This is not a Drill

     AHHH AHHHH AHHHHH... this is not a drill.  Feisty Pants is out of school for the next two weeks.  This does not sound like a big deal to you.  There will be no outside of school appointments (that I can remember anyway.)  So, Goo and I will get a little more sleep.  In theory, at least.  Especially Goo.  FP  is on her Easter break with a few days tacked on to either end due to her nurse's schedule.  No one is sick.  Spring is warming up so there may be bike rides.  We can spend the time doing fun spring time crafts and waiting for the Easter Bunny to fill our craws, er, I mean baskets with chocolate.  And take Cheweverything Pants for walks.  Sounds heavenly.  In theory -cue ominous music and roll of thunder.

                 In reality, Feisty Pants is a "high stim kid".  Which means she craves brain stimulation  all the time.  ALL. THE. TIME.  She doesn't walk unaided and has cortical visual impairment.  Walking and seeing clearly are both difficult tasks requiring lots of brain power.  Thus giving the brain plenty of stimulation. (There is a good physiological reason why a walk clears your head.) But she cannot get that and so, her brain craves input.  ALL. THE. TIME.  This is not a bad thing.  In fact, it's usually a great thing.  We want to rewire her brain and achieve independence.  Brains rewire through constant stimulation.  Her internal motivation is easily supplied by this need for input.  I can only imagine how hard it must be for parents whose kids don't want the stimulation or are touch defensive. It must make their jobs sooo difficult and discouraging. But Feisty Pants gets bored easily.  And has a hard time moving herself to manipulate her toys and entertain herself.  Music is awesome- but only gets us so far.  ( We do a form of music therapy called the Listening Program.  We even play music in her sleep. )  TV, cartoons especially, is actually good visual stimulation for her.  (How many parents can say THAT??)  But again, it's only good so far.  She needs sunshine, and fresh air and to MOVE MOVE MOVE.  But she weighs sixty five pounds or so- that's lot for me to pick up. She has spastic cerebral palsy- which makes it harder.  She cannot do things that people instinctively do when carried like bend at waist easily or mold herself into my arms which would make it easier.  And Goo and I sleep in shifts so it's only one of us to do the lifting and hauling.  And, silly mommy that I am, I intentionally encourage my daughters to talk to adults, even to complain. I want them to expect their voices to be heard.  So she will bitch.  A lot.  At me.  About how borrrrrreeeddddd she is.

                         Not that I want to sound like one of those parents who don't really like their kids.  I  actually like my kids' company. They are funny and honest and cool in ways I cannot figure out how to be.  And I'm grateful- every complaint is a sentence I was told she would not utter.  Every sneer is a statement about her self determination. Every whine is a moment of self actualization, whether I appreciate or not at the time.   I just feel I cannot accomplish anything with out neglecting something- her therapies, the housework, those pesky other people who live here.  Nothing for it then but compromise where we have to.  If you come to the house- and we are sitting around a dirty house in our ratty pjs bingewatching zombies or bigfoot- but Feisty Pants has a smile on her face, don't you dare say a word.  Or I will take it as a sign you are volunteering to help clean.  You have been warned.