I have been known to worry. A little. Okay, a lot. In all fairness to myself my worrying is not for naught, because I am also graced with really bad luck.

My husband is always quick to tell me to stop with the hand-wringing, already. Sure, it would be nice if he gently smacked my hands when I’m picking at my cuticles or if he would quietly tell me to have a seat if I’m pacing the floor. Instead he says, “Quit freaking out!” and leaves it at that.

Last week, we were getting ready to go to my mom’s house for dinner when my 13 year old daughter came downstairs wearing athletic shorts, a t-shirt, running socks and dressy, black flats.

I wouldn’t want her to have to go upstairs and change, or anything, because OH, THE EFFORT, but I couldn’t just let her walk out the door looking like that. I said, “You can’t wear those shoes with that outfit.”

She looked down and had apparently lost her vision, because she eyed her feet and then asked, “Why not?”

I shook my head. “Because! Do you really want someone to see you like that? What if we get in an accident on the way there?”

My husband countered with his anti-anxiety speech, “Seriously, you’re worried about that? What if I die on the way there!”

And even though no one asked him, my son looked at his dad and said, “Well, then I’d ask Mom to drive.”

Follow

Email

Since my son was a baby, someone from the county has come out to work with us on his needs. As an infant, he got in-home occupational and physical therapy. When he got a little older, he attended a preschool for special needs children and when he neared school-age, we got OT and behavioral therapy ala carte while the county paid the bills.

Now that my boy attends a typical school and is functioning with mild delays, we don’t use the county funding much, but once a year his case manager still has to make an appearance at our house to go over his status. She visited us last week.

For the first 30 minutes she asked me questions about my son’s health and hospitalizations. Then she started asking him the questions.

She inquired about his age, what chores he does around the house and the extra-curricular activities in which he’s involved. She asked him if he can still dress himself, if he has a problem turning on the water when he showers and then…she asked him if he’s shaving yet.

This is a valid question.

Despite being 10 years old and only 48 pounds, my son is kind of hairy. You can see the faintest hint of a mustache above his upper lip and I admit to taming his unibrow. I blame our Lebanese genes.

Still,  I think his case manager was taken off-guard when he replied, “No, I don’t shave yet. But, do you want to see my hairy back?”

Unfortunately for us, the county draws the line at paying for wax jobs.

Follow

Email

Yesterday morning, our dog almost got run over.

My husband and my son were walking her when she suddenly darted away and into the path of a school bus which, in my husband’s words, “…was not going to stop.” My son witnessed the entire incident.

When they returned home, he was one shaken-up kid and insisted upon giving me a play-by-play.

And, I know it was an honest account of what happened, because after he went on and on about Daisy’s near-fatal mistake, he ended the story with, “It was so terrible! I was scared 3/4 to death!”

Follow

Email

It turns out that if your kid suffers from hearing loss and he’s playing Draw Something, he may turn to you and say, “Mom, I can’t draw this because it’s inappropriate.”

To which you might reply, “Why? What is it?”

And, you’ll be completely surprised when he says, “It’s Uggs. You know…like the boobs.”

Follow

Email