Tracking

Tim was 8 when we decided to enlist the help of a neuro-developmental therapist to help us incorporate sensory-therapies into Tim's home school program. It involved 6 to 8 hours of total time with Tim, when lumped with his academics. To say we were both tired at the end of a day would be accurate.

One particularly wearisome day towards the end of that very, very long year, we were in the middle of eye exercises wherein we covered one of Tim's eyes while he tracked with the other. He put his little hand on my shoulder and said, "Mommy, has anyone ever told you you have beautiful eyes?" They weren't dry after that, I'll say that much. Sweet balm to a mother's heart. And next week? We have a counseling appointment at Palomar Jr. college to get him enrolled for the fall. Who'd a thunk?

back in the saddle, or "bike seat"

I'm going to try really hard to write more often, really I am. Maybe I'll make a deal with Tim; every time he practices riding his bike, I'll try and come up with something to write, which, if I WATCH him practice, will be no problem whatsoever.

Because, here's how it went.

Most kids jump on a two-wheeler equipped with training wheels sometime around age 7 or 8. All those kinds of experiences were lost on Tim, who at the time was still struggling with large motor issues. So, here we go, Round Two at the nicely matured age of 19. That's right; we got him a brand new bike of his own for his 19th birthday.

He was cautiously enthusiastic about it, remembering back to other failed efforts, but also acknowledging that those were long ago and that he could probably master the skill this time around.

A) The crotch on his shorts was a little on the long side that day and it took 3 flinging tries with plenty of "Uuuughooof's!" to get his leg swung up high enough to clear the seat and land Over Yonder, though the seat was as low as it would go. I had to turn around and have a silent howl, putting myself at significant risk of wetting my panties. I had to clap my hands over my mouth to sufficiently suppress the deep chuckles. Hernia risk, for certain.

B) Really, the bike was too high for him, so getting his hulk settled on the seat without a do-it-yourself-prostate-exam being the accidental result was quite a feat in and of itself. Poor chappie. He was very good-natured about it and stuck with it for as long as we encouraged him to, but the overall assessment was that he needed a shorter bike to conquer this particular skill.

C) We found one! Sent the blue one back in exchange for a beautiful, short red fellow, cheery and far less threatening. Tim has at least got balancing on it down now, which was accomplished by sitting on the seat and sticking both legs out off the pedals while rolling down our sloped driveway, applying the handbrakes whenever acceleration got a little on the brisk side. I left him doing that because sometimes you learn better when there's no audience. He came in some fifteen minutes later declaring, "Don't get too excited Mom, but I think I managed two or three actual pedals up the driveway that time." I'll keep you "posted" on the progress......

Ziplocks

The slow ocean waves of Del Mar were soothing the four of us into a lovely afternoon pre-coffee stupification yesterday when Clay turned to our friends Joe and Michelle; "You guys have been our inspiration in remaining a pet-free household. We haven't caved."

There was a time when Tim desperately wanted a dog, and we went so far as to research what breed our allergy-prone household could manage, but the sticker-shock of some sort of Boxer (I've since put the exact name of it out of my mind) put a kabash on that project. Additionally, while we had a dog living with us for a bit, Tim experienced first hand that there are responsibilities that will nag your conscience if not tended to, and anyone who knows Tim understands that his conscience works in overdrive as it is.

I was hanging some laundry over the railings of my bedroom balcony for the San Diego sunshine to dry one Saturday morning, after we'd had the cute little Scnhoodle (hypoallergenic Schnauser-poodle) staying with us for some weeks, when I spotted Tim down on the back lawn below, clad in his jamies and his rust-colored terry cloth robe; hair in full bed-head disarray. He had the kitchen tongs in one hand and a gallon-sized ziplock baggie in another.

No.

Oh, but yes.

I already knew the answer, but I ventured the question anyway, "Tim? What are you doing?" He looked up and said, "Uh, I thought I should pick up some of Coco's you-know-what's since there seem to be kind of a lot of them at the moment." And he waved the ziplock baggie up at me to demonstrate the boon of harvest he already had.

ACK! My KITCHEN TONGS!

We reviewed that the particular procedure of picking up doggie poopies should use lesser valued *tools* and receptacles, and that both items were to go immediately into the outside trash. Tim, a soul reluctant to waste a single thing said, "Are you sure I couldn't just wash the tongs in really hot water?"

Nope. My brain will not accept that. Even after purchasing a shiny new pair of tongs, I still can't look at them without thinking of Tim's alternate, though thoughtful usage for them.

To clarify, no one had been falling down on the job of poop picking-up; our friends were away at the time and we just hadn't assigned it to anyone. Because nobody at our house is all that keen on poop.

Under Construction

Don't worry! I'm just fussing around because I'm sick to death of the boredom that is my blogpage. Utterly uninspiring and pedestrian. It might look different yet again when next you sign on to see if anything is out there to tickle your funny bone. I have TWO things to tappety-tap; TWO, so check back later.

The Incident of the Skating Rink and New Uses For Ziplocks coming to your computer screen very soon.

Happy Valentines Sunday to everyone! Give your loved ones reason to have a twinkle in their eye by doing something special for them.....