Chubbers re-enacts 'A Christmas Story'

From the Christmas movie classic: A Christmas Story

"Now, Randy, can you show me how the little piggies eat? How do the little
piggies eat?"

"That's my little Piggy!"

*Chubbers dove 'head first' into his refried beans. Apparently, he likes them.

The Secrets of Being GROWN UP

When you're a child all you can think about is what you're going to do when you are 'all grown-up.' You wish away your childhood summers in the hope of 'getting older' and being able to 'do more.'

Then come your teen years. No one likes the teen years. I suppose that is where the term 'teen angst' comes from. When you're 15 you're too young to drive; not old enough to work at a 'real' job, and all you can do is watch all the cool kids go driving by in their Honda's loaded chock full with obnoxiousness, rocketing hormones, and those people who are older than you.

Finally, you hit sixteen. You can drive (or, if you are me, you cannot because you were caught stealing a car and going joy-riding at fifteen). You can stay out later. You're still too young to buy cigarettes and beer. Oh, the adult pleasures that life has to offer--if you're old enough.

Finally 18: you can vote! The year I turned eighteen was a Presidential election year, I remember how excited I was to have my opinion actually count.

And then the Pièce de résistance: your twenty-first birthday (to be celebrated with a rip-roaring hang-over the second day of your twenty-first year).

We spend the first years of our lives pining away to be 'grown-up'. When you finally realize that you are a 'grown-up' (the fact of our grown-up-ness rather sneaks up on us and bites us in the butt when we're not looking, as I have found out) you wish you were a kid again.

No one wishes for the grown up tasks of life that we don't count on: the mundane tasks that we all do to survive day-to-day. You don't see your parents paying the bills, washing dishes, cleaning the house, or folding laundry. All you see, when you're young, is the fact that they can stay up late, drive a car, spend money, and pretty much do whatever they want (or so it appears-).

Some of the secret joys of adulthood (and no, I'm not talking about the Kama Sutra, or The Joy of Sex , although those are certainly fun...) are things like scaling Laundry Mountain, the newest baddest, most tedious ride at the world renown resort Adulthood:

Why is it that we wish our lives away? What we gain in freedom we also lose in freedom. It is a paradox. You finally get to be in control of your life, but at the same time life has control of you.

We all have things that we regret, that we'd do differently if we had the option to do them over. As I get older I constantly hear the echoes of things my father said to me as I was growing up ring true. One of them is that you can give all the advice in the world, but people will never listen. They have to learn for themselves, first hand.

How very true that is. My parents always told me to enjoy being young while I could, because the older you get the faster time flies.

Tempus Fugit. What an understatement.

It is a shame that when we are young and carefree and pining away to 'grow up' we can't heed such advice. I certainly wouldn't change my life circumstances now (my husband, my family, career, etc.) if I were given a choice. But I think I would have slowed down a bit more, enjoyed having someone take care of me more.

As for now, I shall return to one of the joys of being grown up: Conquering Laundry Mountain (yes, that is my laundry in the living room. It is amazing what being a slacker for a few days will do in terms of making a boring task, like laundry, monumental to complete).

Terror-Update

Heaving a big sigh of relief, here.

The doctor wasn't immediately worried. He said that I should keep watching Chubbers for the length/duration of the 'episodes' and if possible get it on video-tape. If I can capture it on video then the Dr. can see EXACTLY what I'm talking about (makes sense); as we all know kids never 'perform' when we want them to, so the video remedies that.

It is likely nothing. I'm pretty much relieved.

We had a crazy and fun weekend. I'll tell you about it later.

Terror

I'm sitting here so nervous I didn't know what to do with myself; so here I am. Blogging. What a useful occupation.

I'm waiting for a phone call back from the pediatrician regarding Chub-chub and some bizarre behavior I've observed over the last couple of weeks. It is likely nothing; but until I know whether or not it is something I need to try and not wig-out.

Go back in time with me, to an uneventful morning in January, 2006. I had had a great start to my day. Peanut was still, blessedly, asleep (at 6:45am) and I had just gone into Chubber's room to get him and nurse him for the first time that day. Nursing my little love first thing in the morning was always one of my favorite times of the day (especially once he started sleeping through the night!). I had just gotten us settled into the glider rocker and and was gently rocking my boy as I was going to settle him on my breast. Chub-chub had always been a voracious eater, especially first-thing in the morning. This morning was to be quite different.

