Pray for neurologists and dance dates everywhere.

I prayed last night. It was quick, but it was for my sister. She had a 30-page paper and a 15-page paper due to finish up her MBA, and then she comes HOME. I miss her so much. She's a lot younger than me; in fact, she's closer to my kids' ages than she is to mine, and I want her back. I hope I don't mess it up because God's not happy with me for not communicating more often. I think about Him a lot. I don't know why I feel so ashamed in His presence. I go to church and I just sit there and cry; I don't know why.

I am ready for this week to be over. I'm running on something, and I don't know what that something is. It's not sugar. It's definitely not sleep. I am sleeping in shifts again with a wide space in between, and 1½ hours seems to be the best I can get before I wake up. I think I need to find a planet where days are 48 hours long or something. Hear that, NASA? Find me my own damn planet. I pay my taxes...

I got Sunny an appointment with a pediatric neurologist. It's not for a couple of weeks, but it's better than going back to her pediatrician who asks how her headaches are doing. What headaches? They're belly pains. The migraines, he says. Okay, but they're not headaches. He looked at me weird. Sunny said the same thing later. He kept calling them headaches throughout the entire office visit, maybe just to be snarky. Who knows? I'm sorry, but when my kid is in pain, I want to be sure that you know where the pain is.

I'm letting my eldest trip out on codeine. He's says he's not that uncomfortable at night, but he is in the middle of the night, but he mentioned he liked the dreams. If I could dream and be guaranteed to dream, as in like sleep to get the dream, I might borrow one.

Shoot, I'm so used to just fussing here that I forgot to mention that I'm being read! On the "fluffy" blog! I wrote something that someone found and passed on to someone else, and my hits jumped by 100. I don't have hit counters on all my pages, and I saw where she just sent the link to the one story, so that's not accurate. I don't want to install hit counters on each page, though, because it seems a little pretentious and potentially self-defeating, i.e., what if no one reads them? The "fluffy" blog also got accepted into a web ring of a developer of something. How pathetic is that? I'm enforcing privacy for my privacy! I'm such a flipping private person that I make myself sick!

What's so damn hard about saying goodbye to me? Just an IM would be nice - hey, I'm leaving. He does this to me all the time. It bugs the hell out of me.

Junior's up. He comes to see me, first thing, every morning. He's usually grumpy and twittish, but he's always here as soon as he wakes up. It makes me smile. He won't say he loves me, he won't hug me unless forced, and he doesn't even like me to rub his back any more, but, first thing, he's here. I'm probably not the most lovely visage first thing in the morning, but I'm just glad he's here.

It's about a half-hour later, now, and geez is he talky-talky. I need to get this last bit of D's work done, and then I'm free...to take two 1-mg Ativan and try to sleep for more than an hour and a half. With his bum hand, Junior has no alternative but TV and a few video games, so he's informing me (during commercials) about all the TV shows he watched last night. This is our morning routine. He comes and sits on the bed while I fuss about how tired I am. I looked over for a minute and he sat there, holding his nose, with this shit-eating grin on his face. It took me a minute (tired, you know), but I knew he farted, and it was so bad *he* couldn't even stand it. His comment? "I hope I don't fart in class today."

Last year, he got a note from a girl who lamented that she didn't have a homecoming dance date. That went over well (read horrible), and, guess what? Not the same girl, but the same damn kind of note! I asked him what he's going to do. I don't think it's nice for him to ignore her, but, given last year's fiasco (she didn't mention she had a boyfriend until two days before the dance), if he ignores her, that's just fine with me.

He's on Sunny duty. She hates mornings for about two minutes. Poke the bear from the lair and she's okay after that. Nope, not me. I did it the rest of the week. HIS turn.

Where to hide?

I want to hide. Hide deep within myself with the characters from my books, who aren't perfect, but who manage to worm their ways through scary situations.

Unfortunately, they have guns and I have, well, debt.

I fucked up the dates on an entire huge file of stuff I sent back to D, who hates me anyway. All that work trying to change dates and stuff after the crash--I used the old back-up files I had because I didn't want to bug her, but maybe I should've just asked for updated everything. It's a bigger pain to be helpful. The end result is that she's either holding work back from me or it's not there; considering she's got a bunch of clients and new ones, too, I'm pretty sure it's the former.

Stud's job is in jeopardy. I told him I pissed off D, and he said, "Don't do it anymore!" I can't help it! I'm not trying to piss her off. It just happens. Just like everything else happens. And yes, dear, you could be a hell of a lot more help. We're facing unemployment, no insurance, and I'm trying to keep above water here since my income's the only one that's flexible, and you're talking about buying another breeder male! Funny how I can respond with a single letter like "k" in IMs, and you get upset, but when I try to cry a river for you, you quit responding. "I feel like crying" seems to get you to leave me alone, when I really could use a shoulder. I find that a bit insensitive, especially since all child matters, shopping, drumming up extra money for stuff, hospital trips, and kid emergencies, dinner, etc., etc., etc., seem to be dropped all on my lap like you didn't contribute anything to this household, population wise.

Speaking of which, Junior's fractured hand means I have to write stuff for him. No big, except we're in a money crunch and I'm running out of time to work!

Geez, D. You make me so flipping nervous now that my stomach aches when I type for you! I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I'm still finding templates that don't look right. These are over a year old that I'm using, and they've been updated, but I can't remember which ones! It's hard to type nervous.

I want to cry. I think a lot of it's a holdover from last night with Sunny. I hate feeling helpless. Things are just going out of my control and only money will fix it, but I have to have the time to actually WORK in order to make the money we need.

Thank you so much for leaving without even saying goodbye. I have heard nothing from you since I told you I wanted to cry. I know; you've told me in the past that you don't know what to do when I cry, but that doesn't help, you know?

