Leg, Adoption, and Daycare Update

The master will have his amputation the third or fourth week of March. Assuming we don't have to change surgeons. If we do, who knows? There are only two hospitals that we will consider going to in our immediate area. The master likes his surgeon, but if he does not operate in either of those two facilities, we will have to find a new one in Houston. Family and friends are wanting us to go to Houston, regardless. They have little faith in our local hospitals. My way of thinking is that this actually is not a complicated procedure. Drastic? Yes. Complicated? No. Maybe my thinking is skewed by one too many Civil War movies, but seems to me like limbs have been removed for hundreds of years in far worse conditions by far less skilled hands.
We went to our adoption seminar yesterday. Since I am posting this, you know that I told my parents. I wasn't really ready to do that, but she called the house yesterday and found that we had both gone to Houston. She knew we weren't there for the master's leg, so it was either fess up or out and out lie, which I'm not willing to do. You can scroll down to see our adoption journey, so far. I've been saving updates as drafts for months now. Mom took it better than I thought....Dad will probably want to have a porch swing talk when next we meet, but I'll survive. Anyway, seminar went great! Very enlightening interviews with birthmoms, adult adoptees, adoptive parents, etc. There is always the uncomfortable part about dealing with the grief of infertility--when I feel as though our presence in the room must be terribly offensive to everyone else. Our worker will come on March 10th for the final part of our homestudy, and for a few exceptions such as the minor detail of having the master's leg amputated and not being at all certain of where the money will come from....we're good to go.
The last part of my updates brings us to a dark day at Sunnyside. On days like yesterday, when I have to be away, I have a sitter that I pay to come and run the daycare. I've only been gone four times since starting in September. Twice for a few hours in the afternoon for doctor's appointments. Once for the master's appointments in Houston. And yesterday. Guess who showed up? Did you guess: your state inspector? You're very good. She wasn't supposed to come until mid March. I was so sure of it. Oh, it wasn't pretty. Were the children being well taken care of? Yes. Were they safe, clean, and supervised? Yes. Geez, my own kids were here. They were in VERY good hands. But that doesn't matter!!!! Because I have an anal retentive ex-IRS auditor for my inspector. She was rude and ugly (her standard manner) to my substitute and had her so rattled that she couldn't remember anything that I've told her such as:
1)where the first aid kit is
2)the four step sanitation process (which in real life is completely unrealistic to perform, but you have to be able to spout it off to her)
3)the location of my files
She quizzed her on stupid stuff that is not even in the state minimum standards like how old each of the children were. She was supposed to call back today with a list of my "deficiencies," but didn't. But she will. I shudder to think of it. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep sucking up to this woman when what I really want is to tell her where I think she should stick her standards.

Don't Freak Out

Please don't. Take a deep breath....

The master is having his lower left leg amputated.

I couldn't think of a fun way to break that news. Sorry. As many of you know, the master was born with an extremely rare bone disease. For most of his childhood and adolescence, the doctor's at Shriner's Hospital in Shreveport LA did everything they could so that the master could walk. Sixteen surgeries later, he could walk, but his left leg was 1 1/2" shorter, and his ankle was fused--making it impossible to walk without a pronounced limp. Nevertheless, he was done. He walked out of that hospital at 16 and didn't look back.
Five minutes after meeting him, you don't notice the limp. I haven't. I remember our first Thanksgiving in Illinois. The master's grandmother approached me and started talking about how proud they were of their little crippled grandson...about how they never thought he would have any life...and how it was amazing that he was now able to walk. Honestly, I started to scan the community center for who in the world she was talking about. It was only after I followed her gaze to my husband that it clicked. She was talking about him. I just don't think of him as crippled or handicapped.
But lately, I've noticed the limp. Because it is much worse. The master realized that the shin bone of his affected limb was bowing out like never before. And he hurts. How badly he hurts, is hard to say. Because he has always hurt and has an extremely high tolerance for the pain. I'm quite certain the pain he describes as a level three would have me writhing in the bed, praying to die. Finally, he agreed to see an orthopedic surgeon. But that was easier said than done. It took months for Shriner's to dig up his old records...weeks for the surgeon to agree to take the master as a patient and a few more weeks before he could get his appointment.
The surgeon gave him three options:
1)Live with the pain for as long as you can bear it
2) Look into a procedure known as Lizeroff.
3) Amputate
Number three was actually what the master was hoping for. I know that sounds strange, but all of his childhood he watched children (his own roommates) have amputations and get prosthesis, and he couldn't help noticing that what they were left with worked a lot better than what he had. He's tired of hurting.
Monday we went to Houston for two appointments: one with the leading Lizeroff expert and one with a prosthetic company. The Lizeroff doctor definitely did not sell us on the procedure. It is an agonizing, drawn out process in which the bone is broken and then a halo is set on the outside of the bone to prevent healing. Infection rates are high. Success rates low. And the expert didn't seem to think that he was a good candidate for success. He told us he would not be able to gain any length (even if the procedure was successful). He couldn't do anything about the ankle. In another 10 to 15 years, the bone might be right back where it is now: horribly twisted and bowed. But if we wanted to give it a try, we should get a MRI and schedule surgery. Uh, thanks, but no thanks.
The master is actually excited. He will be able to run for the first time in his life. He will be able to walk into a Payless and buy a pair of shoes. A pair of tennis shoes! He will be able to sit down at a table without looking to see if he has clearance to swing his leg in and out.
At first, I jumped on the giddy wagon, too. I'm coming down from that. Something of the reality of that word--amputation--is sinking in now. They are going to cut off my husband's leg. I guess that is a heavy thing. But it's our best option. So please pray for us.