I looked down at my sweet boy, puzzled that he wasn't latching on immediately, as was his usual custom, and to my horror I saw my tiny, six-month-old's eyes roll back into his head and his fragile little body went completely limp.

It was the longest 10 seconds in my entire life.

I was nearly in hysteria because I could not, for the life of me, figure out what was wrong with my baby. He was breathing just fine; his pulse was strong; he was completely limp and unresponsive. After about an hour of utter lethargy from my baby and frantic phone calls to the doctor and a pediatric visit it was concluded that Chub-chub had had a seizure. I, being the mommy, followed up with a trip to a larger city for a full diagnostic/EEG to make sure my boy was OK. The medical professionals confirmed he likely had a seizure, would probably never have another one (80% of all people who have one seizure NEVER have another one), and we were to watch him and not let him get a fever beyond 100 degrees.

Fast forward to today.

Chubbers has been doing some weird stuff. He'll be playing and carrying on like normal, then suddenly he'll get stiff in the arms, legs, and neck, then clench his fists bringing them up toward his face and shake all over for 2-3 seconds. That's it. Nothing before the shaking, nothing after. He just goes along like nothing happened.

I've thought it was King Chub just being weird and having a funky 2-year-old thing that kids sometimes do (like Peanut used to bang her head on the floor and tantrum; now she doesn't). But the frequency of these events is increasing.

I first noticed it at our Family Weekend in Seattle (June 9, to be exact) and it happened when he was mad, so I, naturally, assumed it was a part of a temper tantrum. These incidents of shaking/stiffness have been happening as many 2-3 times a day or not at all --that I've noticed, that is. I hadn't really been that worried until today when I started to get anxious because of the increased frequency.

I called my friend M. who has 2 children, both with seizure disorder, to ask her opinion. She said, not trying to alarm me, that they sounded like Petite Mal seizures. Nothing happens before, the attack lasts seconds, and there's no 'down time' (with Grand Mal seizures the after-effects of a seizure can be exhaustion/sleeping/lethargy for many hours --a recovery period). She suggested I contact my doctor if I was concerned enough to call and ask her about it.

Very sound advice.

So, that is what I have done. I've phoned the pediatrician, talked with the triage nurse, and now I'm waiting for the return call of what to do.

I'm so worried and scared. Truly, I'm terrified. When he had the first seizure it was so horrible and I was completely helpless to do anything for him. And, here I am again: helpless. Chances are it is just nothing a weird kid-response. But if it isn't--

I just have to be patient; hurry up and wait. Perhaps the most difficult of all parenting skills to acquire and ultimately master would have to be patience and learning how to wait.

I hope it is nothing. I hope I'm over-reacting.

Would you like a drop cloth to go with your entree?

I swear, I will never get past the point of spilling down the front of my shirt.

It is so embarrassing. Let me tell you about what happened on Thursday night:

So, B.J. and I go to the sitter to pick up the kidlets, and the usual question arises: What do you want to do for dinner?

And then the standard response: I don't know.

We go through this most nights of the week. When I am 'good' I have a lovely menu mapped out and groceries purchased so that I can create healthy and palatable meals. They may not be culinary masterpieces (or in some instances much more elaborate than Costco chicken nuggets and a salad), but it makes my little brood happy and keeps them from turning into Gremlins. Anyhow, THE question popped up--even though I had thawed a pound of ground beef--and we looked at each other for a while and B.J. says "What do you want to eat: Chinese or Mexican?"

Hmm. That takes me all of about 2.3 seconds to decide: "Definitely Mexican. Let's go to La Hacienda Real' It is usually a zoo anytime after 5:00pm but if we hurry we can get a seat before 5:00pm."

B.J. says: "Mexican it is."

So, off we go in our gold mommy-van to the Mexican restaurant. It doesn't sound like a big deal, but truly, I love Mexican (It is really Mexican-American, since it doesn't remotely resemble authentic Mexican cooking. I digress...). B.J. doesn't much care for it, and to get him to willing go and consume such cuisine is a rare treat.

We arrive at our destination. We find a Kramer* parking space. Unload the kidlets, and are immediately escorted to a nice, comfy-cozy, booth and served up the usual fare of tortilla chips and salsa. Now, I cannot resist fresh made salsa. It is too much for me to handle. If I were 'good' I'd request they keep the chips and salsa (that's what all the diet gurus say: "have the wait person take the bread (or chip) basket away, and remove the temptation."). But, as you all know, I am definitely not good.

Strike one!

