No matter how hard you try, you can't baptize cats.
You can't trust dogs to watch your food.
You can get by on charm for about fifteen minutes. After that,
you'd better have a big weenie or huge boobs.
Don't sneeze when someone is cutting your hair.
Never hold a Dust Buster and a cat at the same time.
You can't hide a piece of broccoli in a glass of milk.
Don't wear polka dot underwear under white shorts.
No matter how much I try to like them, some people are just
assholes.
You cannot make someone like you. All you can do is stalk them
nd hope they panic and give in.
You shouldn't compare yourself to others - they are more
screwed up than you think.
You can keep puking long after you think you're finished.
No matter how you try to protect your children, they will
eventually get arrested and end up in the local paper.
Never, under ANY circumstances, take a sleeping pill and a
laxative on the same night.
If you had to identify, in one word, the reason why the human
race has not achieved (and never will achieve) its full
potential, that word would be "meetings".
There is a very fine line between "hobby" and "mental illness."
And when God, who created the entire universe with all of
its glories, decides to deliver a message to humanity, HE
WILL NOT use, as His messenger, a person on cable TV in a
bad suit, with a bad hairstyle.
When trouble arises and things look bad, there is always one
individual who perceives a solution and is willing to take
command. Very often, that individual is crazy.
Never lick a steak knife.
Take out the fortune before you eat the cookie.
You will never find anybody who can give you a clear and
compelling reason why we observe daylight savings time.
The one thing that unites all human beings, regardless of
age, gender, religion, economic status or ethnic background,
is that, deep down inside, we ALL believe that we are above
average drivers.
The main accomplishment of almost all organized protests
is to annoy people who are not in them.
A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, is
not a nice person.
Your family and true friends love you, no matter what.
Nobody cares if you can't dance well. Just get up and dance.
No matter what happens, somebody will find a way to take it too seriously.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Let's see if I understand how America works lately...
If a woman burns her thighs on the hot coffee she was holding in her
lap while driving, she blames the restaurant.
If your teen-age son kills himself, you blame the rock "n" roll music
or musician he liked.
If you smoke three packs a day for 40 years and die of lung cancer,
your family blames the tobacco company.
If your daughter gets pregnant by the football captain, you blame the
school for poor sex education.
If your neighbor crashes into a tree while driving home drunk, you
blame the bartender.
If your cousin gets AIDS because the needle he used to shoot up with
heroin was dirty, you blame the government for not providing clean
ones.
If your grandchildren are brats without manners, you blame television.
If your friend is shot by a deranged madman, you blame the gun
manufacturer.
If a crazed person climbs into the cockpit of an airliner and tries
to kill the pilots at 35,000 feet and the passengers kill him
instead, the mother of the deceased blames the airline.
I must have lived too long to understand the world as it is anymore.
So if I die while my old, wrinkled body is parked in front of this
computer, I want you to blame Bill Gates, OK?
Author unknown
lap while driving, she blames the restaurant.
If your teen-age son kills himself, you blame the rock "n" roll music
or musician he liked.
If you smoke three packs a day for 40 years and die of lung cancer,
your family blames the tobacco company.
If your daughter gets pregnant by the football captain, you blame the
school for poor sex education.
If your neighbor crashes into a tree while driving home drunk, you
blame the bartender.
If your cousin gets AIDS because the needle he used to shoot up with
heroin was dirty, you blame the government for not providing clean
ones.
If your grandchildren are brats without manners, you blame television.
If your friend is shot by a deranged madman, you blame the gun
manufacturer.
If a crazed person climbs into the cockpit of an airliner and tries
to kill the pilots at 35,000 feet and the passengers kill him
instead, the mother of the deceased blames the airline.
I must have lived too long to understand the world as it is anymore.
So if I die while my old, wrinkled body is parked in front of this
computer, I want you to blame Bill Gates, OK?
Author unknown
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
To You, My Sisters
© Maureen K. Higgins
Many of you I have never even met face to face, but I've searched you out every day. I've looked for you on the internet, on playgrounds and in grocery stores. I've become an expert at identifying you. You are well worn. You are stronger than you ever wanted to be. Your words ring experience, experience you culled with your very heart and soul. You are compassionate beyond the expectations of this world. You are my "sisters."
