happy happy joy joy

Well, I figured out what's wrong with my knee/hip/foot: it's the shoes. My left sandal is so fubared that my left foot has road burn. (Really.)
Solution: buy new shoes. And the pain will go away soon. Hopefully. This is day six? seven? eight? Something like that. I'm very sick of it. Wear funky foot-massaging sandals that are brilliant pink today.

---

Dear Gord, maker of all things holy and good, like chocolate cake and sex and half-terabyte hard drives:

Please, please, please do not give us a doctor that feels the need to reassure us about our son's disability. Please do not bring out that tired old shuck-and-jive about how tragic it is in any way shape or form today. I was past that about fifteen minutes after the initial diagnosis. That's so twentieth century. (Besides, the obvious presence of Dad with the Stick should logically mean that we can DEAL with this, nu?)

(Seriously, I hate that. The kid is not sad in any way about it. Except when he accidentally runs into walls. (And then he's sad because ow, he just ran into a wall accidentally.) If we treat it like a tragedy he'll end up like one of those Whiny Blindies (tm) and then I'll have to disown him. It's a Thing. We deal with it. Just like my thing or Chris's thing.)

And while you're at it, can you do something about the knee?

Thanks so much,
Leah

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Much UPS love today. And hopefully writing today. *nudges muse gently* Come along, dearie.

Heading for the light

The eye doctor was only vaguely conciliatory. Hopefully we managed to make that go away by repeatedly saying 'no, we just want a checkup, really, we know he's blind, it's no big deal, honestly, we live with it, it's not a tragedy'. Sean was not hugely impressed by having lights shone in his eyes. They did a non-dilated check today because he was vaguely grumpy until daddy got out his cellphone (note: thank you Nokia, for having fun beepy ringtones that amuse the boy) and are sending us back in three weeks for a dilated exam. Fun times.

I don't get why people are talking so much about 'such and such can't be fixed and blah blah blah' in such a 'there there don't cry' kind of way. Am I that strange? I don't see this as a tragedy, I'm not all up in arms looking for the Miracle Cure for his OMG SO TRAGIC PROBLEM ... it's just a thing. Like brown hair. (This is why it vaguely gets to me when people start saying 'well, maybe some day someone will find a cure'. Look, cure cancer or something. That's taken out a few dozen more people I love to where they aren't HERE any more. Don't focus your energy on this. Really. I can deal with it.) Am I weird? (Weirder than you already knew, that is?) It's a thing, you deal with it, then you move on. I've had three years to deal with it. There's no sense CRYING. The speech delay is more of an immediate problem. (Once again I prove myself more well-adjusted than my mother in law who can't deal with Chris being blind after nearly THIRTY YEARS.)

That said I am seriously impressed by his new mad wall trailing skillz - I didn't know he knew how to do that, because he doesn't generally do that in the house. But he was trailing the wall inside the medical building without being prompted to. Yay orientation! Soon we will give you a cane like daddy's, and ... then you will probably fence with it like all little children do. I'm not kidding myself.

There were many fun boxen when I got home, containing books (the Neil Gaiman audio collection fell in the shopping cart, I swear.) and a new crockpot and some Lands' End goodness.

Next week on Fun Medical Adventures: Don't Stick That In Your Ear, aka The Hearing Test.

*eeee*

The child has ended his anti-bread stance and just ate a Nutri-Grain banana muffin bar. By himself. Happily.
AND drank two or three sips of milk from a straw, too.
It's a good kid-day, apparently.

Proof

Proof that someone, somewhere, will be offended by anything.
*cries*

(From mactavish.)

(Apparently they've privatized the incident. Details here.

Take me to your leader

This looks very much like it's fallen out of a Gary Larson cartoon.