Suzy Q Homemaker

As can be expected, the novelty of Aiden’s patch wore off after a few days and there was increasing frustration with the amount of time he had to wear it vs. the time that Aiden wanted to play video games.  I mentioned before that we are able to break up his treatment time, so we do three hours in the morning and three hours in the late afternoon.  It’s good that Aiden has a sense of time and can read a clock, otherwise, I would be going insane.  If this was Simon, I would have stabbed my eyes out.  On our recent beach trip, Simon must have asked, “Are we at the beach?” at least 500 times before we were even an hour into the four-and-a-half-hour drive.

Yesterday, Aiden’s package of Krafty Eye Patches came in the mail and we had a great time picking out stickers at Hobby Lobby.  We also picked out a journal for him to put his patches in when he’s done wearing them.  Last night, though, he forgot that we were going to put his patches in the journal and he threw away his first one!  I’m glad I got a picture of it.  The googley eye in the middle is hysterical.

The only trouble that these patches are causing now are with Simon.  He is incredibly jealous of Aiden’s patches and throws a fit every time we get out the stickers to decorate a new patch.  I may have to find the pirate patch from one of the old Halloween costumes and see if it will do.

Coloring is getting easier for Aiden while he’s wearing the patch, and he is even cool with wearing it at VBS this week.  I was afraid he would be self-conscious or nervous about participating in some of the activities.  Having a decorated patch is helping so, so much.

Next thing on our list is getting a Croakies strap since it’s hard to keep the glasses from slipping down.  We ordered one this morning after having no luck finding one at any stores in town while shopping yesterday.

Week two is off to a great start!

When Aiden was three, his left eye started turning in, so we took him to the best pediatric ophthalmologist in town.  We started treating his lazy eye first with glasses since he is also severely farsighted.  Four years later, his eye is still very weak, so for the summer, he has to wear a patch over the good eye.  What we hope will happen is that in a month, after patching for 4-6 hours each day, his eye will be a little stronger and we won’t have to start eye drop therapy or worse, surgery.

I’m thankful that the eye patches the doctor had are fun and colorful.  Being the savvy researcher I am, I found a couple different websites that offer patches for kids like Aiden.  The first was MYI Patches.  These are the ones Aiden’s doctor has, though they only had the stars yesterday.  MYI Patches also have some that can be colored with markers to make them more personal.  From what I can tell, though, they don’t have much available online for us to order.

I really like the Krafty Patches site.  They sell eye patch kits for girls and boys that come with multicolored patches and fun things to decorate them with (GOOGLEY EYES!!).  If you get a deluxe kit, all the stuff for their patches comes in a neat carrying case.  What we’re planning to do, though, is order a box of 50 different colored patches then take Aiden to Hobby Lobby and let him pick out some stickers for himself.  I love the thought of Aiden with a dozen googley eyes all over his patches.

No matter how he chooses to express himself, though, I want his summer to be fun.  We are only on day two of patching and to be honest, I think he actually likes wearing it.  We’re able to break up his treatment into increments, like a few hours in the morning and a few hours in the evening, which helps because I can tell his eye does get tired after wearing a patch for more than an hour.  Wish us luck!  It’s going to be a long, hot summer.

I’ve been trying to compose this story all evening.  I should have anticipated another bizarre experience at the gym.  It was the off-night for Zumba class (read: boring teacher), but I needed to go, and as usual, I was expecting relief afterward with the usual yoga teacher.  The last time I took that awful Zumba class, we had a sub for yoga, so I was like, “Surely this cannot happen again!”

BUT IT DID.

This time it wasn’t some crazy lady that called out stupid stuff like CANOE or telling us we can bind poses if we “so desire”.  No, this time we were (barely) greeted by a short, slightly overweight dude who used a playlist I can only describe as Depressing Indie Film.  Slow-paced Modest Mouse tunes and other songs I’m sure Jamie could have identified made me feel sadder and sadder as the class went on.  I was confused by the music, but even more confused by the fact that the guy taught with his eyes closed the entire time!  He may have peeked at us occasionally.  Every time I looked at him, though (and he was facing us), he seemed to be lost in some deep reverie as he asked us to FLOAT into PLANK.

“Floating” was his word of the night, used to describe how we were to maneuver our mostly out-of-shape bodies into whatever contortions he felt like calling out.  Granted, I wasn’t uncomfortable with any of his poses.  No, I was so distracted by the music and the fact that we were supposed to be floating around that I have no idea whether or not I benefited from this class at all.

