of mail yesterday -- one in my inbox and the other by snail. The online mail was a cheery notice from the manufacturer of Onfi, or clobazam, the drug that warranted my 4,325,792 posts titled Drug Mule over the last couple of years. In a nutshell, it cost me just under $500 for a one-month supply with private insurance and $61 for a one month supply when I traveled to Canada or had a friend bring it to me. We currently get a one-month supply from a local CVS for $0 thanks to a grant we received from a beautiful non-profit organization that helps those having difficulty paying for expensive drugs. The fact that the beautiful non-profit receives large contributions from the manufacturer of Onfi who then, I imagine writes those donations off,  is beside the point. I'm just saying, as they say.

Anyhoo.

I got this notice from the manufacturer of Onfi that the company is now making scored tablets and a suspension of the drug. Here's a copy of the photo at the top of the email:

That's followed by a photo of the new scored tablet, but I can't copy it for some reason. Then comes some information about the drug itself: 

Use

ONFI (clobazam) CIV is a prescription medicine used along with other medicines to treat seizures associated with Lennox-Gastaut syndrome in people 2 years of age or older.

Important Safety Information

ONFI can make you sleepy or dizzy and can slow your thinking and make you clumsy which may get better over time. Do not drive, operate heavy machinery, or do other dangerous activities until you know how ONFI affects you. Do not drink alcohol or take other drugs that may make you sleepy or dizzy while taking ONFI without first talking to your healthcare provider. ONFI may make your sleepiness or dizziness much worse. ONFI can cause withdrawal symptoms. Do not suddenly stop taking ONFI without first talking to a healthcare provider. Stopping ONFI suddenly can cause seizures that will not stop (status epilepticus), hearing or seeing things that are not there (hallucinations), shaking, nervousness, and stomach and muscle cramps. ONFI can be abused and cause dependence. Physical dependence is not the same as drug addiction. Talk to your healthcare provider about the differences. ONFI is a federally controlled substance (CIV) because it can be abused or lead to dependence. Serious skin reactions have been seen when ONFI is taken with other medicines and may require stopping its use. A serious skin reaction can happen at any time during your treatment with ONFI. Call your healthcare provider immediately if you have skin blisters, peeling rash, sores in the mouth, hives or any other allergic reaction. Like other antiepileptic drugs, ONFI may cause suicidal thoughts or actions in a very small number of people, about 1 in 500. Call your healthcare provider right away if you have any symptoms, especially sudden changes in mood, behaviors, thoughts, or feelings, and especially if they are new, worse, or worry you. Tell your healthcare provider about all of your medical conditions including liver or kidney problems, lung problems (respiratory disease), depression, mood problems, or suicidal thoughts or behavior. If you are pregnant or plan to become pregnant, ONFI may harm your unborn baby. You and your healthcare provider will have to decide if you should take ONFI while you are pregnant. ONFI can pass into breast milk. You and your healthcare provider should decide if you should take ONFI or breast feed. You should not do both. Tell your healthcare provider about all the medicines you take, including prescription and nonprescription medicines, vitamins, and herbal supplements, as taking ONFI with certain other medicines can cause side effects or affect how well they work. ONFI may make your birth control medicine less effective. Talk to your healthcare provider about the best method to use. The most common side effects seen in ONFI patients include: sleepiness; drooling; constipation; cough; pain with urination; fever; acting aggressive, being angry or violent; difficulty sleeping; slurred speech; tiredness; and problems with breathing.

For more information, please see the accompanying full Prescribing Information and Medication Guide.

When I opened the email, I was in a mood -- one of those moods -- and it just struck me as funny -- an insane, bitter kind of funny -- that the mother and her child looked so damn happy about these new scored tablets. I immediately thought of my friend Erika whose daughter has recently been put on Onfi (and who also had some trouble getting it covered), so I forwarded it to her immediately not because it was useful information that might be of benefit to her, but because I knew she'd immediately think it was funny -- an insane, bitter kind of funny -- just like me. I wrote 

 Good news! I got this in my email inbox this morning, and it really brightened my day, especially the photo of the child playing with his or her mom! There's nothing like a scored Onfi tablet to make family life easier!

Erika replied:

Thank you, Onfi! And you have to be a Debbie Downer to care about those side-effects when you can so easily break these tablets in half! 