Within about 5 minutes the waitress takes our order. After she does so, I glance down to find a big blob of tomato-salsa neatly perched on the top of my right boob. Nothing too conspicuous--if you're blind, that is. 'Geez' I think to myself. I've already spilled. The 4-year-old and the one-year-old haven't gotten any food particles on their clothing, but I have. I continue in my mind: 'Well, at least I changed into a dark blue-green shirt. I'll just discreetly dab it with water, and it won't be too bad."

Next, comes out our entree. I ordered something new, akin to a Mexican stew (think spicy tortilla soup type broth, chicken and steak strips, with peppers, mushrooms, and sauteed onions.). It was very hot, but delicious.

Strike two!

About two minutes into my dinner I notice that an onion is perched precariously on the edge of my spoon. I try to slurp it into my mouth before the inevitable: it lands in my lap. I am thankful at this point that I'm wearing a pair of blue-jean gauchos. The onion blop won't show--too much.

I lay down more napkins in my lap in a feeble attempt to wear less than I am eating. You'd think by this point in my life that I'd be able to consume a meal without advertising to the entire universe what each course consisted of on my ensemble. Wrong. At this point in the meal, the one-year-old has decided to decorate the front of his shirt with Spanish rice, and the odd tortilla chip particle here and there. But, he's one: that is what one-year-olds do--they make messes and wear more than they eat. The 4 year-old is still miraculously clean.

I eat a little more, feed babies, drink water without mishap. I think I'm doing pretty good. Maybe I can still swing by Wal-Mart on the way home to exchange the pair of shorts I bought for Peanut (ha ha, I thought I could fit her into a size 4T--she's four, makes sense, right? Well, it was wishful thinking--she still fits into her size 24mos shorts. She needs a smaller size). As we finish up our meal and the kids begin to get squirmy, I notice a weird shadow on my shirt. What is that? What would make such a weird shape?

Strike three!!!!!! Yeeeeeeerre OUT!

I have just discovered the mother-lode of spills on the front of my shirt. I somehow didn't notice that I had dribbled the Mexican stew down the front of my shirt, smack-dab in the middle--about the size of a silver dollar. 'Great.' I think to myself. 'Just perfect. The Peanut manages to eat her dinner without spilling any of her dinner on her clothing, and here you are, a grown adult, a mother, and you look like you're some 90 year old woman who forgot to put her dentures in and has inadvertently dribbled down her blouse. Just perfect.'

At this point I madly dab at my shirt to try to get some of it off. I tell B.J. there is about as much chance of iced tea being served in hell as there is me entering Wal-Mart with my walking-menu-advertisement-shirt on. I blot as best as I can, and decide to pack it in. I tell B.J. that I'll take the kids out to the car while he pays. Thankfully, I have a baby to cuddle in my arms thus disguising the spills and sloppiness that is my shirt from the other non-spilling-on-their-clothes-patrons.

We make it to the car without incident and head home.

My father always said to me as I was growing up and spilled "eat some, wear some." Guess it still holds true.




*Kramer parking space: Named in honor of the Seinfeld episode where Kramer decides to 'adopt road.' He decides his stretch of highway is going to be the 'first class' section of road and in making the 'Kramer lane' takes a 3 lane highway and repaints it to a 2 lane highway for that 'first class leg-room touch.' True to Kramer, everything is a disaster and the episode goes in the usual fashion from there. So, a Kramer parking space is an extra-wide space with plenty of 'wiggle room.'

Arrgh, me matey! A peanut takes the helm.

...At only 4 years old, she skippered her first yacht. *sniff sniff* that's my baby.

And then we were 'Sleepless in Seattle'....

We cruised by the wealthiest man in the world's house: ya know, Bill [Gates], and us, we be 'tight' *crossing fingers* like 'dat.

B.J. and I finally figured out the most tragic interior design flaw in our home: the glorious absence of a genuine T-Rex dinosaur skeleton in our living room. *slaps forehead* how could we possibly be so 'out' of it?

(if you use your zoom tool, you can see in the middle of the windows an honest-to-goodness dinosaur skeleton)

...at 49 feet it is still just a boat

Well, we made it back from B.J.'s mother's side of the family get together weekend in Seattle.

I'm pretty tired right now, so I'm going to attempt to be short and sweet (ha ha ha).

On Saturday the family festivities began. We started out our day at Pike's market (I'll post pics later). Then it was on to the lake to take a cruise on N. and C's BIG A** BOAT: Oasis.