A Late Valentine's Post

The Sunnyside Kids did a coloring sheet and on the back I wrote their responses to two questions: 1) Why do you love Daddy? 2) Why do you love Mommy?
Here are Marina's too cute responses

Why do you love Daddy?

"Because he fights with us." (She means he 'wrestles' with them)
"Because he goes to work."
"Because he comes back home."

Excellent reasons, baby girl! Especially the last two. They're tops on my list, as well. I held my breath for the next one. But she came through for me. She really does love me.

Why do you love Mommy?

"Because you cook us dinner."
"Because you take care of babies."
"Because you take me outside."

First Grandbaby

Introducing my first grandchild--K's 'Mike' (AKA 'Floppy Sock') His class is studying measurement and as part of the unit, they each brought bags of rice equal to their own birthweight--in K's case a whopping 9 lbs. 4 0z. The rice was funneled into socks to create rice "babies." They have to care for the rice babies all week, and will receive a grade on Friday based on how clean and well kept their baby is. We did a similar assignment with sacks of flour when I was in school--only it was home economics in the 11th grade. I'm not sure what the social implications are for giving this assignment to eight and nine year olds, or what child care has to do with mastering measurement concepts, but....
At first, K was so proud to have the largest baby of third grade. Later, he decided it was a dubious distinction. He came dragging up the walk, the baby cradled in his arms:
K: Hey, Mom. My arms hurt from carrying Mike-Floppy-Sock. You have no idea how heavy he is.
Oh, no. I wouldn't know anything about that.
I offered to enroll Mike in my daycare. Provided K pay the $85 tuition for infants under 18 months. He decided to pass. It is just as well. I'm already at my maximum capacity. Of course, if the state licensing rep came by, I could stick Mike in the closet. All kidding aside, K takes very good care of his rice baby....thinking of things that I'm sure I would have had no clue about at his age. He retold this conversation from school:
Classmate: Why do you call your baby, "Floppy Sock?"
K: Um. Because it's a sock.
Classmate: Still, you should give it a real baby name. Then it would be like a real baby.
K: Uh, no, it wouldn't. Real babies cry. And poop. And you have to feed them every four hours. A sock is NOTHING like that.
Classmate: You should call him, 'Mike.'
K: O.K., if it makes you happy.
At home, though, he got more into it--asking to dress Mike from the newborn clothes in the shed. And strapping him into a bouncy seat. At one point, he shouted to me from the living room:
K: exasperated MOM! I've got baby trouble in here. M______[8 month old Sunnyside Kid] is trying to eat the CD's and Randy is playing with the radio knobs and I can't do anything about it, because I've got Mike in my arms...." It was his first Calgon-take-me-away moment.
He let Abby babysit for a few minutes while he looked for newborn clothes. She was holding him (properly, with head supported) and cooing at him, saying, "Hello, Mike. I'm your Nana."
Me: No. I'm his nana.
Abby: Then what am I? Oh! I'm his Aunt.
Me: Yes, you are his dad's sister, so you are his aunt.
Abby: Then who is the birthmom?
At this point, I don't really care if K completely flunks the assignment. The comic relief the rice filled sock has brought to our home is priceless. If you have the winter doldrums, you should buy a 10 pound sack of rice and fill an extra large sport sock, call it a baby, and give it to your kids. Talk about some cheap fun!
But the best of them all, was when K came in to the kitchen and with all seriousness stated, "There is just one thing that really dissappoints me." Wondering what on earth could have upset him, the master and I asked, "What's that?"
"That you weren't there for the birth."
That kid kills me.