...And in the air, the fireflies, our only light in paradise. We'll show the world that they were wrong, and teach them all to sing along; singing Amen I, I'm alive. Amen I, I'm alive...

- Nickelback, If Everyone Cared

For All The Right Reasons Album

And I'm singing Aaa-ayyy-men, I'm alive!

William Leonidas November 12th, 2009
My only regret is that I cried so many tears while I waited for you.

"...I'll try ~ but it's so hard to believe. I'll try ~ but I can't see what you see. I'll try and try to understand the distance between the love I feel ~ the thing I fear ~ and every single dream. I can finally see it. Now I have to believe all those precious stories. All the world is made of faith ~ and trust ~ and pixie dust. So I'll try ~ because I finally believe. I'll try ~ because I can see what you see. I'll try, I'll try ~ to fly..."

Jonatha Brooke "I'll try"

Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God; I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness. Isaiah 41:10

Now the word of the Lord came to me saying, "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you..." Jeremiah 1:4-5

For Thou didst form my inward parts; Thou didst weave me in my mother's womb. I will give thanks to Thee for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; wonderful are Thy works, and my soul knows it very well. Psalms 139:13-14

Monday March 5th, 2010

So Why Stinkerie?

It's simple, really. It's the first thing I whispered against my newborn little Dumpling's temple as I held him alone for that very first time. "There's my Little Stinkerie." And all was right with the world as I brushed my lips across his delicate dewy soft newborn-pink skin and sniffed at his sparse smattering of downy soft hair. Corny and sappy, huh? I can't help it when describing my new Little Puppy. But don't get used to it - I have been told I am "irreverent."

Anyway, it just came out and he's been Stinkerie ever since. As well as Stink Pie, Stink Pot, Stinkey Pete, Little Stinks, Stinks, Puppy, Ducky, Baby, Baby Head, Baby Head Jenkins, Jack, Jack-Jack, Jackie Boy, Jax, Snork, Snorkis, Snorkle, Billy Boy, Billy Bob, Bobby Sue, Billy-Joe-Jim-Bob, Will, Willie, Willister, and the name given by my mentor turned friend Beth - Snake. When I write to her I call him either The Snakester or Slither! And of course, Dumpling, because he is my Little Dumpling - warm and soft and comforting. It's alright to combine comfort food with baby names, right? Have you ever watched the movie Where the Heart Is? If you have, you'll know why I mention this in my defense!

Long story short, you're likely to encounter any one or more of these names in a single post. Because I can. It's my blog!

Something to Consider

Bad decisions make good stories.

Something to Think About

With any pregnancy, there are concerns. With any child, there are worries. When you have a diagnosis of Down syndrome, you know what to worry about. You know what to look for. You have a plan of action. With your typical child, there is no limit to the things that can 'go wrong' or 'happen.' There's no place to focus your worry and concerns. 'IT' will always be out there, waiting. You'll always be on guard. Even when the child is 55 and has grandchildren. With Down syndrome we have a battle plan. With Down syndrome, there is a finite number of things that can go awry. With a typical child, there's isn't. It's a crap shoot. I'm sticking with the Ds and taking the other two back to the hospital for a refund.

Head Above Water

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Saturday, February 12, 2011

Something To Blog About

Irony. It's a funny thing. Alanis Morisette wrote a song about it. Not that I'm a huge fan of hers, but she does make a point.

Mr. Play It Safe was afraid to fly
He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye
He waited his whole damn life to take that flight
And as the plane crashed down he thought
"Well isn't this nice..."
~jagged little pill album

And so it is purely ironic in the wry satire that is my life, with me being an admittedly proud speed demon, that the only accident I've ever had took place at speeds too low to register on the speedometer. Yep. Today. In a parking lot. Right smack dab up against an innocuous parked car. I'd underestimated the space I had to turn into a slot and scraped another car.

I reversed away from the car I'd just rolled into and parked next to it. I was thinking a foot long dent and maybe some scrapes. Dollar signs were ringing in my head. Increased insurance premiums. How many points is that on my DMV? I got out to survey the damage. Scratched up the rear fender, the rear panel and the driver's side door. The three people who saw the whole action were watching me to see if I'd jump into the van to flee. I'm sure they saw my face go white when I looked at the car's license plate to note the fresh off the lot plastic placards where a license plate should be. And then my eyes travelled upward to see the shiny silvery emblem of the car's maker and I just about peed myself. Couldn't slide into a shot out run down Pinto (are there still any Pintos on the road?) No, I had to do it big and disfigure a Mercedes Benz. Crap!

But wait...It gets better!

I was standing in my open door trying to decide how best to locate the car's owner. I turned toward my van to open Willie's door while I instructed The Middle the open his door to get some air, and what do I see? A head and shoulders disappearing into the smashed car's driver seat. The owner had come back and had absently gotten into his car and started it, rolled down the window and put the car in gear. Why, oh why could I have not displayed some of the slow witted sluggish thought processes that I've had for two weeks while I've learned my new job? Why?

I called out to him from the open door, "Dude! I just hit your car." Stupid, stupid, stupid. He was going to drive away. He hadn't seen the damage. I was off the hook. As far as anyone was privy to, except for now of course, The Middle, my pristine accident free driving record could remain unchallenged. The whole driver returning thing happened so fast, if I'd delayed turning around for even 30 seconds to tell The Middle to open his door for air, the driver would have driven away and I would have missed the whole confession. But I hadn't delayed. And it was the right thing to do. Crap!

The guy was actually pretty cool. And he let me know that the car wasn't brand new. It was a 2002. A cop buddy of his had put the dealer placards on his car because he was getting pulled over at least once every three days. "They see a black man driving a Mercedes and think it's stolen." I don't get that logic. I actually wanted to ask him So how is a black man driving a brand new Mercedes different? But he volunteered, "I guess they think it would be harder to steal it from a dealership than off the streets."

While we were in the process of gathering insurance information he said "Oh, this has to be private. I've already got a few points and I have a new insurance agency. Let's handle this privately. Private would be best." He wouldn't even take my info. We exchanged names and phone numbers. He said he has friends who do auto body work and will get a cheap estimate. He said that since there weren't any actual dents, it would mean a sand and buff and a new coat of paint. Whew!

While this post was supposed to be about surviving my first two weeks at my new job, it is this instead. More later when I find out how much this will cost. Oh yeah. And still more when The Beloved sees the nice basketball sized dent in my front bumper.

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