This is the 'boat' that they bought off of some NBA star, Walter Peyton. Ever heard of that guy? Guess the story goes that he owned the boat (formerly of the moniker: Glove) and got traded from the Seattle Super Sonics to some team in Boston (or somewhere East of the Cascades--do we even care what states are beyond that geographical boundary? No. I. Don't. Think. So._) thus making it logistically impossible to enjoy his boat. This is where N. (my father-in-law) and C. (his brother-in-law) purchase it. They change its name to "Oasis" and the rest is current history.

We get to the docks and expect to see a substantial sized boat. We didn't expect to see the bloomin' QE2

At this point in time my jaw does a half-gainer and crashes through the deck. I immediately turn into the country-bumpkin-poor-relation and GAWK shamelessly at this BIG A** BOAT. The picture I snapped as C. single handedly piloted this beast into the dock (truly, piloting a boat is an art form--especially the bigger they get----For a little perspective, B.J. and I had some difficulty landing and mooring our little 20' ski-boat....) scarcely shows its sheer size.

Absolutely breath-taking.

Once on-board we got underway for our little cruise through the lake around Mercer Island. The weather sucked--was somewhat chilly and it drizzled all day--however it was warm and dry inside the boat.

This is the most beautiful boat. I do believe its square footage is about 1.5 times the size of our cozy little home, and the amenities were most certainly much more luxurious than those at home.

It has 2 state rooms and one smaller room with bunks.

(This is just one of the state rooms)

Uh. Could I just move in, please? I've been a lot of places in this wide world, but truly, nowhere quite so fancy as this floating castle.

After while I went above decks onto what is called the flying bridge--essentially where one can pilot the boat from, well, the top of the boat. I was chit-chatting with C. while he captained away, pointing out the way cool sights along the lake (I'll post those pictures later) and I asked him:

"So, C., just how big does a boat have to be in order for it to be called a yacht?"

And C. replies, with a smile:

"To be called a yacht a boat has to be larger than 49' in length."

"Really?" I replied. "So, what is it called if it is, for instance, 48' long?"

"If it is 48' or 49' it is still just a boat." He said.

Uh. Yeah. A really big boat.

"So," I casually ask, "How big is the Oasis?"

"79'."

"So, it is more than just a big boat. It is a Yacht, right?"

"Yep."

Uh huh. And all the while I was just dying to ask what the mooring fees were for this BIG A** BOAT (even more so I was curious how many zeroes were in the purchase price)however, hick though I may be, even I decided to zip my lip because, well, it would be just too tacky to ask that. We Americans can talk about politics, abortion, gun control, bowel movements, but heaven forbid we bring up the taboo subject of money. No way Jose. So, I thought it best just to "not even go there."

All I do know is it is a beautiful boat. Let me correct myself; it is a beautiful YACHT. The whole afternoon I half expected to sit down and elbow Robin Leach and say to him, 'YO! Bro, quit bogarting the caviar and pass the Cristal.'

Who knew, we'd have our own day in the life of the 'Rich and Famous'.

I'll post more later. So much for being short and sweet.

Well, you knew that wasn't gonna happen, even if I didn't.

Wrinkle-free

I do not know how to iron. Really, I don't.



I am the product of a very, very spoiled only child* household. As a result of this I never learned certain domestic skills, among them would be ironing. I grew up believing that God invented the Dry Cleaner for a purpose: ironing and those items of clothing with a label of "DRY CLEAN ONLY". I saw my mother ironing on occasion (on one of those occasions I, brain trust that I am, had to touch the iron) and I still carry the souvenir of that event on the 3rd knuckle of my index finger on my right hand. And, that is about the experience I'd had with ironing. My mother never taught me, she said, because then, maybe, I'd never have to actually do such a job.



Good try, mom. No cigar.



So, fast forward a decade or two, and here you have me: pathetic and helpless as a newborn mewling kitten with an iron.



Generally speaking, I try to purchase clothing items that do not have the dreaded 'DRY CLEAN ONLY' tag, or if I do, I try to buy those that I can magically whisk into my 'Dryel' cleaning bag to 'clean' and 'iron'. But, I find, as I get older and more selective about my clothing (truly, I'm a closet clothes horse held only in check by a fairly limited cash flow...) I am discovering items that require, well, frankly scream to be ironed.



So, that leaves me standing in my dining room, arms folded defiantly across my bosom, glaring at my nemesis: the iron and it's evil sidekick the ironing board. Yech.