Shit fuzzy fuck. Hold it together, girl. The world depends on you, you know?

There are no platelets for this kind of bleeding.

I can't fix this.

Moms fix anything, right? I'm feeling helpless.

*My Sunny girl has these "abdominal migraines." We thought we kicked 'em to the curb. They left her alone all summer. Now, with the new school year in full swing, with all her new friends, her wonderful classes - even a teacher who is using one of her reports as a model outline for how she wants everyone's report to look - they're back! God! She looks at me through these horribly hurting eyes, begging me to DO something, and there's nothing I can do! Her pediatrician calls them "abdominal migraines." Her GYN laughed, and had never heard of such a thing. I took her to the emergency room and they checked her urine and refused to do more. I can't identify the stressor, if there is one. She's very, very good at limiting herself emotionally, and her responsibilities come first. This is something she comes by naturally. I've never, ever met a less procrastinating person, let alone child! She gets ahead at everything so she's got room to breathe. She plans ahead for the recreation she needs! Is that's what causing her stress? I don't push for good grades. She comes by those naturally, too. Is there even a stress component to this?

She sat next to my chair, back rounded up, me stroking her upper back and running my hands through her hair. I can do NOTHING. Nothing without a diagnosis. Nothing without some firm diagnostic data. I can't do anything. Nothing.

It's hurting me, too. And she looks at me like I can do everything else, so I should be able to fix this, too. I offered her Prilosec tonight. Maybe that did help her get back to sleep; I don't want to wake her up to see how she's doing for fear she won't get back to sleep. These damn things robbed her so much of last year. I don't want to print out that note again, the standard one from last year. In effect, it says "She had a migraine, couldn't do work, please understand and let her catch up." Hate this. Hate, hate, hate.

*Junior ran full speed into a padded wall in a gym with his first somehow closed and smashed his last knuckle on his dominant hand. Once again, I have nothing I can do for him. He hurts; I take him to the doctor. He wants to wiggle his fingers and he can't. The break is right at the tip of the metacarpal. One good bump, and the tip of the bone comes completely off. If he does like he's told and keeps it out of harm's way, he's going to be just fine. If he even accidentally trips and falls, we might be talking pinning and fixation and all kinds of nifty things.

Gah.

He looks at me like I know a way to get him out of the funky splint he's in before his designated 28 days are done. I can't, Babe. This is one of those things. At least he's not sitting on the floor crying in pain. It's annoying, though, and he can't use the computer mouse, write very well, or even hold a book easily. He's relegated to certain games with certain controllers, even, because some just don't fit well against the gutter splint. He's going to be mad, because I need some things done. I'll take out the trash while he shreds papers. I'll clean up dog hair while he...does something. He can't wash dishes. He's bored off his ass. I guess I'll take him to the library and at least he can have books on tape, if he'll listen to them.

*Dude. He wants to be wanted for him by his peers. He's different, and he's getting old enough to know it. It's hurting him, and it's killing me. We all see our children as perfect, and having someone tell me he's not "normal" a.k.a. "not perfect" hurt. Now, he's figured it out. I can help him modify his behavior, but I can't make him different. He is who he is. I love him desperately. I can't make what makes him tick into anything else but how it ticks. He's young, though. Somehow, he thinks I can kiss it and it will all go away. It won't. How do you tell your sensitive child--the one who couldn't think of anything wonderful to do for Sunny as she cried, so got her an ice-filled glass of water as a symbol of his concern--he's not going to fit in the holes the "normal" world has drilled?

I want my mommy. She's the only one I know who understands that when the kids hurt, something inside you bleeds, that some part of you wants to turn into an animal and hide in a hole with others of your kind for warmth and support. She'll tell me to give it to God; tell me to pray. I don't know if God likes me anymore (not because of this stuff; I've thought this for a long time), though, so I'll secretly hope she'll pray, because He seems to like her just fine.
I feel like I'm sinking. I feel like I'm failing. I can't be failing. These are things all out of my control. They're beyond me. I know this, on a cerebral level, but it still feels like I'm failing them, just because I can't fix it.

What is interesting is that I seem to be writing here on bad days and on the "fluffy" blog on good days. This blog is a little stilted because I have the other one; the other blog looks a bit like Egyptian historical data in the fact that it doesn't reveal any defeat, but this is what's under the mask, I suppose. This is where the confidence ends and the questions begin. This is where I talk about those who have gone beyond, where I can yell to the world how much I loved them and cry to the universe about how much I miss them without breaking the delicate psyches and the walls my family have created for themselves to deal with so much loss. I'm like my father. Dad, they miss you so much, but they forgot what you were all about. I want to preserve your memory and keep your stories alive. You told so many good ones! I started a blog just to showcase them and asked them to submit their favorite stories, and they didn't do it. After months and months of gentle reminders, I got one story from Mom. That's it. Your absence is still too painful to deal with. I think the best way to deal is celebrate you; they seem to think opposite, and I pulled the blog down. Erasing you and your picture was hard, but it seemed counterproductive to maintain a blog to immortalize you in my own funky fashion with only two stories on it, one from me and one from Mom. I didn't want to post anymore or they'd think I was trying to make up for all the hurt I caused you while you were alive.

I miss you, too. I see a lot of you in my kids. I think of you every day and wonder what kind of wisdom you'd have for me, especially today, when I feel like something intangible is conspiring against my children and I can't protect them. I've got the teeth and claws out and ready, but where do I attack? There's nothing. Nothing. And it pisses me off.

If anyone reads this, though, please realize that the "fluffy" blog contains much more than this one ever will. My life is good, I assure you, but it's here where I can be without my smile and confidence. It's here that I put out my thoughts and sometimes answer them by doing this. The mask is off, here. Is it true? Not always. Is it me? A part of me. The other part of me.