God, I love my friends. (And I know some of you reading think I'm terribly uncharitable and that I should be grateful for something here, but now's not the time and I'd rather stick an ice-pick through my eyeballs than be grateful to a pharmaceutical company).

The snail mail was a tidy envelope sent by the Department of Social Services and concerns our recent application for Social Security Benefits for Sophie. As you might remember, this process went a whole lot smoother than I had imagined, and I guess I sort of thought that the whole thing was complete (Sophie is getting a check each month), but evidently, there is still some necessary information that the government needs in its determination. Here is what the letter says:

Your claim for disability benefits under the Social Security Act has been reviewed and more information is needed about your condition. Therefore, it is necessary that you be examined, at NO COST TO YOU, by:

(they list the address of a medical clinic here)

An appointment has been scheduled for you on 09/09/2013 at 11:00 AM for a NEUROLOGICAL exam. Our agency will pay only for the authorized examination or test and for certain related travel expenses.

First of all, I did not put the word NEUROLOGICAL in bold type. They did. I found that hysterical because I'm weird like that.

NEUROLOGICAL!!!

I am of course wondering why we have to go through this NEUROLOGICAL exam since we already appeared in person and the woman who did our intake confided in me that Sophie would certainly qualify even if I hadn't brought her in person because of the extent of her medical records. I am of course wondering whether some people might go so far as to fake a disability as serious as Sophie's in order to get that million dollars a month from the government (and then roll the wheelchair down the ramp and jump into their Cadillac before roaring off). I even wondered whether this NEUROLOGICAL exam is being ordered so that someone somewhere has a job to do.

Sigh.

Anywho.

I guess on the ninth of September, I'll be keeping Sophie home from school to get her NEUROLOGICAL exam so that the government doctors can confirm that she is, indeed, disabled.

Reader, what are you laughing insanely and bitterly at today?

           

Magical Realism

Sophie went back to school on Tuesday morning. I took her to the beach on Monday night as a sort of parting gift to summer. Sophie loves the beach, as you know, and when I let go of her hand, she walks straight for the water. I always think of mermaids and selkies when I see her pulled toward the ocean. I wonder if her discomfort on land, her life of struggle and seizures, is because she isn't where she's supposed to be. I like to think that Sophie breaks the rules of our "real" world. When I watch her awkward, labored gait, her tiny, inflexible feet, and her head tilted to the right, her eyes on the horizon as she makes a bee-line for the edge, I like to think that she might one day slip back into her natural sinuous self, greens and blues and grays, tendrils of hair, an effortless push off into ease and cool oblivion.

A Reply to a Comment

Ocean Park

Here's the comment:

I was just reading your post from yesterday and from today. Got me wondering. Are we, most of us, destined to carry the weight of guilt and anger our entire lives? I feel often that I will. I read so many blogs and that is the recurrent theme. I speak to friends who have kids with severe disabilities and the theme pops up.
Got a question for you and I want you to give it some thought and maybe you can answer it, maybe you can't, because lately I have been wanting to drive my car into the local reservoir, and I'd like a reason not to. Not sure that the answer will be a reason, in fact it won't be. But it gives me something to look forward to.
Why can some people seemingly have circumstances similar to our own, and I'm talking some really heavy shit happening in their life, or to their kid or kids, and they don't experience that same reaction? They actually seem to go the other way with it...a way of somehow nuking the negativity of all the bullshit that surrounds them and always finding something positive about every single thing that they encounter?
What is their secret? I need to know. I've always been told how negative I am. I stopped blogging last December, partly because I was told by people close to me that all I ever do is talk about negative stuff. But to me, this life can be SO FREAKIN' NEGATIVE sometimes that I do not know how to be positive anymore. And I am only in year five. My fear is that I am going to forget, particularly if I cannot get my son's violently aggressive behaviors under control and things just keep getting worse and worse.
Sorry I hijacked your blog for this, but it has been eating at me, and I promised myself not to write in my own blog for at least a year. And you have the ability, like a few others, to sometimes be both positive AND negative. Or to at least write beautifully about feeling negatively, if that makes any sense. Your insight would be tasty...

