You can label me ticked off

Dear speech therapist who was so determined to slap a label on my son,

On Tuesday, I brought my 7-month old son to see you because he seemed to have some feeding issues. Within about 10 minutes of meeting him, you had decided that he has Sensory Integration Disorder.

Your basis for this diagnosis? First off, he didn't like it when you donned those bright blue gloves and started touching his face.

I'm guessing that to a baby, having your face touched by some crazy blue hands that belong to a complete stranger is the equivalent of someone I just met giving me a pap smear. Please... say hello, introduce yourself and shake my hand before sticking that speculum up my bajingo.

You were also concerned that he didn't like to have his face wiped. How about I hold YOU down in a chair and proceed to wipe a towel repeatedly over your mouth and see how happy it makes you.

What nailed it for you is when he refused to eat your jar of nasty, no-name carrots. Well crap... I can't say that I blame him. If you had told me, I could have brought him something halfway decent. Perhaps he's a bit of a food snob.

Isn't 7 months a little young to be labeling someone? And what of these labels, anyway? Why does everyone have to be something. Why can't my son just be an adorably quirky guy who doesn't like to eat some days? You're saying that anyone who doesn't fit the standard (read: boring) mold, must have something wrong with them. What a crock. Take me for example:

I don't like the feel of corduroy or velvet

I can't stand shirts with only one pocket.

Crowds bother me.

I don't like people I don't know standing too close to me.

High pitched noises are like nails on a blackboard to me. So are nails on a blackboard.

I hate the smell of fish, I think football is boring, and I abhor it when people pee on the toilet seat and don't clean up after themselves.

I also don't suffer fools.

Gee, if you were recommending 60-90 minute therapy sessions, 3 days a week for a baby that didn't want to be touched by you, I can only imagine that you would have me institutionalized.

You know what, despite my many issues... I turned out pretty okay. Without intensive therapy.

I respect that you went to school and received your degree in this, but my gut, mom-tuition, and bullshit detector trump those letters after your name any day.

Yours very sincerely (and quirkily),
Joanne

I think I'll call him Harold

My ulcer that is. What? How do I know I have an ulcer? Because I googled "unbearable gut-wrenching fire-ball of pain in my stomach", and that's what came up.

Because WebMD told me so. And we all know that WebMD is, in fact, a fine replacement to a living, breathing, real-life doctor.

Because, although I'm not a doctor, I do play one in my head, and after waiting 45 minutes to see me for a quick 5 minute visit where I pretended to intently listen to all my symptoms, that's what I told myself. I also wrote myself a prescription on the wrapper of a chocolate bar, but the pharmacy wouldn't take it.

Actually, the truth is, I've had one before, and I can remember all too well the pain that drinking my morning glass of orange juice brings.

My blog has pretty much been doom and gloom lately. And I hate that, but I can't pretend that everything is shiny and happy when it's not.

Yesterday we found out that Fred's company is changing health insurance plans. And while I am so thankful that we do have insurance, this change had caused the pain in my gut to reach new levels.

It wouldn't be such a big deal, but having a child with a chronic disease that needs constant medical monitoring, makes it a big deal. This new plan is definitely not as good as our old one (we have to pay more out of pocket, and the coverage isn't as good), and there are a lot of unknowns. Namely, will all our docs take the new insurance. Will it cover a pump for Elise in the future (they can cost upwards of $5000)? There are so many other questions, but the more I think about them, the more stressed I get.

I know that not thinking about it is not a good thing. But it's my coping mechanism for right now.

I'm seriously thinking that it's time to high-tail it back north for some good, ol' socialized medicine...

Plants, flowers and trees... why do you hate me?

Okay Dallas/Fort Worth and surrounding area people, I'm going to slag on your hometowns for a bit. Don't get defensive... I get that you love it here. Maybe if I was born and grew up here, I would love it too. I get that different people love different places for a whole bunch of reasons.

I bet if I took anyone of you and plopped you down in Vancouver, you would hate how it rains all the time. You would not like the cold, and be disgusted by the socialist-ness of it all. I'm betting that you would complain about how it's too green, or too beautiful, or the kick-you-in-the-groin awesomeness of it all.

Anyway, onto my point. Whatever you guys grow here, my body hates it like.... well, I don't think I can even come up with a comparison of one thing that hates another so much that they would like to bludgeon it, kick it around for a bit, stomp on it, stuff it in a bag and hit it with sticks, throttle it for good measure, then light it on fire and drown it just to make sure it's dead.

I swear my head is going to explode from all the pressure building up in my sinus cavities. I itch all over; my head, my face, my stomach, back... Have you ever tried to scratch your feet when you are the slightest bit ticklish? Not an easy task.

I itch in places that I didn't know you can itch. The other day I used a q-tip to try and scratch the inside of my ear. Yeah, yeah, I know... you should put anything inside your ear smaller than your elbow... blah, blah, blah. You'd do it too, just to get some relief.

I was thinking of trying to find one of the instruments they used in ancient Egypt to remove the brains of dead people via their nose because I swear even my brain itches. Of course I would modify it so that instead of a hook, it had a tiny little hand on the end of it. Like one of those backscratcher things.

I don't get what it could be that bothers me so much. In Vancouver, we have stuff blooming all the bloody time and I have never wanted to scratch my face off. I just want some relief that is not in a pill form. Here's my plan, let's burn it all to the ground and start over... any other allergy sufferers with me?

Keeping my Mouth shut... For Once

I'm not really big on being controversial on my blog. That's not really what it's about, and I find that controversy brings out the crazies. I just want to enjoy my own little corner of the world-wide-web-super-highway, and have the crazies leave me alone. This post, however, may have me sticking my toe in the cold, cold waters of controversy.

It's all because of a Mom I met at story time today. She piqued my interest because she was visiting from Canada (She was from Texas and had married a Canadian). We started talking, and somehow found our way to socialized medicine. This is our conversation as best as I can remember:

Her: Yeah, the whole medical system thing up there (meaning Canada) is a joke, they wouldn't even pay for me to have my baby. I had to cover the whole cost, but as soon as she was born, she was covered. I had to wait two years to get coverage.

Me: That's weird, aren't you married to a Canadian?

Her: Yeah.

Me: What's your status?

Her: Landed immigrant, permanent resident.

Me: That's just bizarre, when my husband lived up there, he was a landed immigrant, but had medical.

Her: (not being very forthcoming) Well, yeah. I mean at the time I was just a visitor. I didn't get my landed immigrant status until later, after she was born.

In my mind I was saying, so let me get this straight, you were a visitor to my country, had no legal right to any services, but thought just because you were having your baby in Canada gives you the right to have the delivery covered by the taxpayers??? Ohhhh, I so wanted to ask her what her thoughts were on illegal immigrants coming to the U.S. and doing the same thing. Something tells me she would be VERY against illegal immigration.

Not wanting to start a brawl at the library in this very affluent part of town, I said nary a word in response to what she had just said. But I'm telling you, it ticked me off. For several reasons that I'm not going into, because I don't feel like ranting today.

This is NOT a post on my views on illegal immigrants, although anyone who knows me and our story of how painful it is to LEGALLY immigrate here should know where I stand. Rather, it's just a little ditty about how critical, and hypocritical some people can be.