Yes, you and I, my friend, are sisters in a sorority. A very elite sorority. We are special. Just like any other sorority, we were chosen to be members. Some of us were invited to join immediately, some not for months or even years. Some of us even tried to refuse membership, but to no avail.
We were initiated in neurologist's offices and NICU units, in obstetrician's offices, in emergency rooms, and during ultrasounds. We were initiated with somber telephone calls, consultations, evaluations, blood tests, x-rays, MRI films, and heart surgeries.
All of us have one thing in common. One day things were fine. We were pregnant, or we had just given birth, or we were nursing our newborn, or we were playing with our toddler. Yes, one minute everything was fine. Then, whether it happened in an instant, as it often does, or over the course of a few weeks or months, our entire lives changed. Something wasn't quite right. Then we found ourselves mothers of children with special needs.
We are united, we sisters, regardless of the diversity of our children's special needs. Some of our children ungergo chemotherapy. Some need respirators and ventilators. Some are unable to talk, some are unable to walk. Some eat through feeding tubes. Some live in a different world. We do not discriminate against those mothers whose children's needs are not as "special" as our child's. We have mutual respect and empathy for all the women who walk in our shoes.
We are knowledgeable. We have educated ourselves with whatever materials we could find. We know "the" specialists in the field. We know "the" neurologists, "the" hospitals, "the" wonder drugs, "the" treatments. We know "the" tests that need to be done, we know "the" degenerative and progressive diseases and we hold our breath while our children are tested for them. Without formal education, we could become board certified in neurology, endocrinology, and physiatry.
We have taken on our insurance companies and school boards to get what our children need to survive, and to flourish. We have prevailed upon the State to include augmentative communication devices in special education classes and mainstream schools for our children with cerebral palsy. We have labored to prove to insurance companies the medical necessity of gait trainers and other adaptive equipment for our children with spinal cord defects. We have sued municipalities to have our children properly classified so they could receive education and evaluation commensurate with their diagnosis.
We have learned to deal with the rest of the world, even if that means walking away from it. We have tolerated scorn in supermarkets during "tantrums" and gritted our teeth while discipline was advocated by the person behind us on line. We have tolerated inane suggestions and home remedies from well-meaning strangers. We have tolerated mothers of children without special needs complaining about chicken pox and ear infections. We have learned that many of our closest friends can't understand what it's like to be in our sorority, and don't even want to try.
We have our own personal copies of Emily Perl Kingsley's "A Trip To Holland" and Erma Bombeck's "The Special Mother." We keep them by our bedside and read and reread them during our toughest hours.
We have coped with holidays. We have found ways to get our physically handicapped children to the neighbors' front doors on Halloween, and we have found ways to help our deaf children form the words, "trick or treat." We have accepted that our children with sensory dysfunction will never wear velvet or lace on Christmas. We have painted a canvas of lights and a blazing yule log with our words for our blind children. We have pureed turkey on Thanksgiving. We have bought white chocolate bunnies for Easter. And all the while, we have tried to create a festive atmosphere for the rest of our family.
We've gotten up every morning since our journey began wondering how we'd make it through another day, and gone to bed every evening not sure how we did it.
We've mourned the fact that we never got to relax and sip red wine in Italy. We've mourned the fact that our trip to Holland has required much more baggage than we ever imagined when we first visited the travel agent. And we've mourned because we left for the airport without most of the things we needed for the trip.
But we, sisters, we keep the faith always. We never stop believing. Our love for our special children and our belief in all that they will achieve in life knows no bounds. We dream of them scoring touchdowns and extra points and home runs. We visualize them running sprints and marathons. We dream of them planting vegetable seeds, riding horses and chopping down trees. We hear their angelic voices singing Christmas carols. We see their palettes smeared with watercolors, and their fingers flying over ivory keys in a concert hall. We are amazed at the grace of their pirouettes. We never, never stop believing in all they will accomplish as they pass through this world.
But in the meantime, my sisters, the most important thing we do, is hold tight to their little hands as together, we special mothers and our special children, reach for the stars.
