Day 19: And they all wore their grumpy-pants

When a day includes an early-am therapy session, a contentious IEP meeting, an unrewarded search, and tantrum-filled dinner hour ... oh, and back-to-back meetings in the evening, it does not present as enjoyable.

1. Jack has lost a $35 Troop 506 sweatshirt. It was pristine, it was warm, it was embroidered, it was a fetching shade of forest green, and thus, he must leave it somewhere on perhaps its 3rd donning. Moreover, he couldn't possibly remember where he might have worn it and therefore, can be of absolutely-zero (maybe less!) assistance in locating it. Enter Aunt Patty Cake, who took on the Herculean role of "finder of lost objects". She tackled a number of closets over the past several days to no avail. She has thoroughly checked the vehicles. Even Crabby Queen Mom has entered the Potential Zone of Possumage in the hunt. Nothing. Crabby Queen Mom also called Sr. Hilda to check the CCD lost/found, e-mailed the troop to check the troop lost/found, and tried to check the lost/found at Jack's middle school. None of the lost/founds can be easily checked via phone. It is grim. It is frustrating. And, most of all, it makes one want to check whether Jack's cranium is connected to anything...anything at all.

2. Charlie did his finest rendition yet of the singing bullfrog from the old Bugs Bunny/Looney Tunes cartoon. You know the one who dances and sings, "Hello, My baby, Hello, My Darling" with an audience of one but sits mute -- listening to the crickets -- when it's time to perform for the veritable talent agent. That's Charlie...mute, silent, out-to-lunch and definitely out to make me look like a hallucinating ninny. "He talks...he really can talk. He can push the buttons...he really can push the buttons. He loves music...honest and for true!" Maybe 20 words were produced -- under duress -- during an entire 30-minute speech therapy session. Oh, and just to prove the point, he refused to participate in the music therapy portion. And, for that extra Show of Force, he acted like he'd never once used his "talker" (augmentative communication device).

3. Dropped him, with some requisite drama -- natch!, at preschool and zoomed onward to Jack's IEP. Barely able to soldier any positive thoughts about my own son's competency at basic skills of living (see previous posts on ability to get squared away for school, complete homework/projects, dress himself for practice/game, or take medicine compliantly), it was not pleasant to enter the room of "edumacators".

For the record, present were:
Case Mis-Manager
Site-Based "Diagnostic Resource Teacher", playing "Administrative Designee"
Program "Diagnostic Resource Teacher"
Program "DRT" from the LEGAL DEPT., er "Facilitator"
School Psychologist
Occupational Therapist
Speech/Language Pathologist
Special Education Ombudsperson
Autism Specialist
District Audiologist (and resident carmudgeon)
Assistive Technology Specialist
Me
For about 40 minutes, a general ed teacher -- for the reading/writing specialist independent evaluation report, the District brought Jack's MATH teacher.
For the first 15 minutes, a school nurse.

Denied entry was a visiting "community medicine pediatrician" b/c I started counting heads and felt that it was ridiculous to have yet another person AND b/c they didn't ask for permission until I was on the spot. Probably looked like a crab about to molt (aka, itchy she-crab)...oh, well.

Highlighted quote: "When Mrs. A--- wins the lottery and moves to another school district, the IEP needs to be able to follow Jack."
Clearly, this is a fantasy for the 2nd largest school district in the state of California.

For the purposes of not becoming an "Ambien" to the masses (okay, handful) of blog-readers, I will spare further detail beyond this simple truism:
It was both painful and grotesque.
(And this sad fact: We repeat the exercise next Thursday).

4. Dinner hour was especially unpleasant...Tim was irritatingly obsessive about dinner components, the pay-out (aka, dessert), etc. His constant -- and I mean CONSTANT -- interruption led me to erase a phone message from someone active-duty at ECRC. Yes, ECRC is "Expeditionary Combat Readiness Command" or the umbrella command to which Major Crab is attached. We will never know who was calling or what they wanted...this combined with the still-hiding sweatshirt has me utterly peeved. To further send me on a negative trajectory, suddenly NOT ONE CHILD WILL EAT KRAFT MACARONI & CHEESE. This, friends and genteel readers, is utterly UNSAT (that's unsatisfactory in civilian lingo). I mean I didn't try to substitute the grocery generic brand...I stuck with "the cheesiest". I was loyal to the brand. I did not falter, I did not waver, I stayed true to the Gold Standard of Orangeness. Just a symptom of the malaise of the household.

5. PLAGUE ONE, REVISITED: For the record, the stinkbugs -- as our temps again climb into the 70s -- are back ... with a veneagance! They were particularly aggressive and, unlike the only North American marsupial, make not only unattractive and some might say, CRUNCHY pets but are ill-mannered.

6. Random Note: Speaking of our friends the ONAM (only N.A. marsupial), for all you Possum Lovers, tonight's Jeopardy broadcast featured the words "U.S. marsupial"...thanks to Patty Grace, Aunt Patty Cake immediately asked the right question and had the happy side-effect of Feeling Smart Again. Maybe tomorrow will be a sunnier day.