Here's my reply:

First, a big hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. My first impulse is to wish that I were Bob Dylan or at least had an encyclopedic knowledge of Dylan, because I'm sure there's an answer to your question in one of his songs. Next, I thank you for taking the time to comment, to pour your heart out and for your kind words. I've missed your visits here and, more importantly, I've missed your voice on your own blog. I think that I have, actually, a simple answer to your question and that is that I don't fear the "negative" emotions any more or less than I welcome the "positive" ones. As I get older, I find myself more and more drawn to what are, I guess, Buddhist principles, and my daily practice of mindfulness helps me to shift my thinking self into some semblance of equanimity. That sounds like a whole bunch of mumbo-jumbo when I read it, but it's the truth. I, too, have been accused of being negative -- relentlessly so -- and the accusations have come from close relatives. When I feel beaten or defensive, I might think "Fuck-em," but I more often stop, pause and reflect on the negativity that I might have let fly and then observe it. I don't judge it. You ask why some people are "always finding something positive about every single thing that they encounter?"  I actually don't think there's any secret to that at all, and, frankly, I don't believe them -- there's no ring of truth -- for me -- from those who deny or suppress valid emotions, and I believe the "negative" emotions are as valid and real as the "positive" ones. You ARE only in year five, as you said, but I can assure you that in year five (nearly twenty years ago!), I wouldn't have written the same reply to your comment. I might, even, have contemplated joining you in that car into the reservoir. I think it was actually during year five that I took an MBSR (mindfulness based stress reduction) class and began really sitting with my grief and anger and loss and just observing it rather than fighting it. I don't want this reply to sound like some sort of infomercial, though, and I remember your posts over the years that I read them as being far from relentlessly negative but more often brutally honest, filled with humor and love for your family. It sounds to me that "promising yourself not to write in my blog for at least a year" is self-punishing -- and I don't fully understand it. When I look back on the early years of parenting Sophie, I realize that if I had known where the future would lead, I wouldn't have been able to handle it. That being said, I AM handling it, and there is much that is beautiful in my life, so I have faith that at some future date, things will be all right, I will have learned to "handle" it, things will evolve, there will still be guilt and anger, loss, rage but there will also be acceptance and love and things gained and laughter. I will always work to hold all -- and that work for me is lightened through my connections to others, above all, but also through reading, through practice, through art and through writing.

Now, where's that Bob Dylan song? Here's my favorite:


Bob Dylan - Love minus zero-no limit (live 1965) by Bambino_Portoghese

Sophie and Me in Blue

When I was a small Catholic girl like most small Catholic girls I was enamored of the saints. I knelt in church (and sat and stood and sat and kneeled and stood and sat and kneeled) and stood and saw spots or tiny lights and then I'd blink, sweat would bead, roll down the nape of my neck, the priest's voice a drone, I think I'm going to faint, I'd think and blink, my hands smooth and brown on the pew in front of me. Helen who carried the cross will be my name, I said when I was twelve. Twelve! I'd kneel then and think of the saints. Yesterday afternoon, I was drifting, I was angry, I was drifting and angry about the day, the day after the show about weed and seizures, the day that began, again, with seizures. I was angry about my cousin, my age, dying of cancer far away, a cousin who I loved in my childhood, who loved to read like me, who wrote me letters sealed with a kiss. Her name is Maria. I drove my car to the bank in the little village just down from the church where I used to go (to stand, to kneel, to sit, to stand, to kneel) and I was angry when I got out of the car and walked, a beautiful day, it's always, always a beautiful day, and four beautiful people sat in front of a restaurant and spoke what was that? Italian? Yes, Italian. Italian rolling off their tongues like saints. Jesus Christ, I thought, this town is impossible. I walked into the bank and then out and the Italians were getting up from their table and walking, walking in front of me, two women and two men, all beautiful, the Italian still rolling off their tongues like saints, one woman had a band of smooth brown skin, naked above her ass, and I was still drifting, angry, when I got into my car and drove back home. At a stoplight, I looked over into the car next to me, a woman in full Muslim garb, her head covered, sat at the wheel, her daughter in the back seat covered as well. The light was still red and I was still angry, and the daughter was young but not young enough to sit in a booster seat. She looked ridiculous in the booster seat, stupid in her veil. Take off your bullshit cloak of modesty, I might have hissed, your daughter is too big for that car seat. The light turned green, I looked away, I drove away. When I got home I sat with Sophie, I stood with Sophie, I stood and sat and kneeled. I blinked, a bead of sweat rolled down the nape of my neck and down my back, I was wearing a blue dress. I am not a saint.

