Starting this post is proving more difficult than expected.

How do you start writing something that may turn people away?

I’ve written in the past about the anxiety issues with which my daughter has been diagnosed. I have not written at length about her challenges.

No one really wants to hear about some “mommy blogger” *puke* spew about her kid and how smart her smart kid is and LOOKIT MY KID!1! ISN’T SHE AMAZING?!/?

Me either.

We found out yesterday that my kid is a special needs student. She will forever have an extra set of paperwork attached to her file. She will forever have a label. She will forever be watched extra closely.

She is a challenge. A WAY beyond-her-6-years intelligence challenge.

I hate knowing she may be ostracized or separated or looked upon as being different.

I hate feeling like I can’t talk about her as a “special needs student” because most special needs students are on a different spectrum of “special.”

She IS a special needs student. She DOES need additional services. She needs extra help and special teachers and extra meetings throughout the school year to check on her progress.

I don’t want to feel embarrassed by my Special Needs Student. I don’t want to feel like I’m THAT MOM who is fighting for what my child needs.

My 6yo, going-into-1st-grader is Gifted & Talented. She is nearly off the charts in intelligence. The staffing counselor who tested her yesterday was literally shocked at how high her scores measured.

What do we possibly do for our child? How do we make sure she’s challenged? How do I, as her parent, protect her?

What do we do with a kid who is smarter than we’ve ever been?

How do I make sure her sister isn’t lost in the challenges of her sister’s? How do I make sure SHE isn’t overlooked?

Compared to other family’s challenges, ours is manageable. Ours is still a challenge.

Ours is still a “special needs” challenge.

And we have no idea where to start.

My left knee is still messed up. I have an MRI scheduled for June 21. Happy early birthday, Patrick!

When I take anti-inflammatories and darvoset, it feels a bit better, but only a bit. It still hurts like a mo’fo when I pick it up off the ground. You know, like when I do ANYTHING.

My girls were already going to my parent’s house for the week because I was going to Anissa’s (*sob*), so now I’m going up there with them so my mom can take care of all three of us. I’ll be the one on the couch being served sammiches and pie.

You think I’m joking.

She’s a good mom like that.

My mom can beat up your mom in a World’s Best Mom pageant. She’d kill you with her passive-aggressive statements and near-to-tears smile.

They live just across the inter-coastal from Destin, FL where tar balls and oil sheen has been spotted, but for now, it’s 99% clear on the beach. That is MY beach.

And of course, with my bum knee, I can’t hobble my way out to the sand without possibly tweaking my knee even more.

But I must go there. I MUST see it before it’s gone. As much as I’d like to think it wouldn’t and couldn’t happen, there’s an extremely likely possibility that MY beach will be ruined for years.

I must go and see it, photograph it, smell it, feel it.

Be there.

I will find a good place to go and be there without walking too far on my bum* knee.

That or I’ll tell myself, “It will be worth it to completely wreck my knee for getting to spend time on my beach with my girls.”

___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___

*Why is it that I keep wanting to add a “b” or another “m” to the end of bum? Stupid English language and its weird sometimes rules.

This being Holy Week and all, I think it’s the perfect time to thank the sweet, sweet Baby Jeebus and Oprah for the gift they have given me.

I don’t think it’s a coincidink that Holy Week falls on the week that I’m out of town visiting my new baby niece who is way cuter than your baby but not quite as cute as my own.

It’s pretty much fate and intervention by the sweet, sweet Baby Jeebus and Oprah that has made everything fall into place when and how it has.

Ending this week of fate and intervention by the sweet, sweet Baby Jeebus and Oprah by hiding and hunting plastic colored eggs filled with pennies, jelly beans and peanut butter-filled chocolate eggs seems only appropriate for what I’ve been blessed.

It’s all for the sweet, sweet Baby Jeebus and Oprah rising from the dead and haunting us as zombies every Spring Equinox when the Easter Lilies bloomed, the Jewish peoples ate crackers, and sweet, sweet little girl’s dresses went on SUPER EASTER SALE.

Or something like that.

I couldn’t have asked for something better, other than I did in fact ask for it.

NO
MORE
BABIES

I love my two girls more than anything else on Earth.

But I only want the two that the sweet, sweet Baby Jeebus and Oprah implanted in my lady womb.

Any more, and I would might have needed an Express Van to the looney bin.

This incredibly adorable sweet, sweet baby and her sweet, sweet smells and her sweet, sweet coos do not make my uterus ache.

She makes me fortunate to have a husband who had his nuts disconnected from the other parts of his body.