Last night was one of those occasions where I whipped out my formidable foes and began the grueling and clumsy ballet of me trying to rid my new, very cute, white with black and tan pinstripe Capri's (and a couple of other items, just for good measure) of unsightly wrinkles. Damn my fickleness and vanity at refusing to wear wrinkled garments in public like a hung-over freshman fraternity boy.



Poor B.J. He's of absolutely no help, other than muttering a sympathetic "I never learned to iron, either..." Well, no, of course not. Your mother believed that God invented the Dry Cleaner for the same purpose as my mother--just yours dropped off Prada and Ralph Lauren, where my mother dropped off...things not with a designer label.



Our poor children. Being raised in a household with parents who are inept at basic, every-day domestic tasks. Will it be another generation who holds the Dry Cleaner with the esteem of their parents?



Hmm....



Does the local community college offer a 'basic domestic skills 101' course? Where do you learn how to iron if your mother never taught you? Are you left to suffer the mercy of rising Dry Cleaning costs? Or do you walk about looking like you're that Fraternity boy?



The mysteries of life continue to grow.

I continue to awkwardly dance my ballet of wrinkles, tête-à-tête with my nemesis: the iron.






*Technically, I am not an only child. However my brother, who is nearly 17 years my senior, moved out when I was two-years-old, leaving me more or less as an only child.

Dante's Lost Circle of Hell

Just 4 more days until we have a weekend away! There, as always, is a lot to do, but I'm excited. Peanut is excited (she can hardly wait to go on Opa's big boat), and if Chub-chub had any concept of time, I'm sure he'd be on pins and needles, too.

Since it is such a short time until we leave, I'm already gearing up for our family weekend in Seattle. As a part of the planning I am already envisioning what I'm going to pack. It sounds a bit shallow (well, o.k, a lot shallow) but that's where I'm at. This is a good thing, in a round about way. As a part of my planning for the weekend (we're staying at the Marriott--ooh, the swimming pool) I have discovered I need a swimsuit.



Yes. A swimsuit. *screaming and sounds of agony*



I have discovered in my pre-trip planning that the swimsuit that I currently own is fairly on the ginormously too big side. This makes me happy. It actually is a demonstrable way seeing that I have in fact shed 60 unsightly pounds in the past 21 months. When you have a lot of weight to lose, as I still do, it is sometimes really hard to see the changes. Even 60 pounds worth of change can be somewhat tough to see.



Take, for example, my fattest FAT PANTS. I saved my fattest FAT PANTS to remind me of why I cannot sit on the couch and watch paint peel while getting take-away for dinner. I tried them on just yesterday for a morale boost: it was good. I could physically see where my waistline was at (even at my heaviest, my FAT PANTS were tight in the waist, hips, and thighs) and I can see that my new-er waist line sits a comfortable 4.5 inches inside the circumference of the old. My hips and thighs can swim inside the old FAT PANTS. This makes me very happy; it makes me very happy, indeed.



I digress. As usual.



Anyhow, I was mentally envisioning myself playing in the sunshine and splashing in the swimming pool with my chickadees, but not in the old swimsuit. Couldn't possibly wear it, lest I offer a free burlesque show to the poor unsuspecting sunbathers poolside. So, that meant one thing and one thing only: swimsuit shopping *blood curdling howls of terror*



Now, if you've a svelte figure that you've always had or kept hold of by religiously punishing your body at the gym, you won't be able to relate to what is to follow. You go on ahead and just cruise on over to another blog. Go on, save your self some time and trouble. Ok. Now, the rest of the 68% of you (us) out there that have *gulp* blossomed past a size 14, here's the scary part.



Swimsuit shopping is enough to give any healthy, in-shape, self-possessed woman a case of body dysmorphic disorder. Swimsuit shopping for the overly endowed, voluptuous sort is something akin to having bamboo rods shoved violently under your fingernails and asking "please, sir, may I have some more?" This type of shopping is a grueling task master who likes to crack the whip of self-loathing, under glaring overhead lighting. No one looks good in overhead lighting; if you've got a little cottage cheese to go along with your squishy dough rolls, it is even less flattering.



I trekked to many stores, spanning two cities.

Fred Meyer: Nope.

Wal-Mart: Nope (they design suits for midgets*. I swear, the suits I tried on there either left me glad that my bikini line is neat and well groomed or wishing my boobs hadn't gone as far south as they had.)