Marijuana Update, Number 7,567,890 in a series: The Woman Who Knew Too Much

Even though it's Monday, my favorite day of the week, I'm dragging. Even though I've already consulted with the guy who's going to paint our garage apartment, I'm dragging. Even though, I've made some requisite phone calls and taken care of some bills, I'm dragging. Even though I've done a bit of work for My Job, I'm dragging. Even though it's still summer, and I have three children about to begin three different schools, and I'm figuring out who needs what and who needs it when, I'm dragging. I just can't shake the dragging.

Have you ever seen the Hitchcock movie The Man Who Knew Too Much? It's one of my favorites -- probably because it's perfectly weird and creepy, particularly given the peaches and cream casting of Jimmy Stewart and Doris Day. I was always a good girl when I was younger, and even now struggle to be the good girl. If not always do what's right, then at the very least think right. Whenever I go to karaoke parties (ok, I've been to three of them), I always choose to sing that song because it's so perfectly ridiculous. I'm drawn to the perfect pairing of the creepy and the zen.

Listen to the above clip while you read the rest of this post.

Did you see the CNN special of Dr. Sonjay Gupta's last night? It was called Weed and featured the little girl Charlotte whose severe epilepsy has dramatically improved since she started using medical marijuana. I sat sort of frozen throughout the special and only teared up once or twice. My tears were, strangely, not the sorrowful kind but the angry kind. The update for Sophie is that I've been unsuccessful locating the high ratio CBD stuff in California. I'm hooked into a group of people, though, who are on a waiting list to get it when it's available. Let's hope that's soon. Last night's special stated that studies in Israel, done decades ago, showed a strong correlation between high ratio CBD and reduction in epilepsy. The forty some odd children who are taking Charlotte's Web now have ALL shown dramatic reduction in their refractory seizures.

 Frankly, the whole thing gave me agita at the least and existential dread at most.

Don't get me started on why we are only learning about this in 2013. When I imagine what Sophie's life might have been like if she'd had the opportunity to try it back in the 1990s, I feel sick to my stomach.

Que sera sera.

Siblings

Here's a photo of The Brothers with Sophalofa on The Duet. It's a photo of harmony that perfectly captures the joy and wonder of childhood with a twist of acceptance and diversity:

Aren't they sweet?

Then there was this:



That might have been incredibly exploitative, but I didn't want any of ya'll to be jealous of us or anything. Notice how effective my parenting style is as well. You can't see it, but shortly afterward the house went up in flames, I streaked naked down the street, Sophie got up as if she were Lazarus and began reciting Hindu poetry and both boys disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

Believe

Yosemite, 2009

I realized that perhaps the solution for me was not constant vigilance and action but instead a blend of thoughtful pursuit and deliberate inaction, with a complete trust that the universe will engage. 
For me, when things seem difficult and it feels like I am fighting the world, this is a reminder to me that I need to stop doing. I need to just "be" for awhile and allow the universe to help me. When I work with nature and allow my intellect a break from steering the ship, things always seem to get a little better. The solution always seems to come, surprisingly landing in my lap with no effort on my part.
My advice to you dear friend, for what it is worth, is to just stop for a moment. Begin a short period of complete inaction. Take a breath and ask the universe for help. Believe that it will come and it will.

Lisa Peters

I got the above comment on my post from the other day that chronicled a bit more of my fruitless efforts to find the proper medical marijuana for Sophie's seizures. It stopped me in my tracks, not by its novelty but as a reminder of what I know to be true, what I've experienced over and over and over again.

Thank you, Lisa, for the eloquent reminder.

 

Saturday

Oliver is selling lemonade at the corner today for $.75 a glass. He squeezed the lemons last night at 11:00 and made simple syrup with The Husband. He wondered if Henry might go door-to-door and take orders and then deliver, but Henry, being Henry, said, Nah, I don't like working like that. So, he's in his room, playing video games or watching violent movies with lots of sex.