As the class came to a close and we were relaxing to some strange thing by the Shins or something, I almost cried.  Was this the part in the movie where I rolled up my mat, hopped in my minivan and got hit by a tractor-trailer hauling a load of plywood?  Or maybe I was supposed to suddenly have my mental breakdown, change my identity, and leave the country to go sing in the pubs of Ireland.  Cause that’s what happens in those sad Indie movies, right?

Either way, we said our Namaste and I noticed as I rolled up my mat that my teacher leaned over and checked the Blackberry he had sitting right next to his mat.

Yeah.

There’s a stigma that comes with being a performer of any sort.  Actor, musician, artist, no matter who you may be, at some point in time you’ll be thrust into the spotlight and find yourself having to be at the forefront of a receiving line, accepting compliments of varying degrees and trying to find as many different ways of saying “Thank you” as you possibly can.  It’s fun, yes, and a great ego boost.  I’d take a small reception over tabloid slander any day.  But I have found over the years that I look forward to after-concert gatherings like I look forward to a bad case of hemorrhoids.  It’s nothing personal, I promise.

I’m just shy.  I’m agonizingly shy and I am terrified of talking with strangers.

It isn’t just in a performance setting, though.  No, my social anxiety extends into every facet of my life.  From the grocery store to parties in my own home, I get panic attacks at the mere thought of having to introduce myself, thank someone for carrying my bags, or remember more than one person’s name.  I have a ritual at the end of a church service that keeps me from meeting people’s eyes as I walk down the aisle:

Stepping in time to the recessional music, I watch the flowers on the carpet and count my fingers on my thumb.  Never once do I look up until I reach the end of the aisle, and then I sweep around to the front of the church or up the stairs as quickly as possible so I can disrobe.  I inevitably have to talk to people, and I am comfortable shooting the breeze with the ladies in the robe room.  After all, they aren’t strangers to me.  But say there is a new person in the room or I am called upon for my opinion;  I start to sweat and ramble like an idiot because I’m so terrified of what the new person will think of me.  Or, I’ll just stop talking and try my hardest not to make eye contact with anyone as I retreat quickly to the van where my family makes a quick getaway.

Parties?  Hate them.  HATE THEM.  Oh, I enjoy them once I’m there, have had a glass of Social Lubrication, and find a corner to talk with friends I know well.  It’s the anticipation leading up to parties that give me pause.  I shouldn’t say pause.  It’s more like they give me cardiac arrest.  I destroy my closet looking for clothes that might fit or aren’t covered in five-year-old spitup stains.  I agonize over whether or not to put on earrings or a necklace.  I worry myself to death about whether or not to show up exactly on time or fashionably late.  What IS fashionably late anyway??  I am almost always late anyway because I get lost if I’m going somewhere new.

If the party is at my house, forget it.  I used to do well with them, but I have learned this month that I shouldn’t even bother.  May Day was a disaster.  On the day of the party, I stood in the middle of the living room sobbing  because nothing was even remotely ready.  The house was a wreck, we had no food, and I felt so overwhelmed I couldn’t even function.  After Jamie came home and saved the day, I felt better, but then almost no one came.  By the end of the night, I was miserable and depressed.  I felt rejected.  Defeated.

Fast forward to Simon’s birthday part when my mom told me that my house smelled.  I nearly died.  My head immediately exploded into the migraine it had been fighting since the morning and not even my sister Skyping in from Africa could cheer me up.

(love you Thryn)

Yes.  I have three cats.  Yes, we try to clean things up as often as we can.  I suppose the litterboxes were overlooked that day.  Or maybe it smelled on the day of Timothy’s party, too, and my mom was letting me know that despite my best efforts, I have a stinky, dirty home.

See there?  Paranoia to the extreme.  Now I’m going to constantly worry about having people in my home.  I don’t like using air fresheners because they are disgusting, synthetic, and bad for the environment.

This isn’t an entry about that, though.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that sometimes, I consider being a hermit.

Timothy’s neurologist praised me for having videos of Timothy’s spells.  It’s helpful to him because it really is hard to describe in words what the little twitches and jerks look like.  The crawling with his head down is not typical, but he does fall at least once a day.  The sideways jerk sometimes throws him to the ground as well.  But it all started with a little shiver…