When the New Wears Off…

You know how when you go on vacation and it’s bliss the first few days, but by day 4 you’re dreaming of your own bed, your own smells, your own routine?

The new wears off. It always does.

That’s sort of where we are right now. We’re all moved in. Walls are painted. Pictures are slowly being hung on walls. We had the landscapers come and remove the jungle which was growing up all around us take care of some needs around the yard. You know, normal moving activities.

But we’ve also been to the pediatrician, neurologist, gastroenterologist, and pulmonologist. Multiple times. Already.

S is settled in to his new role; although, he is still not done with his old hotel (which makes life a bit more, shall we say, complicated?). The new hotel is progressing nicely and he is happy. Really happy. He needed this. He’s happy in the house too…it’s enough of a project to keep him busy, but not enough of a disaster to make him crazy. He’s been enjoying cooking out and cleaning the pool (or should I say, removing the frog that keeps trying to live in the pool). I’m so proud of him (and not just because he saves me from the frog).

J is growing up. In so very many ways. She is a beautiful example of what a person should be, and I am so honored to be her mom. I have watched her take things that others would balk at, and shine. I have watched her get her feelings crushed, but still manage to keep her head up and move on (I’ve also experienced a lot of the slamming of doors, rolling of eyes, pillaging of the fridge–she’s still a (an almost) teenager!). She is going to enter a new school in the fall. I think it’s time for her to meet some friends and be a kid. She has spent far too much time being my sidekick. It’s time for her to find her new sidekick, and as much as that breaks my heart, I know it’s what is best for her. I’ll miss her…

She went to the doctor yesterday as well. Her ear is all swollen shut, and they are concerned that her tumor might have grown back. She’s been having dizzy spells for a while and I had her tested for everything from malaria to die-uh-beat-us (spoken in my best Wilford Brimley voice). I never thought it was her ear again.

Breathe.

Jack is Jack. We aren’t sure which Jack we will encounter when he hits the floor in the morning. It’s either Jack the Beast or Jack the Gem. Unfortunately, the former is more common than the latter these days. He’s begun to exhibit signs of self aggression again, and we’re struggling to keep him from hurting himself.

He’s supposed to enter kindergarten in the fall, but we’re not sure what we are going to do. There is a special school here–they teach life skills rather than your typical school stuff. It’s hard to admit that your child will never probably go to college or that your child will never probably be able to be age appropriate. I know for sure that we need to do something, I’m just not sure what the best answer is.

The school is expensive. I am jobless. Not that I haven’t tried to get a job. I’ve had interviews. I thought they went better than they did. The problem is, in order to be hired as a nurse, I’d have to be paid $xx.xx  per hour. Which is significantly higher than, say, a new graduate nurse. So, who gets hired, the new grad. I can’t really have the higher level jobs yet, because I haven’t officially graduated (but I can see the end of the tunnel!). So, I’m stuck being called for interviews and then being passed over because of my over-qualifications, or my under-qualifications. So, we can’t really afford Jack’s school until someone decides to hire me (and we wonder why there’s a nursing shortage?).

Physically, he’s doing about the same. There was a piece of me that was sure when we moved, some miracle light was going to shine upon us, and Jack was going to be…I don’t know…better? Each doctor we encounter looks at me with the same sad eyes and says things like, “we’ll keep him comfortable,” or “we can only treat his symptoms at this point.” It’s heartbreaking to me, but I really hope, with all my heart, that he doesn’t truly understand what they say about him.  I can’t imagine what that would do to him. How does a 5-year old reconcile his own mortality? I don’t want him to experience that. Ever.

So, the new has worn off.

That means we are home. Forever.

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