Just kidding.

Sophie is having a sleep-fest which she does periodically and which I believe is her body's way to cope with a period of particularly brutal and multiple seizures. I periodically poke my head over the door and watch to see whether her chest is rising and falling, and then I feel somewhat sheepish to still be doing that and then I realize that it's perfectly reasonable given our situation and Sophie's troubles and then I wonder, for a bit, if I'm irrevocably damaged and then I realize that we all are in one way or another but that life just keeps on blowing its breezes and throwing its lemons and pushing out mint.

It's another beautiful day in Los Angeles. I'm going to finish The Interestings and start on The Mouse-Proof Kitchen by Saira Shah. It's a novel about a couple living in southern France with a disabled child, and I believe the writer herself has a child with seizures. I know that someone (maybe here?) told me about Saira Shah a long time ago, and I pre-ordered the book on Amazon. It was downloaded to my Kindle the other day, and just this morning I read a review. I also might finish spray-painting two metal chairs that I picked up at a yard sale and that I'm working on, slowly, ever so slowly, because, really, I'm more like Henry when it comes to that kind of thing and would rather say Nah, I don't like working like that. As for sex and violence, I prefer the former.

Reader, how is your Saturday shaping up and what are you reading?

Crazy beautiful

Another crazy, beautiful day in southern California, and I just feel crazy. I went down to Redondo Beach early this morning to watch the final ceremonies of Sophie's Communicamp. As some of you might remember who've been reading here for a while, this is a week or two of communication camp for children and young adults who use augmentative devices instead of speech to communicate. You can read my first post about it here.  Because Sophie can walk, she chose to introduce each performer by tapping her iPad. In the interest of privacy, I won't put up any more photos of the other kids, but there were wondrous things unfolding and tears falling. My favorite boy uses his right heel to tap a switch, and when he hears the recorded message, his face lights up in the most beautiful smile. Another boy did a stand-up (or sit-down) comedy routine with jokes that he told by tapping a switch with his elbow.

These aren't miracles, people, and one shouldn't jump to the colloquial how inspiring, what heroes, etc. etc. These are real people with real needs and a way to communicate them. When you find yourself talking about technology in a disparaging manner, remember these children and their ability to be in the world and not on the sidelines.

That's the beautiful part.

I followed up the Communicamp Final Production with a mosey down Lincoln Blvd and then Abbott Kinney to another medical marijuana pharmacy with an f. I had gotten a lead on this one perhaps having what I need -- a higher ratio tincture of CBD/THC.

Well, it didn't have it.

Sigh.

I got back in my car and started home, meandering through the small beach towns that dot the coast. I shed tears, a small in-car pity party: how am I going to find the right strain for Sophie? Why don't I live as carefree as that girl on her bright yellow bike with the basket? Or that man with his surfboard slung over his shoulder? Why don't we live in a beach town? What am I doing with my life? What the hell?

That's the crazy part.

Summer Night Still Life with Boys

You thought I was going to break my run of 2,714 posts, didn't you? Well, the evening is waning out here in the perfectly perfect summer weather of Los Angeles, The Brothers are playing some godforsaken game outside with the other boys of the 'hood, a game that forces Oliver to wear full lacrosse gear and a wrestler mask. There are pillows on the grass to shield the boy who jumps over the masked boy, and there's a lot of laughing, the kind of boy guffawing that makes me smile but also makes me feel sort of bewildered. The reason why I've neglected to post here is because I spent the day in Long Beach with Oliver at The Irlen Institute. It was all very cool and very interesting, and Oliver qualifies or shows potential promise in having some of his reading difficulties ameliorated with this method. I don't feel like explaining it all here, but I did promise Ms. Irlen that I would write a more lengthy post at some point, so stay tuned.

Reader, what did you do today?

Medical Marijuana Update Number 3,235,679: When I Sit at My Computer Weeping

First of all, the reason that I'm weeping is because of this story. The part that got me weeping was this:

"I literally see Charlotte's brain making connections that haven't been made in years," Matt said. "My thought now is, why were we the ones that had to go out and find this cure? This natural cure? How come a doctor didn't know about this? How come they didn't make me aware of this?"

and this:

"I didn't hear her laugh for six months," Paige said. "I didn't hear her voice at all, just her crying. I can't imagine that I would be watching her making these gains that she's making, doing the things that she's doing (without the medical marijuana). I don't take it for granted. Every day is a blessing." 

