firefighter girl turns in her bunkers for good. . .maybe

Once I got off of night shift last summer, I spent so much time lounging in the sun getting rid of my night shift pallor that I got out of the habit of writing on the computer. And frankly, I was spending way too much time in front of the screen, anyway.

So, let me get a refill on my coffee--there--and brush the biscotti crumbs off the keyboard, and I'll try to start where I left off ages ago.

MixMan is doing amazingly well with his implant. Watching him learn to hear is truly remarkable, but it's funny how quickly it becomes commonplace; now he's learned to ignore his parents when they're talking to him just like any other 8 year old boy does. And, unfortunately, he's picking up on (and using!) some tones and inflections (you know, that certain sigh of bored, put-upon youth that is accompanied by an eye roll) that he was not previously privy to from his classmates. But his teachers say that he is beginning to open up and initiate conversations with them and with other students without his interpreter present.

Miss Diva has enjoyed having a brother as opposed to someone she must act as interpreter for; the two of them love having a back yard to tromp around in, and they go on nature scavenger hunts, and they've developed an interest in all things spy. Her Diva-ness is losing some of her girly-girlness, but she still loves the color pink, and in fact has all-pink days quite frequently. She's waaaay ahead of everybody in her class on reading and socializing. And she comes up with the most stunning observations sometimes. I love tucking her in at night, when she looks at me and says, "Mama, I think tomorrow I'm going to have a sensitive day." and I know exactly what she means.

Recently, a box arrived in the mail for MixMan, and shortly after, one arrived for Miss Diva, too. Having been forewarned as to the contents, I hid the boxes in the closet for a while, because I knew that my days of limited peace and quiet would be over. The boxes contained a trumpet for MixMan and a recorder and fife for Miss Diva, courtesy of my brother. (When I told The Rock Star about this, he squeaked, "Egad! Does he hate you?" and "egad" is hard to squeak, let me tell you. But no, I informed him, my family just has a strange way of showing affection.) MixMan played that trumpet until he had a blister on his lip; he slept with it, he tucked it in and made me kiss it goodnight. Now things have calmed down a bit, my headache is gone, and we're discussing lessons.

Meanwhile, across town, a new hospital was opening, which made for some big changes at the small hospital I work at. Like how none of us are sure that we'll have a job by next year. And I'd been thinking about my profession a lot lately, anyway; how the only paramedic positions around here are in ERs and on fire departments, how the ER job was supposed to be until my injury healed and I could get on to a fire department, but how because of my injury I'll never be able to hoist hose effectively again. So, after much discussion with the honey, and a lot of soul searching, I decided to go back to school again to become a licensed massage therapist. It's a very portable profession, and I want to eventually focus on hospice care. I've seen a lot of death in the last few years, and some people go with such dignity and grace, it's an honor to be a part of that, even when I'm fighting so hard against it, pushing drugs, defibrillating, doing CPR. I want to help ease terminally ill patients into that place of grace and acceptance, and massage therapy is one way I can do so. Plus, like I said, I can do it anywhere. So I started school fall term; it should take me about a year to finish up. The honey's getting me a massage table, but I think that's because he's sick of lying on the floor for his massages.

Since my new hours weren't quite making the rent, I took a second job at a new urgent care clinic the docs from my ER opened up. And just in time, because I was informed last month that my position in the ER is being eliminated. Luckily, I have senority, so when the dust settles I'll have a job again. But for now I'm stuck in an office, learning more about hospital policies and JCAHO national patient safety goals, etc than I ever, ever wanted to learn.

I don't know what the next year will bring. I know I don't feel terribly maternal most of the time, and figure the kids are probably better off with benevolent neglect instead of active parenting from me; as long as they know I love them, I think they'll do okay. And sometimes, it's all I can do to show them that. It is so hard doing this alone. So hard. Thank goodness I have sisters and a great mom who help me with parenting advice. As long as I've got that and a what-will-become-of-me bed with lots of pillows and a cushy down duvet I can hide under, I think I'll mostly be okay.

So. That's the news from Meth Central. Happy holidays to all of you!