Many of you I have never even met face to face, but I've searched you out every day. I've looked for you on the internet, on playgrounds and in grocery stores. I've become an expert at identifying you. You are well worn. You are stronger than you ever wanted to be. Your words ring experience, experience you culled with your very heart and soul. You are compassionate beyond the expectations of this world. You are my "sisters."
Yes, you and I, my friend, are sisters in a sorority. A very elite sorority. We are special. Just like any other sorority, we were chosen to be members. Some of us were invited to join immediately, some not for months or even years. Some of us even tried to refuse membership, but to no avail.
We were initiated in neurologist's offices and NICU units, in obstetrician's offices, in emergency rooms, and during ultrasounds. We were initiated with somber telephone calls, consultations, evaluations, blood tests, x-rays, MRI films, and heart surgeries.
All of us have one thing in common. One day things were fine. We were pregnant, or we had just given birth, or we were nursing our newborn, or we were playing with our toddler. Yes, one minute everything was fine. Then, whether it happened in an instant, as it often does, or over the course of a few weeks or months, our entire lives changed. Something wasn't quite right. Then we found ourselves mothers of children with special needs.
We are united, we sisters, regardless of the diversity of our children's special needs. Some of our children ungergo chemotherapy. Some need respirators and ventilators. Some are unable to talk, some are unable to walk. Some eat through feeding tubes. Some live in a different world. We do not discriminate against those mothers whose children's needs are not as "special" as our child's. We have mutual respect and empathy for all the women who walk in our shoes.
We are knowledgeable. We have educated ourselves with whatever materials we could find. We know "the" specialists in the field. We know "the" neurologists, "the" hospitals, "the" wonder drugs, "the" treatments. We know "the" tests that need to be done, we know "the" degenerative and progressive diseases and we hold our breath while our children are tested for them. Without formal education, we could become board certified in neurology, endocrinology, and physiatry.
We have taken on our insurance companies and school boards to get what our children need to survive, and to flourish. We have prevailed upon the State to include augmentative communication devices in special education classes and mainstream schools for our children with cerebral palsy. We have labored to prove to insurance companies the medical necessity of gait trainers and other adaptive equipment for our children with spinal cord defects. We have sued municipalities to have our children properly classified so they could receive education and evaluation commensurate with their diagnosis.
We have learned to deal with the rest of the world, even if that means walking away from it. We have tolerated scorn in supermarkets during "tantrums" and gritted our teeth while discipline was advocated by the person behind us on line. We have tolerated inane suggestions and home remedies from well-meaning strangers. We have tolerated mothers of children without special needs complaining about chicken pox and ear infections. We have learned that many of our closest friends can't understand what it's like to be in our sorority, and don't even want to try.
We have our own personal copies of Emily Perl Kingsley's "A Trip To Holland" and Erma Bombeck's "The Special Mother." We keep them by our bedside and read and reread them during our toughest hours.
We have coped with holidays. We have found ways to get our physically handicapped children to the neighbors' front doors on Halloween, and we have found ways to help our deaf children form the words, "trick or treat." We have accepted that our children with sensory dysfunction will never wear velvet or lace on Christmas. We have painted a canvas of lights and a blazing yule log with our words for our blind children. We have pureed turkey on Thanksgiving. We have bought white chocolate bunnies for Easter. And all the while, we have tried to create a festive atmosphere for the rest of our family.
We've gotten up every morning since our journey began wondering how we'd make it through another day, and gone to bed every evening not sure how we did it.
We've mourned the fact that we never got to relax and sip red wine in Italy. We've mourned the fact that our trip to Holland has required much more baggage than we ever imagined when we first visited the travel agent. And we've mourned because we left for the airport without most of the things we needed for the trip.
But we, sisters, we keep the faith always. We never stop believing. Our love for our special children and our belief in all that they will achieve in life knows no bounds. We dream of them scoring touchdowns and extra points and home runs. We visualize them running sprints and marathons. We dream of them planting vegetable seeds, riding horses and chopping down trees. We hear their angelic voices singing Christmas carols. We see their palettes smeared with watercolors, and their fingers flying over ivory keys in a concert hall. We are amazed at the grace of their pirouettes. We never, never stop believing in all they will accomplish as they pass through this world.
But in the meantime, my sisters, the most important thing we do, is hold tight to their little hands as together, we special mothers and our special children, reach for the stars.
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