I've been in this game for nearly twenty years now, and I've been down the road of "cures" for nearly that long as well. My hopes went up and my hopes were dashed and then they went up and then they were dashed. Sophie was tested for this and tested for that, tried this and tried that. I learned to keep the hope, but I learned to shrug off the dashed hopes, sometimes bitterly but never in any sort of defensive way. If you don't have hope, you don't have anything, my old friend Tal once said, even after her own dear son had passed away. I've held the hope in the family and The Husband has, too.

These medical marijuana miracle stories are giving me hope, but they're also driving me nuts. When I log into the Pediatric Cannabis Therapy group page on Facebook, I'm overwhelmed by people's advocacy efforts for their children with seizure disorders. I see myself, but I see myself more than ten years ago. I am so tired. I'm tired of doing it. I might even be a bit tired of holding hope. I know I should rally the forces and get down to it, but I'm having a hard time doing it. I got the stuff for Sophie and gave it to her for nearly a week. There was absolutely no response. I figured out from reading other's advice, that the proportion of CBD to THC that I had was too small, insignificant actually, to impact Sophie's epilepsy. I am having a hard time figuring out where to get the right stuff, the Charlotte's Web, the Harlequin strains, as they don't seem to be available in southern California. I read about people packing up their bags and moving to Colorado or whatever state has more lenient medical marijuana laws. I feel guilty. Then I remember that I moved to California from my beloved New York City fifteen years ago for exactly the same reason: a possible better life for Sophie.

I'm not sure what the purpose is of this blog post other than to somehow hash out my conflicted feelings, try to rally myself to take another go at it. My heart is filled with happiness for the people who do, finally, find their miracles. Their children's seizures stop, they begin to laugh, their broken brains are given an opportunity to mend. Sophie? Sophie is still seizing, and my hope is like a hermit living on the top of some windy, sacred Chinese peak.

So, how long has it been since you've received a real letter in the mail? The only ones I receive are, ironically, from Anthem Blue Cross, and they always say the same thing and they always include a third piece of paper that lists the ten thousand languages available for translation even though that must cost a pretty penny and they already know that we speak English as a primary language in this health care-exhaustive family. Today, though, I got a real letter in the mail from Rebecca. It was sealed with golden WAX, a honeybee over the flap, and there were stickers all over it, including one that read OPEN ME. I didn't want to break the seal, so I used a tarnished silver pointy letter opener that has been sitting in a pencil box since the last time I got a letter thirty years ago or so. Before I did that, I turned the envelope over and over and admired, even, the stamps. Can you believe she put a Wallace Stevens stamp on there and a fabulous Charles Demuth? Here's a poem by Wallace Stevens that a boy I knew wrote the title of on a tiny slip of paper and left on my bed in my dorm room, about as long ago as I received a real letter in the mail. It's for you today, Rebecca:

In the Carolinas

The lilacs wither in the Carolinas.
Already the butterflies flutter above the cabins.
Already the new-born children interpret love
In the voices of mothers.

Timeless mother,
How is it that your aspic nipples
For once vent honey?

The pine-tree sweetens my body
The white iris beautifies me.

Sometimes, especially when I do so in the early hours of the morning, I think of this blog as my "correspondence," in the way that women of leisure might have in the olden days. I sit down at my desk, raise my hands over the keyboard and begin.

Thank you, Rebecca, for the envelope and the stamps, for the perfect card inside and for the letter in your beautiful, sexy handwriting. I've written a blog post in gratitude, but I can't wait to wrap my own fingers around a real pen and write you back.

Good lord, part two and parenting for cash

I heard a couple of punches fly and then Oliver came into the kitchen and put an icepack on his arm. I hated to, but I asked him what happened and he told me that he'd been beaten to death, again. I made inquiries and understood that spit had flown previously to the punch.

Here's what I said,

From now on, if a punch or spit flies, I get $5. Effective immediately.

I stood there, in the doorway, and collected $15.00.

Not a bad day's work.

Reader, tell me your effective parenting strategies. I'm all ears and filled pockets.