On the shelf where I keep Savannah’s medical supplies, there are several outdated prescriptions. I hang on to these bottles the way a needy child’s clings to her security blanket. Years will pass before I’ll throw those suckers out.
When you have a child with a medical condition that requires several medications, especially if one is expensive, you’re on constant alert for that one insurance company glitch that will prevent the specialty pharmacy from refilling your order. It keeps you on the defensive and you become a Nazi with your record keeping. You also do crazy things like keep old medicine “just in case.” In an emergency, something is better than nothing, you theorize.
Posted in Mommyhood
Tagged children, doctors, kids, Motherhood, New York City, parenting, pharmacies, prescription drugs, rare disease, Single mom, special needs
I recently read a blog post where the writer, a single mom like myself, listed the drawbacks of solo parenting. The list included the obvious: lack of sex, money, no one to help with household chores, etc.
While certainly applicable to my life, the list could have been ripped from one of those pointless government studies. If asked what I need and crave most, it would be having somebody to share in making decisions. To me, a luxury item is a warm body I can turn to and utter those simple words: “What do you think, honey?” or better “You decide!”
The way 8-year-old girls use their mouths as assault weapons, torturing and humiliating friends and enemies alike with words, it’s amazing one has never been called to The Hague for crimes against humanity.
I witnessed the depth of their pettiness when last Friday I led a group from Savannah’s class in an art project.
My fail rate for group projects, as Savannah so often reminds me, is high. One year, I created a strawberry smoothie tsunami when I spilled a fresh batch outside the school cafeteria at lunch hour. So, when I arrived at school on Friday, I was prepared, just not for the job handed to me: fight referee.
Delayed trains and bad weather couldn’t deter me from missing the documentary on Ina May Gaskin at Barnard last Sunday.
Only a 7-year-old would consider the highlight of her school day who vomited in class, and then rush to tell her mom.
When I was pregnant, and gleefully digesting endless books in preparation for motherhood and parenting, not one of those so-called experts revealed the ugly truth: I would have to endure years of Candyland.