JC Penney: not only did they not have any air-conditioning on, there was a waiting line at multiple dressing rooms and when I finally got into one of the sweaty little stalls there was someone else's mess waiting for me. Now, that was just disgusting.



So, I thought I'd try out Nordstrom. I love 'Nordies.' Granted, the Nordstrom we have here is what I call "Ghetto-Nordies":it is only two floors, and the women's, Brass Plum, children's, and children's shoes occupy one of the floors--so a very small and limited selection, but I still enjoy it (too bad the prices are a bit STEEP). Good 'ol Nordstrom, should have something, right?

Wrong. They had exactly 4 swimsuits above a size 14, all of which were so old-lady even old ladies would have gagged.



My favorite stand-by: Target (tar_Shay, ya know how to say it). Nada. Again, the suits had midget syndrome. Hey, I'm tall (5' 8") but, not freakishly tall like, for example, the women folk on my husband's side (his little sis' stands at a diminutive 6' 1"). So I should be able to fit into a suit. American women aren't that short.



I eventually wound up at Macy's. I'll forever think of it as Meier & Frank--calling it Macy's just feels wrong somehow even though the buy-out has been several months ago now.

Once at Macy's I slogged down to the ground floor and wrestled my way through the remodel going on to find the swimsuits. For moi: exactly 1 rack. Uno. ONE! And on that ONE rack there were about 5 different styles of suit. I found 3 different suits that weren't too 'old-lady' or too 'ugly' or too 'midget-ish' and drug myself into the dressing room. I tried each and every one on at least two times. I figured this was the end of the road. Short of a 45 minute drive to a bigger city, my swimsuit shopping options were exhausted.



It is funny, how when you try on swimsuits, you suck in your gut, square your shoulders, twist and turn in vain to look smaller. Uh-uh. No matter what you do, in that 6'x6' portal to hell, nothing makes a dang bit of difference. Yet, we still try. Why is that? If I suck 'it' in, its gotta go somewhere; so, likely, if I suck in my gut, the 'suck in' probably bulges out somewhere less flattering, like my butt. Or my thighs. Oh, my thighs...we're just not even going to go there...



After my dressing room calisthenics I finally decided on a two-piece 'tankini'. It is a simple brown with white piping/edging and a criss-cross back (gotta have the extra support to keep the girls in line--no black eyes for me after my Bo Derek '10' impersonation on the shore). My self-esteem was about 99.7% in the toilet when I walked out at last. However, I think it tanked entirely when I went to the check-out counter.



$106.00. *retching*



As if I needed insult on top of my injury.



Could someone please tell me why on earth a swimsuit would cost that much money? Please? I don't even know what brand it is to warrant such a price tag. (likely no-name brand) But, in the end, after a few hours of self-torture and the realization that the Swedish Bikini Team will not require my presence this season, I finally sucked-up the cost and now have a swimsuit.



I may not look like Claudia Schiffer, but at least I'll be able to play with my kids at the pool (bonus: without indecent exposure!) and have a good time.



As I walked away from the department store, mentally shaking my head over the price I paid, I came to a very real conclusion: I could use this experience as an excuse to go home, boo-hoo into a pint of Häagen-Dazs or stoke the fires of motivation to continue to get into better shape and look better, for myself.



I chose the latter. Sometimes the glass is half-empty; today the glass was half-full.







*if you happen to be a midget, no offense is meant.

IFSP: Mission Accomplished

Everything went A-Ok at the IFSP meeting. I had geared up for a fight, and I got fizzle. This is a good thing.

Peanut will be in the Specialized Preschool for one more year (we've agreed, as a team, to revisit her classroom placement sometime in December--to see if we want to give her a shot in a non-specialized pre-k, to get ready for mainstream Kindergarten). She'll continue to get the speech and low cognition help. She's also (of course) going to continue to get help under the Autism label (things like: picture schedules; social-skills training (though, what preschooler wouldn't benefit from that?); and they're going to work on some 'social stories' for her, too.

All in all, I'm very pleased. Most of the goals I'd picked out for Peanut to work on for the upcoming year were incorporated into her IFSP goals (think: saying first/last name correctly, knowing her mother and father's names....). We even managed to do all the legal mumb0-jumbo and wrap up the meeting inside of one hour.

I wish all of our Special Education meetings (in my professional & personal life) could go so smoothly.

Hooray! Now, I don't have to worry about this type of meeting until May 31, 2008 (or thereabouts) when the real bullet sweating will happen: getting ready to enter Kindergarten!